December

[Sweder]

Consequences.
The results of ones decision to take action or a series of actions, in this case in a particular order.
Example: having returned from South Africa I identified a number of things that needed doing today, and set them down in this order:

1. Phone my Mum.
Mum was diagnosed with cancer of the womb last month. She went in for the big op on Friday and almost died from an allergic reaction to the morphine-based pain killers. Apparently it was pretty much full-on Casualty stuff – ‘Charging to 200 – clear!’ and all that. I kept in touch with the family over the weekend, feeling about as useless as one can, being 7000 miles away.
2. Sort out photos from Cape Town and
3. Post my last Cape Town plod in my RC diary: http://www.runningcommentary.co.uk/forum...stcount=52
4. Get out on the Downs with my hounds for a welcome home muddy plod
5. Open last weeks’ mail.

All this I achieved before 2pm.
The consequences of completing the tasks in this order are that I managed to completely miss the GRIM 8 challenge (entry bought and paid for). It was today, in Aldershot, at 10:45. Had I elected to open the mail over breakfast at 8 am I might have made it. Regular readers of these columns will know this is not the first race I’ve entered and failed to show up for – stop giggling SP – but it is the first one I’ve completely forgotten about.

I must have known, subconsciously.
My plod today was going to be a regulation 5 miler up Blackcap. I set off at around 12:30, the morning rain having eased off. The tracks were magnificently muddy, deep brown puddles of cold water festooned along the slimy, slippery pathways. As I sploshed merrily towards the peak, leggings given their first outing of the season together with my excellent new Nike running vest (thanks Kids), it occurred to me to keep going at Blackcap and push on to Ditchling. This is all good for the GRIM 8, I thought, oblivious to the contents of the envelope waiting on my desk. That’ll be up soon, and I need to get some serious mud-miles banked before then.

The run to Ditchling and back, a round trip of a tad over 13 kilometres including a 4 k climb to start and some serious undulating hillside tracks, felt comfortable. As expected so soon after 12 hours with a 747 strapped to my arse I struggled towards the end. I embraced the pain with a knowing grin, studying my mud-splattered leggings as we rounded the last turn to home.

After a good stretch I abandoned my sodden footwear, brewed a coffee and retired to the sanctuary of my office. And opened the mail.
Bugger.