August

[Sweder]

Ah, that wonderful feeling after a brisk half marathon . . . hamstrings like piano wire.
Nothing for it but to take the weary bones into the hills this morning to push some warm blood through the legs. And what a morning! Battle of Britain skies, high wispy vapour trails blending with clouds on the very edge of the stratosphere, a rising sun threatening to burn it all away and sear my battered carcass on the exposed downland.

As expected a stiff-jointed start, running steadily into a brisk, cooling westerly. Oddly enough the hills didn't bite as expected and I managed to keep plodding first up Wicker Man Hill and then Blackcap. I treated myself to the mother of all stretches at the summit, sneaking in a little extra aerobic recovery at the same time.

The homeward plod was more of a bound, help from the breeze gratefully accepted. No music today - someone left my DAB radio on without plugging it into the mains; I'll mention no names but you know who you are! - so I was left with the soundtrack of twittering skylarks, the occasional bleat of sheep scattered liberally over the hills and the steady rasp of my hard-working lungs. Helios won his battle with the white shrouds, golden rays lighting up the grinning maw of the Big W across the valley. I shuddered in spite of the warmth - there are testing times ahead.

I confess to topping up the weekend's supplies last night - an apres-meeting brace to help unwind the stresses of a visit to The Smoke. This was processed in the usual manner this morning, bathing my Jog Shop 'good Good Friday friday' shirt. I do like a good sweat. It's not terribly attractive but I feel cleansed afterwards. Or in this case, cleansed and knackered as I chugged in through the gate, happy hounds in tow.

Another couple of these this week and then there's talk of adding the Yellow Brick Road to our Sunday Snake run. Whoopee.