Let’s get down to fundamentals. What actually IS “a run”…?
Interpreting the word generously then Crikey!. Not one but TWO runs to report.
Neither was the kind of heroic 12 mile sprint along the towpath of which I sometimes dream idly. The first, yesterday afternoon, came during a walk along the Thames Path with M and her extended family. We reached a point where most of the party were flagging seriously, and decided to turn back. M’s brother nobly decided to walk back much more quickly so that he could pick up his car and drive back, thus minimising the stress on the others. As there were two cars, I offered to do the same.
Now M’s brother is tall, and has a stride about 4 yards long. He can walk very fast indeed. Imagine John Cleese speed-walking, and you’re close. As he vanished into the distance, I realised I’d have to do more than walk quickly. It reminded me of the last few miles of the Chicago Marathon, when I was ‘running’ alongside a guy who was walking. Ralph. But that’s another tale.
I had no choice. I had to start jogging to keep up with him. And so I ended up doing an unintentional run for around two miles. And not a peep from the calf.
So today I decided to try another short run in the early evening. And it was short. The plan was to do the usual local 3.5 miler, but the window of opportunity was slammed on my fingers with the discovery that we were expecting the gas man to call at 6pm. (He didn’t, of course, but let’s not reduce ourselves to exchanging anecdotes about the gas man not turning up. Appointment disappointment, you could call it.) So anyway, I had only 30 minutes to do my stuff, which was actually not a bad thing as today’s extraordinary heat made running difficult and perhaps even silly if the reactions from perspiring locals on the way to the pub were a reasonable yardstick.
I came across a strangely touching scene on one of the lanes I jogged back along. There was Small (Cabbage) White butterfly lying partly squashed on the road, and very much dead, while another Small White flapped around above it, not knowing what to do. It kept alighting on its mate, and seemed to be trying to pull it up. I’m sure I’m bestowing on this chap powers of compassion and heroism that he doesn’t really have, but it’s how it looked to a non-expert observer like me. It really was a sad sight, and actually subdued me for the last few minutes of the run.
Running is more than a punch in the guts of sloth. It opens the door to another planet entirely.
Glad to be allowed back through it.
