March creeps away, dragging with it a sadly lacking kilometre tally. Work and pestilence took their toll, as did apathy.
Enough now, let it go.
Kicked off the new month with a visit to Bevy Parkrun. I left my good intentions with the freshly printed barcodes - required in order to register an official time - on my desk. Ah well, it's the thought that counts. I approached this as casually as a man full of last night's Hawkwind (Winter Gardens, Eastbourne) and a generous helping of Long Man ale should. The sun beamed and the vistas shone, dog-runners scampering ahead over the lush hilltop. It was a joy to be out there, no matter how fuzzy the head.
I managed 28 and change for the two laps, according to Runkeeper. I'm happy with that, as I am with 15th place, my highest finish in the history of Parkrun, sadly not recorded for posterity for the aforementioned reason. There's always next week. Tom and I chatted after the run, Almeria 2017 top of our agenda. Tom's keen to join us, confirmation of dates notwithstanding. We agreed that the Rumble on the Ramblas deserves an audience. We may need to charter an aircraft at this rate; it should be quite an event.
Last night's gig was pure time-travel. The venue, more accustomed to Tea Dances and local fairs, the perfect setting for a band safely strapped into their well-worn stage show of futuristic, psychedelia and high-octane, fire-eaing dancers. Dave Brock conducted proceedings, a young Lemmy-lite on Rickenbacker providing a sold, driving beat. Ironcally, it all looked terribly dated, but therein lay the charm for me. I'd stepped straight into the mid-Seventies. Less hair but still plenty of aromatic atmosphere and much, much better beer.
As bands do these days the group laid their most recent composition on us, dropping in the occasional favourite, like Orgone Accumulator and one I'd never seen live before (by Hawkwind or Motorhead), the sinister Watcher. Warrior On The Edge Of Time took the roof off. Sadly that's where I left, my companion eager to get back to Lewes before the Witching Hour.
As one does after such an evening I revisited my own personal favourites this morning. Quark Strangeness and Charm has always been a good album. Listening to Hassan I Sabbah's prophetic tale of a world enslaved by oil raised a chuckle. But the stand-out track for me is the still futuristic Spirit Of The Age. A space traveller writes home as he sails on towards the outer rim, bemoaning a malfunction that could make such a journey a short trip to insanity.
Your android replica is playing up again Ah, it's no joke When she comes she moans another's name That's the spirit of the age
Great drugs they had back then, eh?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Twittens absolutely kicked my fat, wobbly arse this morning. Beer sweats after a full day on the Burning Sky (Aurora, Arise and Saison) made for an ugly, soggy flounder. Happily I had Dave, Louise and Tom for company, so much as I'd like to have bailed out I kept on until the bitter end.
8.5 klicks with the to and fro jog.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(20-04-2016, 09:34 AM)Seafront Plodder Wrote: Last seen working like a dog in the wee small hours.
Poor guy, perhaps he needs a proxy. SP, can you go and race all over the Sussex Downs, getting covered in mud and sheep poo as well as yelled at by horse riders, and then consume several pints of Harveys before rattling off three thousand words of purple prose for us, all the while taking photos of your efforts? I'm missing the man.
I can't get him out there, he's turned me down on numerous occasions. I didn't think I'd ever say this, but I'm missing chasing his flabby arse over the hills and through the mud.
A brief apology. Work is in ass-kicking mode, I rolled my ankle on the Twitten run 8 days ago - did it at the top of the first ascent, ran the next eleven (standard). My ligaments did not turn into soft noodles but they are sore. I've also (labours of love) been helping P with her dissertation (due in next week) and working on Kelly's Testimonial (tomorrow night) special edition programme (325 appearances, 13 years as LLFC captain). I've combined these lame-arse excuses to concoct one big flabby one, which, given the state of my neglected glutes, is probably fair enough.
I'll be in the clutches of work/ life until mid May, Abu Dhabi (2 days) and Geneva (10 long days) offering little if any chance to run. On a more positive note, this weekend I watched Phoebe perform at the Victoria and Albert museum, cheered on 182 JDRF runners for 9 hours before shacking up with Mr Gilmour at the Albert Hall (again) for a Teenage Cancer Trust gig. It's not all doom and gloom.
See you soon.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Honest... I ran out of gas. I... I had a flat tire. I didn't have enough money for cab fare. My tux didn't come back from the cleaners. An old friend came in from out of town. Someone stole my car. There was an earthquake. A terrible flood. Locusts! IT WASN'T MY FAULT, I SWEAR TO GOD!
Oh it's my fault, right enough. Mea culpa, and all that. I managed half an hour on the Sweder's Hill loop this morning. Ankle felt OK, I'll see how it reacts tonight and hopefully step up from there
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(27-04-2016, 01:12 PM)Sweder Wrote: Oh it's my fault, right enough. Mea culpa, and all that. I managed half an hour on the Sweder's Hill loop this morning. Ankle felt OK, I'll see how it reacts tonight and hopefully step up from there
Did we even know there was a possible problem with your ankle? I may have missed something.
