Free Running, a.k.a. Not Knowing Where The Hell You're Going
Nipped out for a restorative morning plod, mostly to run Sunday's rust (and residual froth) out of my still-in-shock joints. I didn't have a route in mind, simply the notion that I needed to push warm blood through tired muscle to aid repairs. I ended up at the Moyleman start. Hill reps were not on the menu so I took off into the woods, much to the delight of the Velociraptors. Following the trails I knew not where I burst through some dense foliage to be confronted by the Great Wall Of Chalk. I'd found the Chalk Pits, where CharlieCat and I had hurtled off BlackCap and The Style Incident occurred. Only, there was no obvious trail up, so I must have taken a wrong turn. I found a half-trail and took it, clambering up through low-lying thornbushes and fighting off thick-limbed brambles. I cursed Boff Whaley and his Free Runing mantra; this bloody hurt.
Eventually we emerged 'triumphant' atop the escarpment. The views were stunning. We dove into more familiar woodland, eventually doubling back through Landport Bottom, now occupied by sheep, and home. 5.5k and more climb than I bargained for. I need a flatter 'go-to' recovery route for these outings.
Speedwork Thursday, ParkRun Saturday, something long and hilly Sunday.
On, on.
And I Would Run One Hundred Miles
