July

[Sweder]

A run barely worthy of the name this morning.
Conditions were perfect. Last night's rain was still seeping into the ground, the sun risen behind an intricate web of high cloud, gentle breeze collecting cool vapours from the dew-laden grass. Yet I could barely lift one foot in front of the other, my body battered from . . . well, I'm not sure really. Sunday's run was exhilarating; yesterday's gym session started well but tapered off a bit. Who knows? Old age? General crapness?

There's something in the air just now. Too many people I know are struggling for this to be coincidence. Perhaps with me it's been a tough few weeks and my body's catching up with events. Mrs S is off colour, not sleeping well; Pheebs is similarly afflicted. Only Jake seems chipper, and that's mostly because he's heading for the Greek Islands in a few days, holiday job - running a restaurant on Lesbos with his best mate - already secured, passport renewed, airline tickets in pocket, a string of pals lined up to visit. It's his last hurrah before knuckling down to complete his second year of college. I'm green with envy.

Envy and, it seems, no small amount of moss. The old legs just wouldn’t spin in customary fashion today. No amount of cajoling from my mate Alice could get the fire lit, so I resigned my self to a heavy, painful plod. Cooper even played Glad All Over by the Dave Clark Five to try and lift my spirits. With typical recalcitrance I opted for Alive by Pearl Jam as my track du jour.

Five miles, fifty minutes.
Next.