February 2009

[Sweder]

Oh what a beautiful morning! as the song has it; oh, what a beautiful day.
And it was, gorgeous; strong spring sunshine, a dusting of powdery frost in the shrub-shadow, ice on the puddles, a stiff, chill wind out of the west. I threw on shorts and a short-sleeved vest, determined to feel alive despite the grumbling depositions from various parts of my body. A stiff back, a wonky knee, two tight hamstrings and a sore calf for starters. Add to that general fatigue, jet lag and bear-with-a-sore-head grouchiness and you're half-way there.

No matter. It was a morning for running and that's what I did, leaving the earphones behind so as to better hear the louder complaints as I ran. It was, as expected, a tough haul. I teased the rust out of tight, sore limbs, cursing myself for not having run on Monday when I had the chance. Longer-than-usual pauses at each gate helped; stopping to harness the hounds through the populated sheep fields another rouse for grabbing a breather. I took a decent two-minute knee-clasper at Blackcap's summit, sweat dripping onto my muddy shoes, steam plumming of my heaving back as I sucked in clean, cold air.

I scampered home, head-long into the rising sun, breeze at my back, my thoughts turning to two friends. One is fighting an endless series of tests and treatments in a savage battle against cruel fate; another takes on the solemn duty of laying to rest someone he's known and loved for every moment of his life. My own minor worries faded as I ran and I thanked my lucky stars that all I have to worry about this morning is a little discomfort.

I stretched for all I was worth when I got home, yet I feel a visit to a sports physio may be the wisest course of action. I'm ten days away from the Terminator where I fully expect each and every weakness to be brutally exposed on a tricky, hazardous course.

Footnote: I too had burial duty today, though I'm almost too embarassed to mention it.
Scholesy, survivor of the great summer pond pump failure of '08, named after the Devils' ginger maestro and trusty early morning confident these past seven years, lost his long fight against fin rot. A couple of years ago his trademark colouring faded, turning a ghostly, milky white. I took this at the time to be a sign that United's timeless midfield general might join Tottenham or Fulham. Shame on me for ever doubting the loyal carrot-topped genius.

I went out to feed the boys this morning only to find his pallid carcass drifting on its side, eyes white, infected scales dull and lifeless. Not one for pet sentiment I scooped him out and, with a hushed word of farewell, wrapped him in an edition of the Sussex Express, tied that in a waitrose bag and dumped him in the bin.

Farewell then, Scholesy. You couldn't tackle for toffee by the way.