friends

no race so woods, coach road, playing fields - just like that. well, just like that compared to endless trudge up cascading clay. horseshoe print. pointing down. crazy. legs are dead. look for steps too soon, seem to have been moved a furlong further up the hill. at last, leave clay path for spiring, irregular steps. finally, spiring, irregular steps end. good idea. put hands on knees for a moment. shattered. take a tentative step. start walking. walk for good half minute. down now. galls up on slope. such peaceful creatures. invent belted galloway therapy in which the troubled wealthy come and drape themselves over their woolly backs as they munch. with the view, could be a winner. white-faced herefords watch as run down lane. out of curiosity see if bull is still in big field. no, pretty sure it wasn't meant to be there; reckon the tractor driver left the gate open. back through woods. phoebe. walk. seem to be between her and her owner. call comes up the path. phoebe follows warily. say to owner she seems wary of me. owner says she didn’t attack me then. say no i think she’s past that. sounds like i mean she’s old now. didn’t mean that. never mind, we’re nowhere near being even.

habit

late but doesn’t matter, going easier and shorter today - partly as not sure if racing tomorrow. to woods. stiffly. stop to fiddle with shoe, again. muddy cloudy cold and windy, go off idea of fields. leave woods, head for bury hill - will likely be longer but less bleak. wind behind too. habit might be having a say as well. heading for the hills and running for an hour or so are becoming quite helpful habits. no spring at all. doesn’t feel too great but can still push on ok. extended lap of bury hill, skirt lake, climb vertically to temple. slow as pass before alsation. eyes are fixed... as are paws. under the limit. goes back to playing with other dogs. second lap. leave out lake and temple. tired and hungry says one mother to another over wailing of small children. feel less tired. feel more tired as push into wind around open bit. feel completely knackered at gate. whimper a bit but don’t wail. into wind most of way home. no shorter, no easier. no weights after.

the lights

line of cars still there. one set of roadworks and it’s gridlock. yet more sirens, the kind that used to be exclusive to new york. helicopter. make for alley. bloomin cold. bonfire smoke. surely can’t be the house that has bonfires, it’s not a lovely summer evening. pause on tiny bridge by mill to peer at yellowish statue... definitely someone in robes. vineyard soggy again. notice rises that don’t normally notice. tired. running is either mostly of the air or mostly of the ground. off the ground or of the ground. you’re in charge or it is. it is. on up the high track. slightly braver option as no break in climb. and is so often into a howling freezing wind. how effing ridiculous... the fake fire of orange lights is on and we’re still in daylight. nice pale blue haze around. blue sky, and real red fire as the sun dips behind thin cloud. they’d better have a good explanation. ground still in charge on top of downs. just feel too close to it. no cycling sign on gate by car park. new? makes no sense whatsoever. makes you want to not move aside when next a national trust jeep comes rattling along the pilgrims’ way. tripod on railway line. man searching through bag says hello. ask if he’s taking pictures, he is. not sure what to say next, just say right, which sounds a bit stern. should’ve asked if they’ll be on google earth or something, something other than just right. no earlier than usual but lighter than ever through bury hill. grandparents pushing pushchair smile and nod thanks as step into road. almost as rare as seeing the belisha beacon by the zebra crossing - not sure i’ve looked at it before. the lights... they are in the car park by the church. stupid number of belisha beacon-like lamps in a stupidly small space. cries out for some constructive vandalism. geese going mad in park. five fly off while another honks insanely. tired run remains grounded. pb though.

