At last. Something to write home about.
3.5 miles doesn’t sound much, but it was hilly and airless. Add to that my 9 days of abstinence (running abstinence, that is — unfortunately not the alcohol and chocolate variety), and this was always going to knacker me.
Though I say it myself, I sensed I must have looked somewhat dapper in my yellow club singlet and matching cap. I set off with the usual medium-to-slow group. We’re a strange mixture. A few crusty old men like me, plus a bevy of well-rounded young women in lycra. These club runs certainly get the old heart-rate up.
I’m often surprised by the delights concealed in the fringes of Reading. Hidden behind the modern, chavvy estates, are some startlingly wild patches of undulating countryside. I probably still wouldn’t know they existed if it wasn’t for these occasional club runs.
Tonight’s gave me yet another new discovery. Louse Hill doesn’t sound idyllic, but it turned out to be better than its billing. The first two or three hundred panting yards took us up a steep woodland track. Through the wet summer, this would have been a murderously slippery yomp through deep mud. Tonight it was a quintessential English woodland in high summer. Ideal for strolling through on the way to a hilltop pub. My train of thought led me to the Bell at Aldworth, one of the finest pubs in the county, and in England. (One of many articles)
It’s a while since I’ve supped at the Bell, and I thought how pleasant it would be to round up a few of the RC gang one day to run up the hill from Streatley to Aldworth, probably 4 miles or so, and finish at the Bell for a few bevies. Or perhaps if we were in a hurry, we could forget the run bit.
But anyway, Louse Hill (which is nowhere near Aldworth, it must be said), was a steep climb, though not too long, and eventually led to a long, open lope across the brow of the hill, from where a splendid vista of… Reading was available. Not the most picturesque of towns, but when you have it fixed in the middle distance, the glistening Thames wrapped round it like a festive ribbon, it seems not quite so bad after all.
It was while peering over at this view that my left foot landed in a hole, encouraging me to issue a great throaty cry to the still evening air. A tumult of birds crashed through the trees in shock, and my fellow runners squealed in sympathy and decelerated. But I have to conceded that my reaction wasn’t quite commensurate with the injury. Not a serious twist by by any means, but just mildly painful enough to be annoyingly uncomfortable for the remaining two miles or so.
Apart from admiring the scenery, both human and pastoral, I took the opportunity of this largely peaceful outing to mull over my recent state of mind. I think I must be a bit like the stock market — I don’t mind if things are good or bad, because I know how to deal with these states. It’s uncertainty I dislike.
This job application has proceeded well. I think. Without wanting to tempt fate, I think the job is mine if I want it — subject to references and my own approval. Trouble is, I’ve had nothing in writing, so I don’t know enough detail to be sure it’s the right move. And the HR supremo has just gone on holiday, so it may be a while yet before I’m in a position to make a decision.
In the meantime, it must be good for my mental and physical health to get back in the running groove. I’ve been feeling fatigued recently, and constantly sleepy. Maybe it’s something to do with the cricket season. But it was good to get out this evening, and I must try to keep it going.
Just at the moment my motivation isn’t great though. For running or writing, or for doing all this paperwork that’s piling up next to me. VAT, income tax, things to sign and approve. Just stuff to deal with. Why is it suddenly so hard? I’ll snap out of it soon enough, and I’m sufficiently old now to know that it’s something for me to just decide to do, before doing it. No point boring everyone else about it. Just get it done, mate.
But first I must go to bed. I need sleep.
And track du jour? It has to be the track through the woods on Louse Hill. The prize was always there, and always will be. All you have to do to win it is be willing to turn up and accept it in person.
(Edited — Hmmm. Does that thought drag me a furlong, nay a perch, nay a farthing’s breadth closer to comprehending this running lark? I fear it might.)
