A day that started with the arrival of much-feared, terrible news ended in the best way possible under the circumstances; with an evening run. It's funny how things work out some times.
By the time I got home tonight I was done in. I'd exchanged e-mails with mutual friends throughout the day, offering condolences and swapping stories. There was as much laughter as there were tears. Driving home through the forest towards the sun-dappled downs I'd cranked up the stereo, blasting out riffs that were pure Kelly, mostly from Not That Innocent, her last recorded studio work with the band. But the bravado of my fist-pumping, foot-slamming journey faded as I pulled up outside the house, mentally dishevelled. I needed a run.
Saddling up the hounds for an unexpected yet obviously welcome late outing I searched for my i-pod. What I needed I reasoned was a good old-fashioned thrash through the hills to a Girlschool soundtrack. But what's this? Bloody thing's out of juice! With light starting to fade and the smells of supper bubbling away on the stove I reluctantly grabbed my DAB. Nicky Horne it is then.
A perfect evening for running. Yet more heavy rain had fallen overnight. Once again the sun had done its best to suck the moisture out of the earth, leaving the air heavy and moist. A cool breeze drifted out of the west - my preferred direction for this particular route as I get a tailwind on the homeward leg. Despite yesterday's fatigue and the heaviness in my heart I set off at a fair pace. Mr Horne laid out some excellent opening tracks to help my rhythm. I'd written to him earlier in the day to suggest an homage at some point.
Reaching Blackcap bathed in sweat, the heaviness hammered out of my chest, I stood for a moment drinking in a view of which I shall never tire. To the east, along the homeward trail, Wicker Man Hill sat bathed in late evening sun. High cloud ran across a pale blue sky, lacy fingers reaching out to the ocean. Below, the Big W sat on the northern ridge of the East Brighton hills. I tracked the ridge westward, past the valley of the Snake, into the gap revealing the sea and Kemptown flats, finally into the west, the silhouettes of distant hills nestled in half-mist. Below our vantage huge rust-red rugs, Aberdeen Angus cattle, lounged in the meadows chomping on lush grass.
The dogs looked at me, a little nervous.
Is he planning to go on a long one again?
I dunno -we haven't had our dinner yet - I hope we're going home.
Yep - I think we're going home - he's lumbering off down the slope again -
Off we trotted, down Blackcaps' eastern face. I stuck to the main track, keen to avoid an ankle turn in my light-headed state. And then I heard it - Nicky Horne's announcement of the sad news, telling his listeners how to find out more, where to leave messages. Then he made my day.
He simply said 'Kelly Johnson' - and played Hit and Run, the title track from Girlschool's excellent second album, followed by Please Don't Touch, the collaboration with Motorhead - as Headgirl - that charted in the top five back in the days when you actually had to sell a few records to get on Top of the Pops. I ran like the wind, a huge grin on my face, liquid streaming from my eyes. The tears of sorrow were swiftly drowned by tears of joy as I listened to the music, songs from my youth that held so many precious memories in their refrain. They lifted my heart, straightening my back as I pounded those hills to the hammering beat of Denise Duforts' drums.
I can't remember what came after that, musically or running-wise. It was all pretty much a blur. All I know is I got home in something like forty-five minutes, glistening inside and out, a very different bloke from the frazzled lump who crawled out of his truck just an hour before.
Enjoy.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
