Middling to wobbling.
That’s a Huddersfield expression. Or at least, I knew a guy in the town who used to say it when asked how he was. I thought of it this evening as I plodded round Tilehurst with the local running group. We’re the middle group. The middling to wobbling group.
Only four people from the middle group turned up for this jaunt, which was probably a good thing. We took it easy. My calfs were grateful. And I was grateful that they were happy. Yeah, I’m on calf alert. I can feel them smirking at me. The buggers know.
And to make it worse, they know that I know they know.
I’m feeling calmer about the Silverstone coach. I’ve heard back from just about everyone about the new arrangements. There are just one or two rebels holding out. I’ll be smoking them out tomorrow.
One good thing about running two coaches up there is that I don’t have time to worry about the race. The race? Damn, I just reminded myself about it. Do I really have another half marathon to run this weekend? Apparently so.
