March 2010

[Sweder]

This week, in the immortal words of Jesse from the Fast Show, I has been mostly tryin' to rest whilst banking a few crafty miles. It's the stuff of madness.

Monday night saw a return to Bridge's House of Fun and another tough 45 minutes in the saddle. Or rather out of it, as once again our diminutive leader had us charge up a series of increasingly challenging virtual hills. It hurt, but happily not under my right foot. Good news.

Tuesday was devoted to rest (and work). Wednesday demanded a pre-dawn departure to Gatwick for an overnight visit to clients in Geneva. Dropping out of a slate grey sky yesterday afternoon I groaned at the sight of dull, wet tarmac, but by the time I got home a strong easterly had blown most of the clouds towards The Smoke. I snuck out through a sunlit window to gallop heavily across slick mud and slippery trails, banking five sluggish miles before the thunderheads regrouped to regale us with a symphonic storm of epic proportions.

The forecast for the weekend is apocalyptic. Gazing out through my slatted office window I see blue skies and bright sunlight, so I'm hauling on my mud-caked Mizunos for yet another clandestine tryst with Landport Bottom, Mount Harry and Blackcap. In the spirit of Antonio's craziness I'll try to run slow so as to get used to pacing greater distance whilst horribly under-prepared. I suspect our quest is pure folly, yet the thought of inglorious failure in the misty Galway hills thrills me in ways that a modestly-chugged half does not.