What is the worst phrase a runner can hear? 'Your leg is broken'? 'I have peed in your electrolyte drink'? 'Sorry. they don't make the Brooks Cascadia shoe any more'?
No, the worst phrase is one I heard last week.
I went out with Long Ashton Running Group - 'my' group, because I set it up. The aim was to run hard enough to irritate my knee; I had an appointment with the knee consultant the following day and I wanted to show him something worthy of the referal. I felt pretty good considering my recent lack of running and went ahead, relishing the freedom of speed.
There was one runner who could keep up with me and the two of us imperceptively sped up as we quietly tested each other. Nice, chatty fellow with a fast pair of legs; my knee was holding up pretty well even though I actually did want it to hurt. He then brought me crashing to the ground with his evil weapon, timed just as we locked horns on the slopes of Glebe Avenue.
'I hear you used to be quite good in your day'.
THIS is my day! I'm not done yet thank you very much.
Saturday 18 October 2014
Thursday 2 October 2014
5 minutes
I had a short ride to get the car this evening. I turned out of the railway station onto the high street, then on a whim turned back and onto the Strawberry Line cycle track. It leads the whole way through to my destination but as it is mud and gravel it is a lot slower. However, I had loads of time and the High Street is terrible for cyclists, so the trail was a much better option.
Panniers rattling and the front wheel bouncing, I cruised onto the moor, past a scary looking dog with a tennis ball propping open its mouth and a rather plump and immobile old lady struggling to get over a stile while her cheerless looking dogs hung back against their leads.
Leaves were starting to form drifts in corners, and the grasshoppers ran out their song of summer. Not a breath of wind, and the crane flies bounced around like swung marionettes - the sun causing sweat to form on my forehead. It felt like a time of no season - the confusion of a countryside that is between times.
I reached the main road at Congresbury and turned a sharp left along the rhyne. There were insects everywhere and I regretted the absence of sunglasses, blinking every time one hit my face. A heron stood on the other side of the water, its neck parallel to the bank; it looked as though it was waiting for someone to arrive.
I suddenly stopped my bike because, like a curtain drawing back, I was suddenly made aware of the light sitting low and drawing the green out of the fields and trees. The water glinted warm and smooth and the woods in the distance were rich and dense like one might expect in the early summer rather than autumn beginnings.
Panniers rattling and the front wheel bouncing, I cruised onto the moor, past a scary looking dog with a tennis ball propping open its mouth and a rather plump and immobile old lady struggling to get over a stile while her cheerless looking dogs hung back against their leads.
Leaves were starting to form drifts in corners, and the grasshoppers ran out their song of summer. Not a breath of wind, and the crane flies bounced around like swung marionettes - the sun causing sweat to form on my forehead. It felt like a time of no season - the confusion of a countryside that is between times.
I reached the main road at Congresbury and turned a sharp left along the rhyne. There were insects everywhere and I regretted the absence of sunglasses, blinking every time one hit my face. A heron stood on the other side of the water, its neck parallel to the bank; it looked as though it was waiting for someone to arrive.
I suddenly stopped my bike because, like a curtain drawing back, I was suddenly made aware of the light sitting low and drawing the green out of the fields and trees. The water glinted warm and smooth and the woods in the distance were rich and dense like one might expect in the early summer rather than autumn beginnings.
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