Rocktober

[Sweder]

A bleary-eyed sojourn into rain-doused hills this morning, head full of images and tales of times gone by.

Last night one of my oldest mates, Glenn, now living and working in Japan, descended on Lewes with stories to fill a hundred nights. We toured the town, sampling fine ales in a number of establishments, trading memories, reminding one another of the characters we shared the road with back in the crazy, hazy days of the early 1980's. We followed the mighty Girlschool over hill and down dale, rocking our way around the UK without a care in the world, living off scraps. I've never been so poor, or so deeply, uncomplicatedly happy.

We ended up in my living room, Jools Holland on the box (featuring the incomporable Gladys Knight sans Pips), kettle on, poised to usher in the dawn ... until the sound of heavy snoring indicated that time and long-distance travel (not to mention the fine seasonal batch of Harvey's Old) had caught up with my old friend. I covered him with a sleeping bag and crept off in search of my own beer-fuelled slumber.

Now, battling into a strong headwind, I thanked my lucky stars for my ability to run with a belly full of ale. By way of pennance I forced myself over the full five miles, joyous hounds dancing around me, refusing myself so much as an extra breath at the turn. The prevailing gale threw me off Blackcap and into the homeward run, legs reluctantly responding to the combined force of wind and gravity.

Another run - the third in five days - and another wonderful track to bring me home. There's something about the reverberation in Grace Slick's haunting refrain that lifts my spirit, adding unexpected energy to my tired stride. I galloped home as the song reached its crescendo, maintaining a fierce pace* until I collapsed, chest heaving, against my gatepost.

Bear with the boring intro ... it's over soon enough.



*Fierce only as opposed to lumbering. These things are wholly relative.