Another end-of-the-day sweaty five-miler.
The weather had settled down, air slightly heavy, hungover from the recent downpours.
No rain this evening, just a steady westerly breeze to cool the skin on the outward miles. The Big W shone across the valley, her lung-busting chalk pathways climbing into low, heavy cloud. I’ll have to work out a home-based route to include this brutal challenge, though I suspect it will take a few adventures with an OS map to get there.
The going got tough, the ascent of Wicker Man hill (new name for an old favourite) particularly draining. Determined not to stop I struggled on, finally cresting the ridge overlooking Blackcap. A few hundred yards on the flat and the gentle descent of the west face of WMH brought a mini-recovery. There’s a definite pattern on this run. Struggle outward for two-and-a-half miles, dark thoughts of shortening the run or having a rest scrabbling around in my head like mischievous spiders; the fly home, feet barely touching the ground, optimism rising with every step. So it was tonight, the white-walled stables a beacon of light in the gathering gloom.
The dogs had a field day. Rabbits covered the dandelion-rich meadows between the gorse bushes, watched over by a slippery fox who, so intently was he studying the menu, managed to miss us until we were almost upon him. As usual my trusty hounds chased the furry diners to all points without reward, returning to my side exhausted, tongues lolling, heads bowed, but somehow happy to have ‘taken part’.
A fifty minute journey over five hilly miles followed by a strict and brutal stretching session.
My planned social ten miler on Monday has gone the way of all flesh, work once more trampling the best laid plans. Looks like a hung-over Sunday blast to Ditchling, this before the undoubted sporting moment of my year; my Daughter has entered us (that’s her and me, folks) into her dance group fun day Parent and Child competition
I hope we’re still speaking after that.
May . . . the farce be with you . . .