the vapours

line of cars going nowhere. no sarcasm intended as hold up hand. other lane completely deserted. up alley. fu... luckily leave it at that, didn’t notice the woman just over the fence. something’s messing with my achilles but don’t fall for that anymore, running isn’t to blame. little hill is slippery and deserted. slip turning muddy corner. not happy. the big hills are steaming. steam is sinking into town. off little hill, onto hard stuff again. on to bury hill. man at gate is staring intently at rooftop or sky. steps aside without averting gaze. bird? clipboard suggests roof. slow for unnecessarily square dog... panting, good. head for steaming hillside. train honks by as approach line. breath is voluminous steam. can see less and less as rise. every step up the leaf-slick is a slip. grass is worse. can’t see the top. know the way. straight up. feel sick, know exactly why. three toasted sandwiches. worst thing to eat before a run. high track above vineyard. can see the big hill, woods, bury hill, the town, the whole valley and all the circling vapours. if the vapours are pretend smoke then the bright orange lights at the centre of town are the phoney fire. back through the park. looks like the lights could have been the car park by the church. can’t think we need them all. not even dark. push the pace between crossing roads. seem to be dripping. steamed.

moth to flame

bit late. to vineyard. stream two feet lower. statue on bank is not buddha... have a closer look next time. wind behind, drier ground, running too fast. moth to a flame. can’t sustain it, hands on knees at stile. going up to downs a different way - along high track overlooking vineyard and town. climb into wind. hands on knees at gate. climb into wind. hands on knees at gate. past church, to car park. tiny icy puddle has been only icy spot up here for last few runs. straight down. down and down. swamp is worse, nearly slip, didn’t slow, just passed bloke. look out for hole in track.. easy to spot, it’s now a puddle. or is it... no, cautious has its uses. seems to be a dog party at bury hill, so many rushing around the open bit. none look like wronguns. rush through them all. pair of black dogs suddenly overtake, shoulder to shoulder, head on shoulder, shoulder in mouth. spin away like playful otters. hands on knees at gate. bells chiming as approach church. stop well before reach church. ducks all back in proper pond in park. into wind for last few minutes. had to have the final word. dive-bombed by moth as doing w and s. very strange, already had the title in mind. i think.

this is a bull

saw from home that the galloways were at the very top of their slope, in the sun. whole hill is still in the sun. to big sunny hill. ouch. new way of slouching in front of computer hasn’t worked. it’s only pain. still working on mill. even more tea swirling under bridge. fields by river must have flooded, considerable puddles. second field smooth and dry. cows. motley crew skipping in from next field. one belted galloway, half a dozen herefords or something. slow to a walk. slip through gap by fence or big cowardly swerve? nearest has noticed me and has a nice shiny nose ring. looks pretty relaxed in the sun. tractor is coming up from far side of field, led by sheepdog. couple of cows kick up heels and skip around some more. stand admiring view for a moment. can’t circle them all now, too spread out. going back would be pathetic and seen. wild looking border collie arrives, tractor nears. walk around bull and between cows, back to fence. walk short distance to final stile. climb stile. breathe. steep lane bull free. right at top to downs' way. mess. deep mud and dung. galls still up on slope. to the right, hazy hovis beauty. over shoulder, light bulb sun, pearl but bright, table lamp height, no heat. hairpin turn, on up to top. snake through trees to top of tuesday’s big climb. calm and light. down. I (heart) ELA scraped near bottom of slope. reminds me of writing a christmas card for a girl i fancied and spelling her name wrong. put it through wrong front door. down into ravine. up steps or zigzagging path? steps. perfect for running up, forgot. count 102. flint tower with tree looks like... sideshow bob. straight back to front of hill; concerned about having enough light to go home through woods, fields having lost appeal. just enough bluish twilight through woods. first run after a rest, always a trial.

