October

[Sweder]

Sometimes you head out the door for a run and nothing in particular happens.
You run, it goes well, it’s enjoyable . . . it’s all standard fare.

And sometimes, everything happens.
Everything? Pretty much . . .

October 27th 2005 is expected to be the warmest such day in almost 100 years. Warm air currents are sweeping up from the North African coast, looping over southern France before bathing our green and pleasant land in unseasonable hotness. I greeted this news in the only way I know – time for a run.

I ummed and arred about this for a while. I was late for work anyway . . . perhaps I should leave it and get on with the mountain of things demanding attention. But no . . . that’s prevarication and I vowed to ditch such anti-running behaviour this month. Next question: take the hounds or not? A collection of expectant eyes and wagging tails as I descended the stairs answered that one. Hounds it is.

We set off at a modest pace, chugging up the incline behind the house and into the sheep field that leads to the South Downs Way. I embraced the novelty of an easterly breeze helping me on the outward/ upward leg of my run.

Radar tuned for sheep I loped towards the dewpond where Willow took her customary muddy dip. I plodded on, spotting a flock of potential knitwear to my right, and focused on coaxing Gypsy and Tess to stay with me. At this point I realised Willow had not rejoined the pack, and I turned to see her jet black form speeding across the field towards the houses, entirely the wrong direction. I cursed: Willow is still pretty green around the gills directions-wise, and the thought of having to scour the neighbourhood only to pull her off the remains of a neighbours’ beloved pet demanded action. I turned and set off back down the slope.

No more than 10 yards in I realised my schoolboy error.
I turned to see a dirty white woolly cloud sweeping across the hillside closely followed by a golden brown shape and a slightly smaller white one. I bellowed for all I was worth, and finally the delinquent hounds gave up their quarry and returned to their puce-faced ‘master’. We followed in Williows’ tracks for a while, but eventually the options became too varied. I decided to return home, secure the sheep-chasers and go in search of the missing Spaniel.

Muttering oaths about first instincts and paying the penalty for skiving I bounded through the clumps of grass covering the path homeward, displaying the honed skills of a slalom champion to avoid all manner of nasty obstacles. Rounding the bend into my road I began to draw plans for my search. On past the car, into the driveway and . . . there, perched on the flat paving stone that marks the end of our garden wall, sat perfectly still like a hairy black statuette, was Willow, a picture of innocence.

I reassessed my options. The dog was found, and I had covered barely 2 miles – not half my intended distance. Undeterred by events I elected to return to the Downs and get at least another 2 miles in. The dogs were keen to go again, so throwing understandable caution to the pleasantly warm wind we set of anew. This time we managed to pass the sheep without incident, and I relaxed into a gentle pace, happy that somehow my fortunes had changed. I was right. We passed the stables and I spied two thoroughbreds strolling back through the field alongside the flint/ mud track to Black Cap. I recognised the lead rider – a chap I often see out exercising the racehorses as I chug by – and before I could raise my hand he offered me a perfect Shearer. This is the first time anyone from the Equine world has offered such a greeting, and I responded with a big grin and a cheery wave.

At the foot of the steep ascent to the cap, about 2 miles out from home, I stopped for a breather and decided to turn about. It was past 10 am by this point, the sun was fully awake and beaming with enthusiasm, and I had no water on board. A gentle plod back, the hounds impeccable (as ever on the homeward journey) and my perfect soundtrack courtesy of Planet Rock – Tom Petty, Running Down A Dream.

6 miles in the bin, an hour and a half of running/ head-scratching/ mucking about, stress levels back below critical, and a bunch of happy, tired hounds. Life is good.