I did a crazy thing yesterday: I walked from my home out in Long Island’s Suffolk County, to Manhattan. It’s thirty miles from my door to the middle of the Queensboro Bridge. I just wanted to see if I could do it. I could, just, though the last two miles were sheer concentrated will power. Took me fourteen hours, including rest stops.
This seems to be a guyish kind of thing to do. At any rate, Mrs. S. didn’t get it at all.
She: “Why on earth would you want to do a crazy thing like that?”
Me: “To test myself.”
She [a great Woody Allen fan]: “Next time let me know, I’ll give you a written.”
Today of course comes the hangover. There is a small region on the anterior surface of my pancreas — the omental tuberosity, I think it’s called — that is pain-free, but every other part of me hurts like a girl dog. I seem to be missing a toenail, too. Oh well: no pain, no gain.