knackered

another deluge last night, forget fields. to vineyard as also, change = rest. keep meeting dalmation at same spot. three times maybe we’ve emerged from our adjacent alleys at the same time. what to make of it. stream near mill flooding almost up to path, and crashing down under little bridge into normally peaceful pool. stone buddha on bank looks even more out of place. splash along bottom of vineyard, trudge up to top stile. possibly haven’t complained more by this point in a run. over stile for repeat of monday. just rubbish up hills. avoid bridleway again. which again means a slowly rising mile straight into a wind. ends at gate by car park where mountain biker is crouching by bike. national trust man once gave me a ticking off for cycling here. as he turned away i explained i had cycled along tracks that trucks use. he said that was ‘just for access’ and swaggered off. running simpler all round. straight down the front. fabulous big fat kia-ora-coloured sun sat on horizon. like magic sun gone when look from pilgrims’ way. run back up through trees and there it would be again, probably. don’t run back up. still very light as run down stony way, with wind behind it feels spring evening-ish. less so down clayey path and tottering through swamp. that wind again. ah, a river where no river used to be, across wide end of track. run up required to jump one bit. take off area looks slippery... eeasy. push on up lane and feel properly tired. catch last of daylight through bury hill. bells chime as hit churchyard. new pond in park. well, it’s a pond to four ducks, one of whom is actually tails up. just a puddle on the grass, one of several, can now see, silver puddles. wind behind for last five minutes but doesn’t feel like it. knackered.

slog

tired and stiff. lane to woods is steep as want to get. plod slowly round muddy woods. try to plod more quickly along wet, muddy coach road. strange how sometimes you feel you’re running exactly like someone else. feel paularadcliffeish as try to push with staccato stride. feels a hard way to run fast. over stile. first field is ok. until next stile. climb over gate as stile marooned in sludgy mud. ditch is full with rushing, sea-green water. mud loves stiles. no avoiding the next five. in between, the fields are getting sloshier and the swerves bigger. pure slog. dry land at last. up stony track and lane. slog. rat run lane, back towards woods. running now. swing up little dead end lane by woods. phoebe. rushes a few steps forward as swing off lane and onto path for easy detour. sorry. pause at other end of woods... continue through woods or second lap of coach road and fields? soft or hard option? mud everywhere, might as well slog on. second lap okish. too dark to go home through woods. short steep hill reminds me why i didn’t want steep hills. give a phone-yacking driver of monster 4x4 a move on wave. can do that after a run.

english setter knows

stiff and tired. cold wind. set off on mostly sheltered route to mostly sheltered bury hill. cairn terrier in position on little hill. seems to be on lead. bad luck. hmm not that sheltered, into wind up steep private road. couple hoovering leaves. would like to stop at gate at top but one likes to look effortless; every potential critic is a helper. fight the wind all the way to bury hill. the wood is a relief but decide to carry on towards downs, will ensure a decent length run. toss stone into lake, slush not ice. long-haired person seems to be stuck to wattle fence. try to look effortless and notice how steep the track is. good job looking down, go straight over new hole. dog rushing towards me through swamp. put hand out, charges past. say hi to owner who ignores me too. cheers, feel a div. clayey climb up to pilgrims'. pass dog walker up grassy half of sheer ascent, says something i don’t catch. not sure what to say with limited time and breath. beautiful dog appears. makes me think of african hunting dogs. tries to run through me. step on its foot. yelps. say sorry, i stepped on his foot. owner apologises for him getting in my way. run on. with dog. owner calls. slow down, with success. all slightly embarrassing but, beautiful dog. glad to be up, too many hills in legs. along past church then down through vineyard. ah, the long, not that muddy, avenue into a fierce wind. but it’s not the big hill, which looks big. back through park. getting dark. no windsurfing.

big hill

to big hill. builders in and out of mill house, scaffolding near wheel. rushing weir. tea-coloured water high under bridge. rutty field is smooth. steep lane, heavy legs. choose left at top, will go straight up the front - fewer galloways. notice warns of grazing sheep. no sheep at all. heavier and heavier. choose steep, direct route again as aim for viewpoint. up. wrong not to look at view, turn for blast of chill wind. across green, down main path towards flint tower. norbury or stay on hill? stay. enforced walk down hundreds of muddy grassy steps, past silver birch sentinels, to bottom of grassy ravine. thread between little log pyramids then clump up other side. chalk. silver birch like single strokes of chalk. kick through long pale grass to smooth green back of monster to be climbed. on up. moss and flat grass. flat grass and moss. rabbit hole. moss. look up. the bench. halfway. slope gradually eases. sky appears left and right. the second bench, almost there. slope almost level now but don’t stop till very end. now. feels high. feels like a real ascent, highest point in view. the connoiseur’s side of the hill. on into woods. wind round, back to tower. retrace steps back from tower. town lit up. big glass front of new house by weir is lit up as come back across fields. giant tv looks big from a field away. can’t see what they’re watching. oh yeah, forgot about that.

