March 2012

[Sweder]

I knocked out a fair five miler this morning under sunny spring skies. Vest and shorts to the fore in mild conditons, the ground pleasantly sticky from recent rain, grass spongy, yielding. I took it easy for the most part until, on entering the top of Landport Bottom a mile from home Tom Petty popped up in my earphones, that 'ch-ch' followed by a familar jangle of electric lead guitar and the insistant, petulant hammering drum beat of American Girl. My legs responded, trying to match the rhythm, morphing into an eyeballs-out, lung-busting sprint. A week of frustration flowed through my veins as I sprinted for the far gate. It became a race to get across the field before the song ended, one I was sure to win, except ... except American Girl is so horrendously short. I gasped for air, arms pumping, head thrown back in a Chariots-of-Fire, I-feel-his-pleasure moment, pounding the turf for all I was worth. I hit the gatepost right on the final note, my desperation bursting into a flare of triumph. I glanced at the Garmin, shocked to see I'd finished a hair under six minute per mile pace before metaphorically straightening my tie and jogging in the last few hundred muddy yards.

A good effort and a sign that all is not yet lost on the road to Brighton.