Oktober

[Sweder]

Grey, soul-less skies, a chill wind and a teasing whisp of drizzle in the air. Heaven. My hypochondriac tendencies had been in overdrive all week; sore throats, coughs, hacking coughs, phlegm and finally an impressive hangover all in cahoots, assuring me that taking on the Jog Shop Jog this morning is nothing short of blind madness.

But I’ve been reading a lot of Hunter S Thompson lately. Whilst the Great Gonzo would almost certainly have scoffed at my futile attempts to run alongside the hardened athletes of Sussex I’m sure he’d have applauded the kamikaze-style way in which I take to his doctrine.
Don’t simply face your fear; hoist your flag high and run headlong, screaming, into its cold black heart.

The toast and honey nestle in my gurgling belly, the remnants of Friday’s Guinness-fest drowning the nutrients in a fomenting pool of black foulness. Each well-worn nipple lies buried beneath a huge George Cross of Microporous Tape. Vaseline is warming in those areas most likely to chaff and my drinks bottle cools, appropriately, in my beer fridge.

The time is now. Should I flounder hopelessly in the foothills of Death Valley, or my bones become pickings for Magpies on the slopes of the Big W, know this. I went with a willing heart and a fuzzy head, to do that thing that I believe Sunday mornings were made for.

Cry God for England, Harry and Sam Lambourne.