March 2013

[Sweder]

By the time I got home this morning, after 3 restless hours' sleep on Mum's couch, I was running on empty. Three miles into my run my best intentions wallowed in the brackish filth pooling in my Mizunos. Soaked, frozen, slapped silly by a cruel wind laced with shards of ice, I lurched sideways through a hilltop homage to the Somme. The dogs battled on, tails wagging, blissfully unaware that we were in for another ninety minutes. Five miles and almost an hour later those tails hung heavy, owners trailing behind their master. Churchill said it best. 'If you're going through hell, keep going.'

I regained some feeling in my fingers a few miles from home but it was too little, too late. I yearned for my sofa and my wood-burning stove, for roast pork and crackling and a glass of Hopping Hare. As I peeled off my mud-spattered socks the idea of changing my togs and adding a few road miles in my new Wave Riders hovered. A barrage of hailstones rattled the kitchen window to drive such thoughts into the wash basket.

Ten miles. Not enough to count as a long run or even a step-back. Plan B is to hit the streets this week, break in the road runners and bank some hard-top yards. On to next Sunday and a must-do 22.

On, on.