Depending on the velocity of my social life, this might turn out to be my last run before the real enchilada, next week.
The south-east of England has been ankle-deep in viscous, grey rain for much of the past few days, and it was still drizzling this evening as I set off for a simple 30-minute jog. I had intended stepping out last night, but the rain was tumultuous. Had the training programme-proper started, I’d have had no choice. But it hasn’t, so I did, and I didn’t.
Out of the gate and right, away from the canal. The towpath of the Kennet & Avon is a great place to run but if I head that way too often its appeal will evaporate. The idea is to reserve it for those long, unpredictable Sunday runs, where its tranquillity might salve the pain of the bad ones, or further enhance the joy of the good ones.
In any case, we are still new to the area and I’ve plenty of other places to explore. Tonight I threaded my way up a local lane that is a cut-through to the busy A340. Fortunately it remains unknown and unused to most drivers, and I was passed only once in the half mile to the main road, which I crossed and continued towards Bradfield.
I tried running faster than usual, but within 5 minutes a red-hot poker had started to appear in my throat and make its way down into my lungs, and I had to slow down again.
My plan was to run for 15 minutes then turn back. The turning point came halfway up a murderous hill: the bleeping of a watch never sounded more merciful. I suspect I’ll be getting to know this hill well over the next few months. There is much splendid West Berkshire countryside to discover. It was still raining steadily as I started back, but not hard enough to spoil the view across the fields towards Burghfield. This is a pretty part of the world in which to live and run. We’re lucky to be here. Early days, but at long last I feel no great desire to be somewhere else.
Again, the only anxiety I felt was football-related. Tomorrow’s rendezvous with destiny: England v Argentina in the World Cup. I find it odd to hear the Scots and Irish complaining that England fans are always over-confident. I see only the opposite: too much pessimism. Despite the wall-to-wall gloom on the football messageboards at the moment, I’ve no doubt whatsoever that we’ll not be beaten by them. I won’t tempt fate by predicting a definite win, though that wouldn’t surprise me. No chance of defeat, that’s all I know for sure.
