March 2009

[Sweder]

Stumbled onto the downs this morning, sunlight slicing through gently lifting mist to light up puddle-riddled hills. It occurred to me I should have been out at least an hour earlier; more wildlife, more mist, less ambient noise . . . I vowed there and then to hit the hay a little earlier for the next few nights. We'll see how that goes.

Where does fitness go when it leaves us? Does it seep like spilled oil into the earth, lost, like tears in rain*, or does it simply solidify around one's middle to jiggle and giggle as we venture out for a past-due shuffle? Mine's buggered off, leaving me to flog my sweaty corpulence over a course that a few short weeks ago I was comfortably having for breakfast. By the time I'd completed my five mile circuit, leaden legs wobbling home in a 2009 personal worst the great clouds of steam pluming off my sunroof would not have been out of place at Cheltenham. More carthorse than racehorse, that much is certain. If it weren't for the excellent Mr. Cooper and his ecclectic selection of blasts from the past I doubt I'd have made it today.

The wild ponies were there, gathered like a herd of unruly hippies at the top of Mount Harry, some lounging in the morning sun, others stood four-square to watch the puffing, shambling bi-ped and his canine outriders struggle by. At least they had the good grace to hold their braying laughter until we were out of earshot. Tess, the ancient whippet, had cocked an eyebrow as I'd rallied the hounds, slumping back into the warm embrace of her radiator-side bed, intentions all too clear. I know how she feels; sometimes it's all one can do to pull on your runners.

Ego put a timely boot to my wobbling bottom on the return leg, a brace of attractive lycra-clad fillies stopped for a chat on the downslope inducing an injection of pace that I managed to sustain for a good mile or so. I could call it fartlek but that would be disingenuous. By the time I'd passed the stables and hit Landsport Bottom it was all I could do to maintain an ugly plod.

Still, I got out there, something I've failed to do with alarming regularity recently. I fear sloth and the inevitable accumulation of lard that a lack of race focus brings. Less may well be more, but the scale has tipped.
Just at the moment, less is less.

Track du jour: Thirteenth Floor Elevators, Don't Slander Me
* Stolen unashamedly from Blade Runner. So sue me.