budgie

thunder and rain blow by. to vineyard. more pools than puddles. stream is riverine. vineyard’s getting muddier. not staying. norbury or last wednesday? last wednesday. huge dog or puma? big boxer possibly, with big cat amble. gentle giant probably but i’ll just let him pass. stops at top of my path but doesn’t look down. ambles on. avoid quagmire of bridleway. alternative becomes long drag into wind. jumped by sausage dog in car park at front of downs. straight down. birds either side peep incessantly as pussyfoot down endless spill of leaves. wonder if it’s my stripes. no choice but to pussyfoot through swamp. new neat hole in track where ground has just sunk. bury hill, groundhog day... not, as pass familiar dog walker. look at dog... dog walker says hello... and so do i. ah, the other alsation that runs at me. runs at me. budgie cries owner. stand still. budgie runs into me and barks and sort of air bites my hands as we wait for owner to catch up. it’s a new routine. didn’t know it was called budgie - perhaps badger was budgie. two or three slow moving cars don’t stop for me at zebra crossing. thank the one that does. who changed the rules? by church, through park in the dark. windsurf for a minute or so. one is better than none.

whoo

six hours of running a week, that’s the minimum target. or rather, the target (that i usually fall short of). a cunning plan may soon make six hours seem like six seconds but for now i’ll just have to fall short for another week; this will not be a two hour run. thursday’s route seems a good idea, for some reason. traditional, slightly longer route through woods. golfers hacking away. clever the way the golf club have put up a gate at their entrance and leave it open outwards so it half blocks the path from wood to coach road. half blocks - complain about that, unwashed wood-prowlers. coach road feels fast but probably isn’t. slow to halt on arching footbridge. couple of hip circles and going again. ascend big hill, seemingly, with cow on back. path is clay. feet are soon of clay. thighs burn. as clear last step hear whoo from wild wood above. followed by bicycle brakes. duck under horizontal tree and realise why i’ve had trouble identifying it - dark green stuff is ivy, not its leaves. belted galloways. four together filling path. four more up on slope. go up. only one finds me more interesting than grass. such a great look, bet you’d look good on the golf course. heavy, smoky sky becomes bright fire beyond town. see cows silhouetted as run down lane. back through woods. swearing makes pheasant explode.

sky is falling

apparently it’s a myth that achilles’ heel was the only part of his body that wasn’t invulnerable. apparently the bit about him being vulnerable in his heel alone - and i assume in his achilles tendon as well - because that’s where his mum held him as she dipped him in the river styx, was made up later. makes sense to me. my own achilles tendons have long been a source of niggly pain. saw a physio and she shrugged her shoulders, said they were fine, told me to take up a different sport and asked for 35 pounds. i now know that they hurt when i’m stiff elsewhere. they are not uniquely weak, they are stiffness barometers. and they are crap at the start of this run. to bury hill. dank day. the clouds have descended and smothered the hills. everything is damp. heavy friday traffic. groundhog day as pass familiar bury hill dog walker. i look at dog, dog walker says hello in forceful way, i say hi there. same every time. decide to do some of wednesday’s run in reverse. leave bury hill. odd look to lake, one end frozen? throw little stone. tinkles. quick inspection of leaning pine. seems to be fully rooted, bizarre. muddy track becomes swamp. always gets like this. forgot. as slip and slide think of definition for tough runs like this - heads down. the downs loom. climb is steep then steeper then more modest, along pilgrims’ way, before final, straight up bit. slip straight away on sheer slick of darkly rum-coloured leaves. no way round. ‘these are not bulls’ says notice on gate at top of slick. sheer climb continues up slippery grass. slip. pass through cloud of drifting mist. stop before top to look back at cloud, and world. sky is falling everywhere. across downs towards vineyard. different route now from wednesday. follow high track into horrible wind. dog walker ahead. say hi as warning. dog walker jumps and immediately says ‘you said hi as a warning and i jumped anyway.’ can only manage to say yes and wave. ah, the long muddy avenue into a fierce wind, with complaining achilles. decide to take shortest route home, through the park. always seems to get much darker when you come in range of streetlights. suddenly it’s night.

