May . . . the farce be with you . . .

[Sweder]

I find insects fascinating.
One of my favourite Sci-Fi/ Horror movies is The Fly – actually I like the Vincent Price version and the Jeff Goldblum version equally but for very different reasons. I find myself falling out of love with flies in general, however, around this time of year, when so many of these allegedly harmless creatures take an active part in my running life.

I recall with a smile the cartoon image of The Happy Biker – a large, leather and cut-off denim-clad gentleman with cow-horns protruding from his coal-scuttle helmet, darkened goggles strapped to his sweaty brow and lips peeled back to reveal a fly-encrusted shit-eating grin.
I cannot share his joy.
The little bastards seem to find my most vulnerable spots with unerring accuracy – tear ducts, back of the throat, nostrils . . . all played uncomfortable host as I clomped my way towards Ditchling.

High wispy cloud stained beautiful blue skies, warmth emanating from the sun-kissed hills of East Sussex, blankets of Buttercups beaming from the luscious turf. Once more on this outward loop a steady stream of air pushed into my reddening, sticky fizzog, providing a smidgeon of aircon on a muggy morning. I’d wiped away my umpteenth miniature kamikaze when a sharp pain announced further intrusion just below my left ankle. I pulled up to investigate, much to the amusement of the hirsuit couple sprawled untidily beside the downland track, pupils dilated, passing the Dutchy and giggling uncontrollably. As I pulled the top of my trainer away from my ankle an angry, disoriented wasp emerged. He seemed to dust himself off, slightly embarrassed by this interruption to his flight across the Downs, and set off once more towards the fields of bright yellow flowers. I can’t remember the last time I was stung by a wasp (or any other critter). Had this happened before? And if not, what are the chances of anaphylactic shock? Oh well, if this was to be it what a gorgeous day (and place) to peg out.

The Downs played host to all manner of folk this morning. Cyclists battled along the flint-strewn tracks, walkers held hands and gazed across the Counties. Horse riders and the occasional plodder greeted this large sweaty man and his canine harem with good-natured gestures and the occasional ‘mornin’’. At the turn I took a moment to drink in the views. The dogs slipped under some barbed wire to take advantage of a natural dew pond, engorged with the heavy rains of recent days. Funny how nature repeatedly bites her thumb at her most destructive and incompetent tenants.

The gentle breeze assisted our homeward lope, her cooling whispers teasing my clammy carcass with offers of respite and refreshment. We met many of those we’d passed on the climb, grins of recognition exchanged. One or two adventurers had stopped to consult their OS maps. Much scratching of heads and rubbing of chins did I witness as I chugged eastward.

Atop BlackCap I stopped once more to absorb the unspoiled view. Newhaven and Seaford nestled against the ocean to the east, the Sussex plains stretched lazily across the Ouze valley, basking in the midday glow. The North Downs, looming dark on the horizon to my left, cast watchful shadows over Surrey and Kent; behind me the Brighton sea glittered and glimmered as on the hottest summers' day.

In the last couple of miles I realised that Tess, the infamous and fearless whippet, was struggling. This was no recent injury, nor even the effects of her recent surgery. The old girl is getting . . . well, old, really. 10 hilly miles appears to be slightly too far for her battle-weary bones. By the time I’d turned the last corner into my road Gypsy and Willow were in close pursuit but the plucky Tess trotted in some half a minute later.

10 miles (or there abouts) with lots of lovely attritional climbs.
As for my running, a bit of a Curate’s Egg I’m afraid. I encountered some trouble in the control room today. My legs were whining when my breathing settled, yet I struggled for breath just as my feet started to fly. In the rare moments that limb joined lung in perfect harmony I ran easily, feeling strong, capable of great things. For the majority of my hour and forty minutes though it was very much hard work.

‘Hard work’ is of course a relative term.
My morning slog was candy-from-a-baby stuff compared to this afternoon’s dreaded Dance Comp. Having committed to joining my fabulously gifted Daughter for ‘Parent and Child Freestyle’ I had spent most of Saturday sweating profusely over our incredibly simple yet for me almost impossible to memorise routine.

It went something like this: (Count in: 1, 2, 3, 4 . . .)

Right Left Right Left
Step Point (left)
Step Kick (right)
Phoebe Spins Ash lifts
Right Left Right Left
Hop, Step (right)
Hop Step (left)
Switch Turn
Switch Turn
Cross Hands
Kick Right
Phoebe Spins
Head - hold Right (2-count)

Repeat . . .

Frankly I’d rather run a marathon. Marathons go rather like this:
Start Plodding
Take Occasional Refreshment
Continue Plodding
Ignore Pain and Desire to Quit
Finish
Celebrate

Take a few weeks off . . .

My biggest beef with the dancing thing was not the fact that I had to dress like a loser from Strictly Come Nonsing Around In Front Of Graham Norton, nor the fact that I’d be performing in front of a lot of people that fall into that social category of ‘people I sort of know quite well but have never got really drunk with’. No, it was the fact that we performed this routine not once (first round) or twice (semi-final) but (and this was the kicker) a third time on our own in the final. I was too worried about cocking things up for Phoebe to be embarrassed. The din was deafening as we cavorted across the dance floor; clapping, cheering, names (mostly pleasant) bellowed from the partisan crowd.

It was all worth it though.
Thanks to Phoebe’s carefully planned choreography and my ability to complete the routine without falling flat on my arse, we managed to dupe the judges into awarding us first place. I confess to being immensely proud, yet equally determined never to repeat the exercise.