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June 2017
I've been running.
As Eric Morecombe was want to say (right after 'you'll like this'), not a lot. But it's a(nother) (re)start.
CC5 and OATR dragged me and Radar up Caburn the other Sunday. It was horrible. Hot, slow, sweaty, painful, a real measure of how far I've fallen from the heady days of 160k February. May saw a grand total of 9.5 kilometres run. I'd smashed that by June 3rd, but who's counting; there's nothing on the calendar, I just want to enjoy running again. I miss the camaraderie, the banter - it would be nice to be able to banter 'on the wing' again. Just now it's a struggle to stop my lungs from sliding up into my throat to finish me off.
OATR and I have hit the newest ParkRun, Peacehaven, a few times. I'm so laid back just now I didn't even cry when I left my bar-code at home last Saturday (you get nothing for no bar-code, kids). I just chugged round and enjoyed the post-election chat with OATR and Tom Roper. It's got a good vibe, plenty of parking and a fair to middling café, apparently run by perpetual trainees practiced in the art of Hurry Up And Wait. Not a patch on the café at Hove park, but Hove has +400 runners every week. Last time out it felt more like trying to get to a train out of London late on a Friday afternoon in the middle of the Zombie Apocalypse, rather than a stroll in the park. Not for me.
I banged out a leisurely Twitten Run on Sunday, too. It hurt a bit, but not as much as I'd feared. I didn't bust a gut, just shuffled as fast as I could as OATR and CharlieCat spat testosterone at one another, flying up the cobbles as if there were a chilled pint of IPA at the top of every one.
The best runs for me are the local early morning outings, my old Chalk Pits and Woodland route. I shuffled around that this morning, sweat splashing gently on the dusty flint, taking in the sights, enjoying the sharp sting of summer nettles on my ankles as the birds swooped and strafed amongst the hedgerows.
Everything hurts these days. Knees, calves, hammies, back. Lungs wheeze and strain, a tiny gargle at the end of each exhalation reminding me that I'm due a visit to the asthma clinic. I appear to have contracted the much-feared genetic condition known commonly as Ageing. It's a bit of a bugger, but it won't stop me, so long as my heart fills with wonder at the sights and sounds I find on my trails.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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