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July - Mission: Lard-loss
Whoa, let the sun beat down upon my face
And stars to fill my dream
I am a traveller of both time and space
To be where I have been
Another painful plod this morning.
I left it late – too late; I should have set off before seven, but thanks to the outlandish humidity the previous night - and the resulting lack of sleep - I failed to get up in time. Shortly after nine as the grass-heads brushed my legs I could feel the temperature rising, almost step by step. The freshness of the morning breeze evaporated as I climbed the scorched hills, replaced by an eerie stillness as the Earth braced itself for another blistering attack from Apollo.
I ran steadily, the i-Pod once more providing shuffled accompaniment for my sweaty labour. Wicker Man Hill rose before me, a daunting challenge at the best of times; this morning it seemed insurmountable. I reached the summit and gazed across the valley to Blackcap. Sheltering in the shade of a thornbush I looked at the hounds; four tongues lolled as we struggled for air. This was madness; there’s nothing to be gained by dragging them through the extra mile, nothing for them and nothing for me.
Reluctantly I turned for home a half-mile short of the Cap.
I hate quitting on a planned distance- it can be more habit-forming than a line of speed before breakfast. Under the circumstances I reasoned this to be a good ploy; save a bit and run again before the weekend. Chugging back down Wicker Man Hill I noted the desperate scrapings of juvenile rabbits alongside the well-worn path; looks like it’s not just human youngsters struggling for starter homes this summer.
A mile from home a familiar refrain started up in my headphones. How apt! As I surveyed the scorched fields around me, the rising haze adding a bizarre desert-like quality to the view, the rhythmic pounding of Kashmir carried me home. Carlsberg don’t make metronomes, but if they did they’d probably be set to the rhythm of Kashmir.
Oh, all I see turns to brown
As the sun burns the ground
And my eyes fill with sand
As I scan this wasted land
Four sweltering miles.
Enough to get a decent sweat on, followed by an indecent stretching session.
Another handful of these and I’ll be back in the groove;
I just might need to run them at midnight.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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