April 2014

[Sweder]

I've not entered Seaford Half yet. I'm not 100% sure I'll be in the country, should know by early May. At best it will be a walk-run for me unless things improve dramatically.

Nipped out, later than planned, for a half hour trot through the locale this morning. I'm determined to give this Free Running a good go, so socks, shorts, singlet, busted old Mizunos, three hounds and a good attitude were all I took out the door. Ten to seven is too late to enjoy the best of the morning, though the pastel pinks, blues and lilacs splashed across the sky were fair reward.

I'd intended a very short plod to run the Lewes 10k rust out of my joints. Distracted, first by a darting rabbit, then by a swooping rook, I veered off course, crashing through a heavily nettled shrub and into a hitherto unvisited thicket. What I found on the other side took my breath away. A chalky, flinty lane, sliding invitingly off the side of a tilted field. I took off, amazed. This is not 500 metres from my front door, in the shadow of the Moyleman's first mile, yet I'd not set eyes nor foot on it before today. My sore legs cried caution so I throttled back. It would be great to give this the full Chris Moyle descent, but not today. The trail lead away for 100 metres before dropping sharply. At the bottom I followed a bridleway leading vaguely in the direction of home. Another signpost and I was forced to stop. I was lost! A peek behind a house-sized, cloth-covered haystack revealed another trail, this one climbing through heavy woodland. So steep was it I had to take a break near the summit, gasping as the two lurchers crashed after some small furry beast that took refuge up a tree. Squirrel.

At the top I found another junction and recognised a path home. Thirty plus minutes, pulse raised, sweating like a racehorse. So, this is free running? I like it. As I pondered a title - ten years a slave - for an extended piece about shaking off the shackles of rigid routes and digital masters, it dawned on me that one amongst us has softly sung this song all along. Quietly going about his business, running trails, marking his time without obsession or decimal point, picking routes to suit the seasons and his mood, noting nature, characters, changing landscapes, detailing flora and fauna, the degradation of a makeshift bridge across a raging stream. All without fanfare or noisy declaration of independence.

Well played, Bierzo Baggie.