January 2009

[Sweder]

I blew out the BHTT Parkrun this morning. 18 holes in foul conditions yesterday resulted in a slight twist - and, yes, a slight discomfort - in my right knee. In view of this, and a 'number' of beers with you-know-who last night, I opted for a bit of BHTT marshaling instead. Quite why the organisers entrusted their expensive TAG Hauer timing machine to the care of an un-shaven, bleary-eyed hobo I couldn't tell you; luckily I managed to time the 107 runners without mishap.

I then endured half an hour in the park cafe listening to Ladyrunner tell me and those gathered how kicking my sorry arse in Almeria has become her only reason for living. Alarmed by the blood-lust burning in her eyes I nervously assured her that I fully expect her to whale on my hide next Sunday and I wouldn't mind one bit should I trail home behind her. I'm altogether more concerned about He Who Cannot Be Named, the fabled Man In Black who appears out of recurring nightmare smog to hunt me down in those final, tortured five hundred metres in Estadio de los Juegos del Mediterráneo.

Returning home towards midday I decided to test my legs on my home trail, hooking up the hounds for a chilly downland five. All seems well; the tweak appears to be nothing more than that. I felt reasonably fresh (as I well might having run only once this week, on Tuesday). If I head out tomorrow it'll be another local 8K, maybe even in the afternoon so as to fully enjoy a lie-in and a leisurely Sunday breakfast, what would be my first for quite some time.