November 2011

[Sweder]

I slipped out for a cheeky five miler over the rain-drenched hills before breakfast. After all the chirp over at Dan's place about the joys of barefoot running I strapped on my Vibram offroaders for some greasy Five Fingers action. I got more than I'd bargained for; the trails were trecherous, laced with mud and wet flint. The grass, whilst, yes, soft and yielding, was homicidally slick, the slightest camber offering an opportunity to slide into a hedgerow or slip arse over tit into one of the large and plentiful cow-pats.

I love the feel of barefoot running on days like this. Even an oxen like me can feel light and fast, running on quick, lively feet, mindful not to heel strike less I impale one of my plates on a hidden shard of chalky rock. The veil of cloud shrouding the downs became a veritable blanket on the summits. Large shapes loomed out of the Blackcap mist, cattle munching silently on juicy wet grass. Ripley ran amongst them seeking new playmates. In a re-enactment of a scene from last night's Frozen Planet she isolated a youngster. Unlike the voracious wolves of Antarctica she was not intent on calficide, just rather fancied a game of kiss-chase. This ended abruptly when the heffer parked up behind an enormous shaggy block which appeared to have rather large horns. Ripley took discretion to be the better part of valour and returned to me on the quick.

On the return home we came upon a gate where a couple of ladies had a number of boisterous black hounds in tow. My two backed off, wary adolescents sizing up newcomers. As I entered the gate Ripley (again. She needs that Mario Balotelli t-shirt) elected to rush through, clattering into my right calf in the process. She hit the muscle full on with some boney part of her body. I yelped, more in surprise than pain. On arrival home I strapped one of Phoebe's ice wraps onto the poorly limb, hoping to minimise the long-term affects of this unwarranted assault. I'll treat it with fire and ice all day and hope for the best.

Injury aside I love running with these two. Murphy is very much in the Gypsy mould; a follower, never straying too far from his master. Ripley seems to have invoked the spirit of Tess the Evil Whippet. She adores horses, chases anything with a pulse and grows conspicuously deaf should you try to call her back. I've come to admire and fear such canine elan over the years. Some of the rude and inglorious Tess tales recounted here are amongst my fondest and most cringeworthy memories.

Point 2 Pinnacle is a week this weekend.
That should fill me with fear and loathing, yet I'm strangely ambivalent about it. The race will be a huge challenge. Running thirteen miles up hill would test the finest amongst us, yet my only real worry is which shoes to wear on the day. I'm leaning towards my Connemara Mizuno roadsters. They'd done precious few miles since that race. There again I feel lighter and faster in my mud-pluggers. I'll take both pairs with me and no doubt, as usual, go with my instinct on the day.

Next up: Park Run (Saturday), a slow gentle plod on Sunday morning (around ten miles), one last blast with Ladyrunner then it's time to pack.

Track du jour: On The Road Again, Canned Heat