Sweder was a man who thought he was a runner
But he knew it couldn't last
Sweder left his home early morning, summer
For a misty Blackcap blast
Get back
Get back
Get back to where you once belonged
An early morning jaunt to the Cap. Lewes lay below, shrouded in a thick duvet. The Moyleman Peaks peeped up through the sea-mist, bathed in glorious sunshine. Nine easy kilometres, last night's ill-advised Chinese takeaway oozing out of every pore. Reap as you sow, old boy.
On the climb to Blackcap I was passed by a young woman in a strawberry vest. She offered a warm greeting as she cruised by, perspiration glistening on her tan shoulders, blond hair bobbing rhythmically. I admired her form as she ascended the steep track, a relentless symphony of power and grace. I looped around the low track before running up the west slope, adding half a klick to my route, pausing at the trig point to marvel at the vista. As I set off on the long drop I spied that red-pink top and blonde barnet heading back up the same track. Hill reps up and down Blackcap? This was something I'd dream about at the peak of my powers, some five years back. I smiled to myself, wondering at the yawning gap between now and then. We need to sign her up for next year's Moyleman.
Five miles ticked off, still pretty much on the Hundred Mile/ Days mark.
The road home
And I Would Run One Hundred Miles
