Rocktober

[Sweder]

A run book-ended by American females. As I left the house on tired legs - this was my third run in four days, a positive avalanche of running in my world of late - Tom Petty piped up with the excellent, iconic American Girl. For some this evokes days of youth and yore; for others it's the soundtrack to the moment in Silence of the Lambs when the Senators' daughter drives into her condo parking lot and sees Jamie Gumb aka Buffalo Bill struggling, arm in a false cast, to load a sofa into his dirty brown van. A chilling moment to match the chill wind on this overcast morning.

Today the refrain conjured memories of another American girl, one I've written about before in tales of New Orleans and the exuberance of youth, or how a life-long friendship was born in the bars of Bourbon Street.

I struggled manfully, fighting the rising tide of lactic acid and general fatigue as the hills rolled towards me. More rain last night had further softened the terrain. I was grateful; last nights' visit to Benihana proved a gastronomic indulgence, the coup de grace delivered via a monolithic slab of frozen Mars Bar-like desert that had us all protesting loudly even as we shovelled the rich, heavy confection into our greedy mouths. My tread was therefore suitably heavy - I feel sure I must have left a trail of human footprints alongside the turf-cut horses’ hooves. Such abrasions soon fade, absorbed by the springy turf, just as footprints are swallowed on a sandy beach. Sadly the same cannot be said for the aftermath of piggery hanging from my hips.

As I careered into the driveway, all sweat and laboured breath, American Woman rumbled out of the headphones. It's one of those tracks we all recognise and yet naming the artist is always a challenge for me. The clue is of course in the name itself; the Guess Who.

Right, just time to jot this down, jump in the shower, dress, pack, dash to the office for two hours before on to Heathrow to strap a BA Leviathan to my backside for the long flight to Montreal. I'm packing my runners of course. This recent spurt of activity has seen me cross a personal rubicon, from casual keeping-ones-eye-in jogging to the start of training proper. The challenge will be to eek out the runs in between long working hours and late-night carousing.

T'was ever thus in Swederville