The last minute cancellation of a London meeting presented the perfect opportunity for a lunchtime plod. I harnessed the hounds and head for the hills, i-pod on loud, grateful for a gap in the rain. In fact the sun made a rare, fleeting appearance, what little warmth provided swiftly dashed away by a spritely breeze out of the west.
The outbound lurch was a painful affair. I'd planned on a slow one but the headwind conspired with the glue-pot surface to all but stop me in my muddy tracks. I huffed and puffed, making gradual progress, drinking in the stunning views of sunlit valleys under clear blue skies. Clouds skulked on the horizon like bullies outside the school gates, desperate to cruise in for some brutal action. The wind did it's job keeping the interlopers at bay.
At the turn I sucked in some air and again dined on the vista. In the distance the peak of Seaford Head pointed out to sea, the rolling downs in between a patchwork of shadows and dark creases. It's here I shall return on Sunday, setting off on a campaign that leads I know not where.
The homeward bound proved a lot more fun. Not only did the breeze get behind me but I grew accustomed to the layers of mud clogging my new Addidas Offies and embraced the slopes of Wicker Man Hill and the climb to the stables, indulging in a little
fartlek along the way. At one point, on the plummet from Blackcap, I briefly reached the giddy heights of 4 minute 30 pace. This felt marvelous until I realised that Roger Bannister (and so many since) managed to sustain far better than this for a full mile
on the flat 
As I crested the hill at the stables America's
Ventura Highway slipped into the earphones; classic last mile warm-down music and my
track du jour.
Alligator lizards in the air . . .
No-no-no-no-no . . . Yesvember
