August 2015

[Sweder]

Another morning when the snooze button took a pounding as hard rain lashed against the bedroom window. In truth this has been a modest week for running. I gave serious thought to bailing out as sleep reached out to take me back. My conscience rose first, dragging me by my ankles from under the duvet. Ten minutes later the door was whipped from my grasp as all hell broke loose. The dogs gave their best canine shrug and tottered out into the storm. C’est la vie.

Hill work being the order of the day we set out for the far (sheep-less) field. Trees and bushes jived and bounced like giant afros on a wild night in Studio 54. The novelty of being buffeted by fierce gusts from all directions was not wholly unpleasant. The wind shoved and slapped but lacked that icy sting that only comes with winter. I fought hard on the climbs, happy with the spring in my step. Bellows pumped, elbows waggled. Even as I scolded myself for excessive body movement I found comfort in the rhythm.

Turning for home I met the full force of the gale. From out across the ocean the riders gathered, fierce Norse gods on spirited chargers racing in across the Channel. They flew over Newhaven, tearing up the valley before banking off Kingston Ridge to smash into my face. The usually swift last kilometre was like battling an army of Orcs armed with a broom-handle.