Returned to the green Sussex slopes this morning after too-long an absence.
I quite like these 'getting back into it' outings; expectations are low, as are aches and pains, and whilst the chest rattled like an old washing machine for a while I managed, eventually, to work up a reasonable pace.
High white cotton-candy clouds floated gently on a cool breeze. The sun peeped out, probably looking for Lords where the Ashes battle was due to resume with the second test nicely poised. The hounds raced merrily across the dust-dry tracks, in and out of the high waving grasses so reminiscent of the punishing rough up at Turnberry.
My thoughts were drawn to the drama of last night's Open golf championship. Tom Watson defied his aching bones and all percieved wisdom re: old duffers to lead a world-class field right up to the final put. That his short putting stroke, so often the bane of his recent professional life, broke down in the end was tragic (in a sporting context). Having lost the chance to win outright Watson took on Stewart Cink, 24 years his junior and yet to win a Major, over a four-hole play-off. The five-times former winner came apart like a sand sculpture in a hurricane, his hitherto golden armour of invincibility crumbling to scatter across the hardened links as Cink marched cruelly on. It was as if Old Tom, having played like a god for the best part of four days, un-troubled by wind, rain or the torrents of hysterical hyperbole, had caught a glimpse of his mortality in a tee-side mirror. He looked up and saw a wrinkled, withered old man, and in that moment of horrible realisation his game disintergrated. The old master, gracious in defeat, was left to rueful cogitation in the arms of his wife. Cink rejoiced, his glee tinged with the inevitable sadness that comes with witnessing the demise of a hero first hand, and by your own hand at that. His family joined him on the 18th green for an unscripted, touchingly emotional huddle, his bald pate glistening like the silver claret jug in the gloaming.
It was a sad end to one of the most amazing sporting stories of this or any recent year. Unsated we're ready for another to unfold today, gorging on a succulent feast that only an English Ashes summer can deliver. As I set off to face my own somewhat less public challenge I wondered at the likely outcome. Logic calmly stated that England should win - a rested Flintoff almost an unfair weapon to set upon the Aussie middle order; yet my heart, carved from English oak riddled with wriggling doubt, quivered at the thought of those jut-jawed, squint-eyed hardnuts from Down Under putting our brave boys to the sword. As it turned out my fears were groundless. Freddie rampaged in like monster unleashed, hurling firey missiles at the cowering batsmen. God help Australia if he ever gets fully fit.
I thought further about Watson's fall and wondered if it wasn't a good thing after all. We all like a sensational story, yet for a man approaching his sixtieth year to beat the world's top players suggests, perhaps, that his sport is nothing more than a gentleman's past-time. As I wobbled across the hills, my feet unimpressed with the failure of last night's rain to soften the going, my i-Plod offered musical reward for my endeavours. Set to shuffle the tiny gadget offered treat after treat, a collection of my favorite tracks plucked at random from my vast digital vault.
Here's the running order: Black Sabbath (Black Sabbath); Going Down (Motorhead); Just Another Day (Girlschool); Little Wing (Stevie Ray Vaughan's instrumental cover of Jimi's classic); Roundabout (Yes); La Grange (ZZ Top); Oh My God (Kaiser Chiefs) ... every one featured here as a track du jour at some point. There's no doubt the bouncing rhythms helped me puff and pant my way around the five miles, sweat pouring freely from my sun-kissed brow to douse my shirt and shorts.
It's nice to be back out there. Must do it again.
Soon.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
