Rocktober

[Sweder]

Having survived the Mayfield Golfing Society's Autumn Tour to the wetlands of Deauville, including a marvelous excursion to an authentic Calvados distillery, I resolved to hit them hills a-runnin' early doors.

The apocalyptic weather of the last four days that left our hitherto merry band of stick-swingers looking like a bunch of half-drowned rats hoiked from a vast vat of dark ale was swept aside by a burly autumn breeze. The crisp blue sky was streaked with high, pink-grey cloud fingers speckled with hundreds of manically cawing rooks. The hooded wingsters soared and wheeled as if waiting for the green light from Air Traffic Control. I plugged myself in to Planet Rock, delighted with Alice Cooper's first selection after the 7 o'clock news; Metallica, Enter Sandman. This jaunty ditty helped me set a robust pace, my Mizuno-clad trotters rejoicing at the soft embrace of the sodden hillside turf.

Ascending Wicker Man Hill I spied what seemed like steam rising off the back of the great Hill Beast, lifting off its rolling green shoulders, up into the warming air to fade like a fleeting thought. I love this time of year; when nature packs away her summer glad rags and pulls on her autumn stockings, rich red, brown, yellow and gold accessories softening her sun-baked countenance. The air seems purer, the chill of approaching winter adding a delicious sharpness to every breath. Discarded leaves lay scattered across the muddy trail, autumnal confetti to mark my sweaty reunion with the Downs. It’s hard not feel absolutely alive on days like these.

A surprisingly swift circuit in a shade over 47 minutes. Once again I failed to stop at Blackcaps' crest, wheeling around the milestone to career straight back down the wicked plummet home. This ‘no rest’ approach is pretty painful but I feel I need to push things a bit before opening up the mileage, something I plan to do whilst out in Montreal for the next couple of weeks and then on into November.