June 2011

[Sweder]

Slipped in a 9.8 kilometer shuffle this morning. It's hardly worthy of note but it makes me feel better to write something here rather than not, so here it is.

On a more positive note I'm one of only a handful (or so it seems) of people to bag 2012 tickets so far. I got what I asked for, namely the evening session in the Olympic Stadium on 4th August. That get's me ringside for

- Women's 100 metres semi-finals and final
- Men's longjump final
- Heptathlon final 2 disciplines (ending with the 800 metres and hopefully Gold for Jessica Ennis)
- Men's 10,000 metres final

I have to say I'm unreasonably excited about this. Unreasonably because there's around 57 weeks to go which in anyone's calendar is a long old time to be excited about/ waiting for something to come around.

I appreciate that pales into insignificance offered up against the 300-odd weeks Gooners have waited for a trophy, but still.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Wow, good work Sweder, both on the run but especially on the tickets. You won't regret forking out the dosh for those - there's nothing compares to the atmosphere at a day in the main Olympics arena. Scoring the 10,000m final is a major coup!

Good work!

[stillwaddler]

Thanks Sweder, they are absolutely gorgeous, playing in the true sense of the word. Are they affectionate too? Bet they are eating you out of house and home at the moment, I can't believe how much they have grown since the first pics.

[Sweder]

Another month has passed and there's not much to report. Not much that is until this evening's blast across the downs, a real throwback to the halcyon days of fitness and fun. I hit the hills just as the heat left the ground to be whipped away by icy night Sprites dancing in from the shadows as the day's embers glowed red across purpling skies.

OK, I confess: this was the second really enjoyable run this week.
On Sunday the lovely Moylebird landed in my garden to lead me on a run to BlackCap. I think she sensed my plight, a man cast adrift in the running doledrums. I'm grateful to her for dragging me out in much the same way as her illustrious brother used to back in the day. I seem destined to forever chase Moyle bottoms across the hills. There are worse things in life.

We certainly picked a cracking day for it. Saturday night's rain lay heavy in the ground. By the time I'd stopped pfaffing about, pulled on my runners, found my Garmin and harnessed the hounds the sun was high above and glowing hot, gently teasing the moisture out of the earth. It felt like we were running across the warm spongy surface of a giant cake fresh out of the oven. We paused at the summit, drinking in the glorious vistas as we filled our lungs after the 4 kilometre climb. I lead the way homeward via the Stables and the rutted, flint-strewn bridleway that leads down into Lewes. I actually felt pretty good as we lumbered up to Chez Sweder, tired, sweaty and grinning like loons.

Cam seemed to enjoy running with the dogs, a first for her. Ripley and Murphy did their best to trip us up, weaving wildly as their olfactory senses went into overdrive. Lord only knows what the heady mix of sheep shit and fresh rabbit does to their tiny brains. Willow, our hirsute Cocker Spaniel, positioned herself between us, constantly looking back to make sure Cam was still with the pack.

I envy Willow. When Gypsy and Tess died last year she went into a canine funk that saw her, like so many of the great Divas, spiral into a food-fuelled decline. Then, at the end of February, boom! Two manic lurcher pups arrived. At first they drove her mad, fussing around their reluctant surrogate mother, inducing theatrical growls and savage teeth-gnashing. It didn’t put them off and once they’d got old enough to run off the lead something remarkable happened: Willow became an honorary lurcher. Working those impossibly short legs like steam driven pistons she threw herself into protective parental mode, rounding up the pups, barking them into line, chasing them up hill and down dale. As the summer grasses grew this crazy game of lick-chase took on a new dimension. First the insistent hiss of parted reeds, a flash of dark, darting fur before the bobbing, weaving Dog Express charges into the open. In the last three months Willow has shifted shape and a shed-load of lard. She now has a waist, a taught belly and a lust for life. As I say, I’m envious; just waiting for that old pup magic to rub off on me.

Sunday’s Down Your Way with Cam and tonight’s excellent 4 miler have gone some way to restoring my faith. I was actually sorry to get back tonight so much was I enjoying the rush of cool night air against my sweat-splashed brow. The soundtrack from my iPlod added to my mood. David Gilmour, Motörhead, Muse, Talking Heads, Simon and Garfunkle, ACDC, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Led Zepplin...

Eclectic? Certainly. And right up my alley.

[Bierzo Baggie]

Cam seemed to enjoy running with the dogs, a first for her. Ripley and Murphy did their best to trip us up, weaving wildly as their olfactory senses went into overdrive. Lord only knows what the heady mix of sheep shit and fresh rabbit does to their tiny brains. Willow, our hirsute Cocker Spaniel, positioned herself between us, constantly looking back to make sure Cam was still with the pack.

I envy Willow. When Gypsy and Tess died last year she went into a canine funk that saw her, like so many of the great Divas, spiral into a food-fuelled decline. Then, at the end of February, boom! Two manic lurcher pups arrived. At first they drove her mad, fussing around their reluctant surrogate mother, inducing theatrical growls and savage teeth-gnashing. It didn’t put them off and once they’d got old enough to run off the lead something remarkable happened: Willow became an honorary lurcher. Working those impossibly short legs like steam driven pistons she threw herself into protective parental mode, rounding up the pups, barking them into line, chasing them up hill and down dale. As the summer grasses grew this crazy game of lick-chase took on a new dimension. First the insistent hiss of parted reeds, a flash of dark, darting fur before the bobbing, weaving Dog Express charges into the open. In the last three months Willow has shifted shape and a shed-load of lard. She now has a waist, a taught belly and a lust for life. As I say, I’m envious; just waiting for that old pup magic to rub off on me.

Sweder, I reckon you could do for greyhounds what Watership Down did for rabbits. Great photo too.