November

[Sweder]

This was going to be a rest day but once again the elements conspired to lure me into the hills. Pink and grey Witch's fingers, twisted like cheese straws, caressed the clear blue sky, colours fading as the sun climbed lazily above the eastern cliffs. That wind was up, a true westerly now, driving the super-cooled air through my lumbering frame. It felt like ancient spirits passing through my bones but I embraced the greeting, glad to feel so alive at such an un-Godly hour.

My head swam with private thoughts. Last night's activities on the e-mail and web had stirred all manner of ideas, worries and fears, hopes and dreams. They swam about in my muddled brain as I ploughed ever forward. Only after the first mile and a half, when I'd 'written' about six pages of prose, did I curse the decision to leave the DAB behind. One benefit of running to rock music is pace, but the other, less obvious but equally helpful, is the distraction of the noise, the blocking of the synapses. There are times when you want a clear head, to review some issue or other, or perhaps consider the turning of the world, the passing of time or the fluff in your navel. And there are times when you need to get sidetracked, when your head seems so empty and dark that the images and thoughts that loom out of the shadows need to be driven back to whence they came. For a while all I could hear was the sound of my rasped breathing and size twelve Mizunos displacing squidgy turf.

I must say though I warmed to the sound of the early morning. Rooks and magpies calling like scraggy market traders trying to out-bid one another, the distant thunder of race horses charging up the gallops, behind and to my left. I turned in time to watch them fly past, eight jockey's bottoms high in the air, straight backs angled into their steaming mounts' manes like a squadron of colourful wedges screaming up the hill. I've had my run-ins with the horse brigade but right there and then I wondered if, at this time of day, in these conditions, these guys don't have one of the finest jobs around.

The rattle homeward was easy enough, the firm breeze lifting me, helping me to keep my heavy tread a little lighter as I slithered and slid over slippery flint and impossibly sticky mud. It was a tired effort, the whinge from my tight knee joined by general stiffness in both legs. Another 8K for the Sportstracks spreadsheet but this might have been an outing too far. Perhaps a day off tomorrow would be wise.

As MarathonDan will no doubt attest, less is indeed more.