good bits

definitely east. how far east, depends. ok start. better up lane today, knackered at woods but don’t slow, much. short route through, will go further east. oh, still rusty up hills. calves? coach road, can run. people, dogs, go wide, don’t slow. jack russell, less width, oh... try my tactic, speed up and zero in before pricked-eared dog gets going. they usually shy. forget zero in. JACK shouts owner. just clear jack. slower through village and over bridge. faster up edge of playing fields, wind behind. stomach cramp again, interesting. could be my back doing this. big hill looms. four minutes of near vertical climb, exactly what my calves need. no spring but no pain either. climb climaxes with steep steps, of a sort. a thigh burner but thighs ok. momentarily zombie at top but soon on way. mile along/down side of hill, a sort of flypast. far below - playing fields, village, red lights, white lights, golf course, fields, fields, woods, red lights, white lights, (duck under horizontal tree), cow shit. ton of it on track ahead. wondered if the galloways would still be here. sometimes block the way, people-carrier-like. way is clear, spot galloways at last moment, up the slope. down muddy lane, step into hedge for one, two, three cars. two don’t appear to thank me. fly by garden centre. back into woods. rust. start thinking. running is good or bad, buoyant or flat, surf or splash. all runs seesaw a bit but this one is yo-yoing, constantly. last long climb, last bad bit.

flat

change mind. east, woods. can’t face the bigger country after all, still recovering. find myself going west. emptier pavement. alley, why you always so cold. foot hurts. slight stomach cramp. still recovering. vineyard. stomach cramp bad. are poached eggs the worst thing to eat before a run. struggle up soggy grassy climb. pause at stile. misty vineyard seems to stretch for miles. things look bigger when you’re struggling. onwards, upwards. take flinty, muddy paths up through woods and onto downs. foot pain intensifies uphill. swear freely. bridleway across heath, mist becoming fog. last little climb, seizing up in proper fog. pause. cut losses? back down through vineyard? or on. find myself going on, foot only hurts uphill, no more uphill. front of downs. clear view of mist and woods and mist and fields, and hills, tumbling for miles under pink and pale blue sky. nice. straight down to pilgrims' way. short or long? long, down into misty stuff. cold. freezing. frozen lake. towering pine at alarming angle across track. seems to be relying on top branches and neighbouring pine. heavy night monday night. getting dark as arrive at bury hill. catch sight of pale fluffy ball floating in mid air. deer facing other way. ball bobs along path then off into trees. sorry. try to bob home but stay pretty flat.

recovery run no. 2

recovery run = easy run after race, usually just the first but this looks like being the second, of a series. long line of cars due to road works. try to look loose. feel looser than yesterday at least. followed up lane by rat runner. into woods, knackered. hills still twice as steep as usual. through woods to unhilly coach road. little mud, wind behind, can run now. stile. fields, soft, into wind, still running. tough up stony track and lane, always is. take breather at cattle-grid n’ gate, always do. lots of smoke from somewhere. back into rat run lane. rats. back into woods. joined by bouncy retriever. something fast is coming straight for us. side-step slender dog. slender dogs are not a worry. then owner cries NO in alarming way. slender dog is bouncy but not a worry. dogs bound away. then owner cries NO in even more alarming way... slender dog bounds past. we agree, could do with such energy. quick lap of woods then out. bound home, more or less, for more w and s. getting there.

