|
2016 - January
What a start to the year.
2015 ended with the passing of Lemmy. 2016 kicked off with his memorial service, closely followed by the Earth-shattering death of Starman David Bowie. Things, as the song has it, can only get better.
Or can they? Surely those of us of a certain age have crossed a threshold, where each new day threatens terrible news as our idols fall. Who next? One of the Zeps? A Stone? There are only two bona fide Beatles left. I hesitate to switch on the radio in the morning.
There has been one more loss already this year, for me, at least, the most personal and painful.
Willow, our brave, cantankerous twelve-year-old Cocker, reached the end of the downland trail yesterday. Having slowed down of late, skipping more trips to the downs than she made, she took a turn for the worse at the weekend. Yesterday morning she refused to get up. A return to the vet confirmed our worst fears; cancer. Aggressive, advanced, already in the lungs. Prognosis? Pain, lots of it, and death within two weeks. There was only one humane course of action, one ironically denied our human loved ones (unless they can manage a final Swiss holiday).
On Monday, after a day exploring Bowie's remarkable oeuvre, we took our Diamond Dog for her final ride. She passed gently into that good night surrounded by kind words and hands of love. We should all depart in such a fashion. Travel well, old friend, and please, don't bite the Thin White Duke on the journey.
In other news - pay attention, Dan, you'll like this - I've completed five runs this year and not one of them on the turf. Pavements, cobbles, tarmac, all manner of man-made surface have felt the heavy Sweder tread. Including the Twitten Runs, a tradition that gently gathers pace, with ten runners, including our first two ladies, last Sunday.
Tonight CharlieCat sang his sweet Siren's song, luring me out to run with The Herd. Not just a nocturnal urban outing, but an organised session with a Real Running Club. Askwith would spit out his herbal infusion. With an actual race on the near horizon, having run on three consecutive days (Friday a CC5 Town Thrash/ Saturday Preston Park Parkrun/ Sunday Les Twittens) I needed a light session. The notion of tapering, given my lack of mileage, is risible, yet I wanted to avoid injury or strain. So I hooked up with a gentle-looking bunch. CC5 tagged along, as much to keep an eye on me as to rest is own well-honed bones.
So. Twitten Run is 12x up-hills sprints with walks and jogs on the links and downs. Tonight, our intermediate group went to Rotten Row. Rotten Row is, pretty much, a Twitten. A little wider and, at first, more gently inclined. However, having completed a set of six sprints up and easy jogs down, I learned we were to complete a second set and, provided no-one had actually thrown up, a third. I mentally extracted my fingers and toes. That's ... eighteen hill sprints. 50 percent more than a Sunday Twitten run. Bloody hell.
As it turned out we completed fifteen. Duncan scorched off up the hill time after time. I stuck stoically with the Herd (ten in all), careful not to tweak or strain anything. We notched a total of 8.01 kilometres, much of it vertical. Great fun.
For those wondering I plan to return to the slick mud and slippery grass after the half this Sunday. The downs are currently all but impassable in places, rain-sodden topsoil as loose and liable to slip as Donald Trump's hair. It's an accident waiting to happen, one I can't afford this week, having downgraded last year's race following my ill-advised football adventure and subsequent knee surgery.
Running Is Happening. It's not terribly impressive and my longest run in the past six months has been barely over an hour. I'll easily double that on Sunday, albeit very much a 'get round' walk/ run effort. I've no ambition, time-wise, but if pressed I'd say 2:20 is acceptable, 2:15 would be satisfying and if I make 2:10 you'll know the stars have aligned, the winds blown fair and I'll have caught up with all the sleep lost thanks to BBC Four's exemplary series of late-night Rockumentaries.
If the last week or so has a lesson for us, surely it's this.
We're not here for long. Make it count, and be good to one another.
On, on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
|
