Just got back in from doing the first workout in the Couch to 5K program. Several of us at the office are trying to get into shape, and two laps around the office park pretty much equals two miles and it took us all of thirty minutes to make it. I couldn’t run more than half of the times I was supposed to run, so I think this 9 week program might take a little while longer than that for me and at least one other slacker. But having people at the office to work out with should provide a great motivator for all of us.

I also managed to meet my ROW80 goal for the day, and am trying out Scrivener as a new writing tool. I particularly like the fact that it will compile and create epub and Kindle format ebooks, so that might save me a couple hundo on each future book. I sent out a couple of sample chapters this weekend, and response has been good so far. I’m something like 12,000 words into the book, and just finished the first big fight scene, so I think I’m about a quarter of the way through the book. I’m hoping for a March release on that, then maybe release a couple of short stories later in the spring, especially if Scrivener continues to be as user-friendly as it appears at first glance.

But I promised you the tale of how we almost died on the way home from the poker game, didn’t I? So we’re cruising north on I-85 almost to Gaffney, and I’ve got the cruise control locked in at 70 or so. The speed limit is 60 or 65, and it’s foggy and been raining all day, so I’m feeling pretty good about not being in too big a rush. I’m in the left lane, because traffic is light and even going relatively slowly, I’m still rolling faster than most of the traffic on the road. Out of the corner of my eye I see a little car zip up alongside us in the right lane, and just as I hear Special K say “John, look out!” I hear the little shitbanger’s oversized exhaust rev up and watch him try to shoot the gap and slide into the lane in front of me. I tap the brakes to kill my cruise control as he does, but the doucherocket can’t keep his little overjuiced Civic under control, and he goes off the left side of the road into the median. I swerve to miss him, making the truck bobble a little more than I’m happy about, but regain control and move into the right lane. He does not manage to regain control, and I see him go sideways into the retaining wires and fence at 70 MPH or so. I can hear the plastic parts snapping off of his car as I hear T get on the phone to call 911. And that’s how we started 2011 off with almost dying on I-85. We didn’t stop, largely because I didn’t see a safe way to get back to provide any assistance, and also because I’m not really qualified to provide any type of first aid or medical assistance. We called 911 and let the professionals take care of it. Part of me hopes the idiot was okay, since I don’t want to wish ill of anyone, but part of me also hopes that he can never drive again, because he was a dangerous driver.

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