Three miles today, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, getting out in the freezing rain, having to clear three inches of slush off my car, driving through horrible muck on the roads, and then having to plod through a parking lot covered in dirt-flavored Slurpee all the way up to my ankles, and then three miles — did I mention I went three miles today — on the motherless treadmill, watching the Jets hork it up against the Patriots. Anyone would complain. A stone angel would complain about this sort of thing. You would, too.
Eighty-one miles down, nineteen miles to go.