loose is my religion

jog. slowly. no choice. race + lack of stretching + computer hours = tin man. wind and rain not nice but no bother, wearing fleece as know this will be slow. to woods, slowly. mud, vaguely remember that stuff. black labrador, barking madly, no bother. steep little hill some bother. plod on round sheltering woods. line ‘loose is my religion’ pops into head. almost could be. cannot run when stiff, just sink. two laps enough. manage imitation of running on way home. rain has stopped. weights, stretching after. has to be done.

e.t. fingers

made it. hmmm. when they said happy valley i was expecting to be over to the left - or was it right - where we used to race county championships, not up on this unhappy ridge, again. ran here once before. few races more wind and rain swept. in fact, none. now for the most frozen race ever. looks like the place has been in the freezer for the last two years.

mile long trek from car park end to race start end is put off for ten minutes. no point in four team members freezing to death before it's absolutely necessary.

trek becomes warm up jog. frost is undeniably beautiful. amazing bushes, all e.t. fingers made entirely from frost.

unsurprisingly others have arrived before us. our club rug is half covered with bags, our banner proudly shivering. soon there’s enough of us for a full team of ten. someone says it has to be spikes as its slippery and snowy in the valley. i’ve decided this already although spikes will equal pain. pin on number, put on spikes, go for skittish warm up. spikes feel absurd on frozen ground. so stiff, seems i over-stretched yesterday, making it worse. nothing to be done, this could be crap.

‘five minutes to go’ call is given. fiddle with spikes. lose a few layers. look around at what others are wearing. some like ben only in vest and shorts. he has no gloves and isn’t bothered. i have two pairs of gloves and thermal top under vest. they’re not for me but reckon leggings would be ideal. knees strangely pink. fact is, muscles work best when warm and that is that.

the start. side of ridge. long diagonal climb ahead. quick warning about rutty, slippery woods and then the whistle is blown. no one’s going mad. there’s no one in front of me, which is mad. know it won’t last but feel good. few ahead now. still very easy, hardly breathing, unlike those passing me. typical. start to feel scrabble stiffness in hips and shoulders and back. know it will get worse as that’s what it does. runners are well spread out as we cross ridge at car park end. hopelessly doddery around sharp turn that takes us on towards woods. right to left camber kills my right achilles. firm compacted snow underfoot as we dive through woods. not rutty. steep downhill into bottom of snowy v-shaped valley. recognise this as part of old happy valley course. ran it in the snow then. slightly slippery here, it’s like running through tate modern. time to climb out. not bad, diagonal, bit crowded. unexpected extra bit of climbing after coming out of woods. low point. thighs burning. got to do this again. now its back along other side of ridge. wind behind, thank you. high point. stomach cramp, brilliant, wouldn’t want this to be enjoyable. back across road that runs along ridge. car is being held by marshals, feel unusually thankful, hold up hand. back through the start. wow, they’re reading out our times. not used to this with cross country, thanks. 15.04. expect to be much slower on second lap. just keep going. positions more or less settled now. 30 something, damn. could be worse. camber, woods, valley are awful. stiffness gripping everywhere. spike plate is pressing into ball of foot. agony. manage climb. relative relief as begin wind assisted mile back along ridge. but have to speed up now. so battered, so icy, hard to keep balance. unambivalent, enthusiastic encouragement from club member is real push. not long to suffer. ‘500 metres to go’ shouts someone to someone behind. close to sprinting now. sprinting now. 300 I would’ve said. joy, held on. at finishing funnel marshal says ‘41’ to other marshal. crushed. 30 something surely. doesn’t matter. our cause is hopeless, we will be relegated. shame, the top division is where the action is, where they read out your lap time, and is more competitive than any county championship. team mate suggests 41 meant 30.41. good, didn’t slow too much.

