May 2012

[Sweder]

Following a week of untrammelled sloth, including a two-day golf tour in Berkshire with the Mighty Plodder, I returned to the hills last night.

I'm always slightly nervous about 'getting back out there' after a lay-off. I needn't have worried. The cool kiss of evening landed on my legs even as my wobbly upper half warmed in the muggy, higher air. I love the contrast of these moments. Heavy, creamy warmth clings to the last of the day as cool night creeps in through the shadows, sweet relief dancing around your ankles. Nature's Guinness.

My funk of the past few days, a combination of post-marathon blues and a heavy workload, flowed out of me on a tide of perspiration. To the south sat Kingston Ridge and the Big W, hillside folds casting deep shadows against the fading sun, summit draped in a thick mist duvet, a miniature homage to Table Mountain's great, tumbling cloud cap. Below me the town stretched out, accepting nightfall with sleepy good grace. Ripley and Murphy swished and swooped through whippy, waist-high grass in a high-speed game of Blind Dog tag. They'd have happily stayed out all night, and I might have too had a juicy sirloin steak not called my name across the gentle breeze.

As if I didn't know already, running is the answer.