May 2014

[Sweder]

Thought I'd give MLCMMan's early start a bit of a bash today. I needed to catch the 06:06 into London Bridge for a work thing and fancied firing up the grey matter with a pre-dawn plod. The dogs seemed unpurturbed, defining anticipation as they watched my attempt to tie running laces through half-closed eyes.

The human brain runs riot at this hour. 04:30. What was I thinking? Well, quite.
Once started the run took care of itself. My pace was modest at best, tread wary in the half-light. The overnight rain had stopped for a fag, tell-tale smoke wafting over the Cliffe-cap across the valley. Birds chirrupped and flirted between the hedgerows as a stiff Nor'westerley kept me hunched into the early climb.

As I reached the top of the steep drop, what Charliecat calls Sweder's hill, I thought about my new running companion. Specifically I though how unusual it was for a biker to cross over to the Dark Side. It's a bit like football. A number of players have moved from Old Trafford to Anfield over the years, far fewer in reverse. Micheal Owen did, of course, but that was via Newcastle, as circuitous a route as you'd wish to find. Ah, Liverpool. So close, and yet so far. Gerrard's slip 'twixt lip and cup, the Instabul-esque second-half resurgence of Pulis's Palace. Many United fans rejoiced in City's triumph this season, but I could not. It was rather like hearing that Piers Morgan had crashed into Nigel Farage but that Morgan was not only unscathed, his insurers had already deliverd a shiny new Bentley.

As I loped cautiously down the slick mud and flint trail I imagined it would be a good deal tougher cycling up this than running it. It dawned on me that whilst running these hills may be new to the fellow, the nature of them, the brutality, the relentless grind of besting these slopes, was not. Even so, the lad is showing signs of becoming a hillside loper of note. He's already leaving me for dead on hills I once called my own.

By now I'd tiptoed down the steepest section and reached the bepuddled track across thickening farmer's fields (the fields were thick with ripening flora. I'm not suggesting ... well, you know). Before me lay the reason for today's trial, the slippery slope I must climb without stopping. Charliecat's prowess on the climbs has sharpened my competitive edge. If we are to run together more often, as I would like, I need to at least get up to speed else suffer the ignominy of having the man wait at the summit of each mini-mountain. That just won't do.

Within a minute I knew I'd be fine. The sloppy metronome of my size twelves splashing in waterlogged filth assured me so. And so it was, a steady, easy climb to the Houndean Rise path. So pleased was I with this effort I celebrated with a few hundred yards of Moyleman ascent. The tunnelled trail offered two choices today. Wobble along the smooth yet narrow ledge, ducking rain-laden brambles and the occasional stiff branch, or splosh through rivulets of liquid mud in the gully. I tried the former, pretending that the ditch was in fact a lethal gorge. Several times my landing foot skated out over the 'precipice', sending a jolt of lightening down my spine. I gave in, plunging my already soaked feet into the filth, grinning as I splattered my way to the homeward cut-off and a steaming mug of chai.

The knee support played well this morning. There's little doubt I should be under an MRI scanner rather than jolting and twisting it on slippery slopes. I'm a bear of very little brain. My right achillies gave me some gyp on the steep drop, most likely a reaction to whatever odd manoeuvres my knee was making to stave off further injury. As I thought about this that ditty about the knee-bone being connected to the thigh-bone played in my head. Best get this looked at before I lose the leg.