The soggy heat hung in heavy layers like grains of colored sand in a clear, long-necked bottle from the local fair. Each layer weighing on the one below and smothering all air. Silent. Stifling. Motionless. It’s presence makes everything more difficult. Mowing the lawn becomes an epic struggle for survival, like climbing a mountain. I made it.

It seeped into the gym to assist those seeking to work up a sweat. I was soaking in perspiration only ten minutes into a 30 minute climb on the Stairmaster. It was hard to hold the handles as they were slippery with sweat, and there was nary a dry inch of clothing to wipe my soaked hands.

The heat whispered sweetly, “just quit. A nice cool shower is waiting…” No. I was determined to complete 150 floors, or 150 reps of “the 12-step club.” The music helped. It doesn’t feel the heat. Green Day rocked. The E-Street Band plowed through the sweat. I wanted to wring out my shirt like the Boss, but thought, “now that’s just gross.”

The numbers of the timer read 24.59. Five minutes to go. Ryan Adams shrieked, “note to self: don’t dieeeeeeeeeeee.” The five minutes blew by. As I stepped off the descending pedals, I staggered a bit, just like Mike Tyson last night before he quit what should be his last fight. But won’t be.

In New England, whether it’s the heat, humidity, rain, cold or snow, we bitch. Megan just walked in the door and said, “It’s disgusting out. It’s heavy and wet. You can feel it.” Yeah, but what about the beach and the grill and the Drive-In (yep, we still have one) and golf and baseball? Baseball… Gotta go. Sox at Wrigley in 42 minutes…