before, during and after the race there seems to be an interesting atmosphere. a same boat thing. runners are slightly quieter, perhaps. less pushy. supporters encourage everyone. unlike last time no car drivers throw punches at marshals, or was it the other way round. it’s cool and the best thing about the day. worst thing is hanging around afterwards as temperature drops and hands freeze. despite three pairs of gloves.

once bitten

think. left or right. left. woods or bury hill. bury hill, there might be some icy alleys on the way but the stuff is likely unavoidable. somehow surprised by the cold - the price for a pinkish bluish sky i guess. exit from one cresta run alley is half-blocked by people-carrier. ironic name. driver gabbing to driver of second people-carrier. slide around both. bloody cairn terrier again. far too far from its owner, but fortunately a little farther away from me than last time. slow down. will never forget those teeth. unusually tired at top of steep private road. not ideal for last quick spin before a race. bury hill. slow in sight of young alsation i’ve met before. halfway down the slope he seems to be torn between coming up to me and going down to owner. makes correct choice. try to speed up down main path, hear quicker feet behind... blond labrador, how sweet. run won't flow. thought occurs that this is not last thursday. to avoid alsation the only way is up, up to the temple. great. nice doggy. labrador? shouldn’t be barking and bearing teeth. stand still. really hates my voice. owner appears and apologises. say nothing. continue last lap. great, cairn terrier. nose frozen to ground? no, just not interested, sweet. owner holds gate open for me. take a few back streets home. hardly any ice. manage some proper stretching afterwards. wasn’t so bad.

tropical iceland

so nice not having to think. just follow own footprints from yesterday... so to speak. walk behind family down alley until worst ice patches are passed. bambi is better on ice than me. once again little snowy sports field is orange-grater nightmare of stud-marked mudcrete. paths and verges to vineyard also unchanged. vineyard has changed. the avenues are bright white but the bristly vines are scrubbing brush brown. murky sky. it’s yesterday dulled and mulled. body’s too warm in two warm layers, while head and hands are cold. confusing and rubbish. steepest climb and cruel wind are in perfect alignment. snow is more slippery. lots of footprints but none seem to fit. messages remain. appears i memorised MeRRy incoRRectly. not planning to join sas anyway. took this precise route partly to see just how much quicker it would be without the dilly dallying... three minutes. but then i did d and d.

Merry CHristmas XMAS

icy icy. walk much of alley descending like some icy tunnel into some jolly cold underworld. shuffle along path to sports ground. doddery start is not unwelcome after couple of days’ rest/sulk. wobble across hard, rutted, snowy sports ground. wobble along hard, rutted, snowy verges. at vineyard severe case of computer-scrabble hip is revealed when try to stride out. shouldn’t spend so long trying every single combination of letters. hard going, not moving like a husky, but... love snow. follow usual avenues around vineyard. feels like wild tundra. a message... scraped, dirt letters, upside down... Merry CHristmas XMAS. wonder stupidly if it could have been made before it snowed. add another loop and next time round notice more, more snowy, messages... happ... 2009. ponder amazing feasibility of grabbing image off google earth and posting artistic impression of mysterious messages. leave. find mostly iceless route home but five geese overhead have best route of all. slow run.

bugger

miss race. cock-up. ambivalent about racing but, bugger.

easy

start easy, as mean to continue. tis, after all, last, easy, run before saturday. it’s also too cold for jogging and in seconds usual tempo returns. but it will be short. to bury hill. once again an alleyway is the coldest place. ah, cairn terrier ahead, in exact spot where cairn terrier bit me. teeth truly like needles. don’t take my eyes of it. same one? it isn’t phoebe, cairn terrier of the woods, who has mellowed. owner restrains it. there are no words for the sounds it is making. arrive at bury hill quite knackered. the woody park is softer and greener than last time. lots of people about, and dogs, soppy dogs. quick sort-of-figure-of-eight - too quick, but i’m avoiding the steep climb. another half-figure-of-eight - figure-of-nought - then home as the crow flies. great.