January 2013

[Sweder]

Running in soft, rain-soaked hills after a hot, hard road race is akin to trading a bed of nails in for a memory-foam mattress. We've had enough precipitation in Sussex to get Noah's dander up, much of it still slithering through chunky veins of downland mulch as I started my lunchtime lope. My legs rejoiced! Four days since they'd felt as if they must surely shatter they scampered across southern England like naughty young dogs on day release.

The days since the Almeria Half have been filled with a round-robin of early/ late train and bus journeys interspersed with silent bedside vigils. The sheer release of being outdoors - in watery sunshine, no less - bounding over impossibly slippery trails was enough to fuel my jets. I even thrashed out a twenty minute high-tempo session (sub 8m/m) on the way home. Status Quo chipped in, the excellent Mystery Song adding a few ounces of spring to my heels. I defy anyone running to that to not give it the gun as the Masters of the Three Chords break into the raucous, driving heart of the piece.

Five muscle-flushing miles, warm blood chasing the rust away. On Monday, shuffling at snail's pace through the maze of Madrid airport whilst nursing the grand-daddy of all hangovers, I'd wondered if I'd ever be able to walk properly. You have to love this running malarkey.

On, on!