June Bugs

[Sweder]

Do you hear that?
That cacophony of flapping, squawking fowl . . . ?

Chickens coming home to roost. Loads of ‘em.

Sat in The Rainbow pub (excellent eatery in Cooksbridge, all old wooden tables, stone flag floors and subtle wall lights) last night with Mike, an old friend from the States, chomping on Ditchling Lamb and supping Stickleback Cab Sav, it dawned on me that June is almost gone. I’ve recorded one significant run in June, having vowed (silently) to return to ‘full action’ in July.

Stood in front of the bathroom mirror this morning the full impact of the first two phases of World Cup slobbery was all too evident. Well-ah, when reality bites you have to respond, so I threw on the gear and head for the hills. Hot, airless hills they were, unforgiving, dressed in full summer finery. Grass-heads waved lazily, taunting my huffing, puffing frame as I lumbered through the early miles. A prolonged walk break to the peak of Wicker Man Hill helped to slow my ragged breathing. Drops of sweat splashed from my brow onto the unwelcome veranda around my middle like summer rain on an old abandoned tyre. The dogs shot me sideways glances, unsure if they should encourage me to go on or just turn tail and head home. It’s a big carcass to drag back.

I did manage to complete a Blackcap circuit (in a shade over 65 minutes) but rarely has five miles felt less accomplished. I’m grateful to my neighbours for keeping a low profile as I hobbled through my front gate.

A lot of work to be done here, and it starts now.