Crikey: good news to report.
A decent morning’s work merited a break at about 2pm for a 7-miler along the canal towpath, and back on the farm track.
What a corker of a day it was today. At this time of year, the sunshine doesn’t always deliver the heat it promises when viewed from inside, but today was an exception. It was genuinely warm out there.
The canal was at its glorious, silvery glinting best. It’s days like today when the deserted towpath, winding its way around the lakes, beneath the overhanging trees, becomes some sort of secret England; one that, through the winter, you keep fearing is lost and gone forever. But today it came back.
A good day for wildlife too. I work next to an upstairs window, and have a steady stream of visitors alighting on the ivy: starlings nesting in the eaves above the window, as well as sparrows, blackbirds, song thrushes and many more. As I headed out for my run, I dropped by the pond to check what was going on. We have masses of frog spawn this year, much of it beginning to morph from into thousands of tiny black wrigglers. A couple of big brown frogs splashed about in front of me, detonating a scarlet explosion of goldfish. I counted seven of them, which is an unexpectedly good result. The menacing sight of the heron last autumn, followed by a hard winter, had convinced me that we’d have no fish this spring. But as usual, they’ve proved me wrong, and I’m delighted. This year, I’ll offer them more protection from predators.
The best wildlife spot today was a weasel on the canal towpath. At least I think it was a weasel. I don’t think I’ve seen one before but it was the right shape, and had the right markings. But much smaller than expected. It could have been a young un I guess. It just sat there on the track as I plodded ever closer. By the time I stopped and fumbled for my camera, the little fella had taken fright and scampered into the undergrowth.
The run wasn’t easy, though I did have a 2-mile purple patch, once I’d reached the farm road and was heading homewards. It was about 4 miles in. Suddenly, some invisible wind just filled my sails and propelled me along at a much faster pace. It was a mini-runner’s high. My thoughts switched to Boston. In my mind’s eye I’ve survived the Wellesley girls, and am plunging down the three-quarter mile descent of Washington Street. 16 miles, and the quads are screaming. And suddenly there it is: the fire station, and the sharp right-hander into Newton Lower Falls, and the beginning of 5 miles of nasty undulation, the last part of which, Heartbreak Hill, where so many — elite and plodder alike — come to grief.
I’ve not said much about Boston. It’s not a city I know, yet this marathon has a hold on me like none other, and I don’t know why. I could write a long article on the history of the race and the course, though I could say nothing original yet. My perceptions are all second-hand. There’s more literature available on this event than any other road race on the planet, surely.
I need to tread carefully here. I suspect no one else shares my obsession. But take this as advance warning that I will have to start talking about it soon. Or is that tempting fate? Perhaps I should cram it all into the race report — presuming that one is required.
The good news is that the chances of a report are growing stronger. The run passed with no obvious ill-effect on my calf. Regular stretching seems to be doing its job. This evening, I boldly decided that I hadn’t yet had my fill of physical effort today, so I took off for the gym and pumped out another sixty minutes of sweat. 15 on the elliptical cross-trainer, 30 on the static bike, and 15 on the step machine. Between each session I tugged and stretched both calves. As I found on Sunday, there was a sense of relief as I did so, which made me think it was something my body needed me to do. With my cotton shirt darkened with perspiration, I trotted home, feeling very satisfied with the day.
Boston optimism? I’ll allow myself 65%.
