And I Would Run One Hundred Miles

[Sweder]

3.5:1

That's the Sweder Sweat-Splash Ratio following intervals and hill-climbs.
Three-point-five drops off the chin to one off the nose. Or one off the eyebrow (either one). 

I sat, head bowed, counting the droplets as they fell away, tiny Luke Skywalkers, hands outstretched. 'Noooooo ....'. I am their Father. They hit the dulled decking like little water-bombs, pooling to form a  lake of hot tears in the dust-clogged grooves. I squeezed my eyebrows, unleashing a cascade of warm brine.

Inexplicably tired after a reasonable night's sleep, I did not feel like going out this morning. After two alarm re-sets I crawled from beneath the summer duvet, resigned to strapping on the runners for a midweek constitutional. A mischeivious voice started on at me as I harnesed the dogs.

You could just plod round the field, dial one in, book the miles and feel good about it.
Or, you could throw in some sprints, work your arse off for half an hour and shift some of that lard.

Taken aback by this self-rebuke, I decided to do just that. It was Moylebird who spoke about 'junk miles' - you may as well not go out. Do some sit-ups or squat-thrusts instead. Junk miles are you kidding yourself you've put the effort in, when they're no effort at all. Right, as usual. I took the loop around Landport Bottom, hitting the long diagonal climb to the sheep trough. Instead of lumbering down the long hill in recovery mode, I smashed out a thirty-second plummet, followed by a twenty-second waddle, then another lung-busting sprint. The second took me to the bottom of the hill, so my next recovery was up a steep bank. That tested the lungs alright. I climbed up across the field, paused at the top to let the dogs grab a drink (and to catch my breath) before going again. 

On the jog home I threw in two more thirty-second sprints, this time on the flat. Run-keeper asured me that, despite a stop for an errant shoe-lace, this was my fastest time over the distance. I should bloody well hope so. Back home I slumped into a garden chair, head bowed, counting the sweat-drops.
Splish, splosh, splash, be-dum.

4.8 kms at average 6.25 minutes per km
3 miles banked. Nicely on target.