Evans Ride-it sportive with added moistness

Some days just aren't cut out to be a cycling day, and today was one of those.  The Evans Ride-it Sportive; 70 miles with the start in Bristol all sounded great, but the February date clearly included some risk of poor weather.  Well, it didn't disappoint!

I wasn't going to back out: after all I have loads of winter cycling kit and I hadn't attended my usual training session yesterday.  I just needed to ignore the weather and get my butt out there.

As I pulled into the car park the dashboard thermometer said 2c, but that felt optimistic when I pulled myself away from the car heater - the rain occasionally morphed into hail and my hands were freezing before I had registered.  However, there was a significant number of people there including myself...........



Listen friends, I have been sat here trying to write this for an hour now, and nothing.  So, here are the important bits.  It was f**cking cold but warmed up later.  My gloves turned into sponges.  I ate 6 small pieces of flapjack.  My legs are tired, but what do you expect from 70 miles including Burrington Combe and Dundry?  I went for a pee but I was wearing so many clothes that I couldn't, umm, find myself. Oh, and there was a cow wandering across the road at the top of Burrington.  It was a great day.

The rest of the afternoon has been spent staring at my laptop and wondering whether the skin on my face will ever recover.  Just in case you get in a debate with yourself about going out in poor weather, get out there - wear merino baselayers, your best jacket and an optimistic smile and all will be fine.

Photos to follow, although I noticed the photographer had his super-expensive camera in a plastic bag so don't expect the resolution to be too sharp.

My latest challenge, and I mean challenge

So, I have announced to anyone in the world who will listen that I have entered a triathlon in the summer, to raise money for St Peter's Hospice.  But not any old triathlon, oh no: more like one that comes under the category of 'stupid'.  The Brecon Titan seems to give off strong hints about its toughness in its name - 1.2 mile lake swim, 60 hilly miles plus a half marathon distance run to close things. I have spoken to a  number of experienced triathletes about it and the most common response is a raising of the eyebrows and questions about my previous triathlon experience.  None.

So why have I potentially wasted the £100 entry fee, planned to spend loads of money on kit that likely won't be used ever again, and ruined my spring by being compelled to train all waking hours?  Well, for starters, my friend Heidi suggested it and I felt that after she had entered, my refusing to enter would be a massive slur on my sporting capabilities.  And of course, I could raise money by encouraging people to give me money as an act of sympathy.

One month after entering, here is where I am;

Good things;

1.  I can actually swim front crawl without drowning (even if a bystander might think I look as if I am)
2.  There is still a lot of time before the big day.  In addition, the organisers have planned a 'dry run' (ie. no swimming), complete with camping, so I can familiarise myself with the cycling route
3.  I have entered some other events in the build-up, thus providing some structure to my Spring.
4.  It is good to have a decent challenge rather than something I could already do (see Bristol Half)
5.  For the first time in my life I have a bit of time as I am currently working three days per week - plenty of time to actually train
6.  I have been going to the triathlon club swimming sessions (twice so far, that must surely qualify me as a regular).  They do view me as a charity case, but surely it is good to do something that is outside my comfort zone for once.  I am meeting new people, although I have discovered that swimming desn't lend itself to casual chatting - water pours in your mouth.  The changing room afterward seems to be full of people in their own little world and everyone changes in silence; presumably something to do with the sensory-deprivation nature of being in the pool with covers over your eyes and a hat sealing up your ears.  Oh well, one or two were chatty before we got in
7.  There is a cool machine for drying your costume.  Drop the offending article in the machine and it spins it so dry that you can put it in your work bag without any deleterious effect on random papers, or more importantly your lunch.  Which in the case of triathletes seems to be seeds and strange protein shakes
8.  Cycling, unsurprisingly, is going well with a few sportive rides under my belt already, not to mention an exhilerating couple of hours at the local velodrome

Bad things;

1.  I have irritated my achilles tendon.  The physio is talking about months to heal - no running at all
2.  As above; it is such a big setback it deserves two points
3.  Swimming is torture - I can't do it, I am the slowest in the training sessions I go to and there is nothing to look at.  Forget all that getting inside your head and it being meditative nonsense - it is just boring.  The only thing that enlivens it is the constant fear of being overtaken.  I just need to apply the cyclists' rule number five (google it)
4.  Every time I cycle anywhere it is either icy or pissing with rain, or both, and always dark.  My life teeters in the balance with only a rack of expensive rear lights between me and being splatted on the main road to Weston-super-Mare
5.  I have some weight to lose - I know because I looked at the other swimmers this morning, then caught myself in the mirror.  Yes yes, seals aren't exactly stick-thin, but they only compete in the first discipline.  All the other swimmers seem to be so broad-shouldered and lean that they look like an upside-down Toblerone for Weightwatchers.  I on the other hand, look like a pregnant twig

To sum up, I am planning more than I am carrying out, mainly due to my injury.  This could place the whole project in danger, although I suppose I could just do the first two disciplines and drop out before the one I am fastest at - not much of an option.  Only time will tell.  In the meantime I am carrying out heel raises, glute strengtheners, twisty things, and using the foam roller on my back twice a day - even at work.
Swimming needs work - I need to attend the training sessions, and I also need a coach who won't chortle and splutter when they see me - let's call it inclusive practice.

I'll try to update as I go along.  And I'll try to remember why I am doing this.  As Jenny and I both thought during the Bristol Half, running is a lot easier than finding out you are dying of cancer.

Please consider a donation to Karin's tribute page as payment for the entertainment you have received in reading this;  I need to raise at least £18,000 to pay the hospice back for the treatment Karin received.

http://www.stpetershospice.org.uk/support-us/tribute-pages/tribute-for-karin-dixon-wilkins-81/

back on the block

I went to see the consultant about my knee a few weeks ago - when I asked for the appointment the knee was really swollen, but appointments take so long to book nowadays the swelling had completely disappeared by the time I was called into his office.  No matter; he explained in a very respectful manner that, no, I wasn't wasting his time at all.  In fact he was pleased with what had been happening.  The knee itself was ignored as he pored over the MRI scan and asked me loads of questions about what the symptoms were like.  So I explained about the use of the brace, my half marathon time, my avoidance of fierce downhill descents as he fixed me with the clear gaze of someone who knew everything; like a Zen Master of the NHS.
I was just in the middle of telling him about the triathlon I had been asked to compete in when he suddenly interrupted me, and said 'just do it Mark!'

He went on to explain in honest and quite lyrical terms that as I had some grey hair on my head my knee was also showing some signs of age; there was clearly some damage, but so there would be after 30 years of competitive running.  He was of the opinion that provided I was sensible, paid close attention to any symptoms and kept away from past hobbies that were clearly a bad idea, such as Kung Fu or ultra running, there was still a lot I could do.

I skipped out of his tiny office like a spring lamb, drove home and got my running kit out.  Two hours later I had run all the exuberance out of my system but still felt pleased.  I could do something - maybe not everything I dreamed of, but something.  In a continuation of the excitement I entered the Brecon Titan triathlon - yes it is well-named - and set myself a challenge.

I have until June to get fit - ages yet, but I also need to develop some swimming skills.  So, in the light of all this, despite the arrogantly foul weather today I ran to the swimming pool, swam about 30 lengths, then ran back home.  The rain was so heavy I had to wring my clothes out when I got there, but it worked really well.  I was ravenously hungry when I got home and still keen to do this triathlon, so here goes - I now have to plan a season of events while keeping an eye on the knee.

A pair of sportives; on solitude

The rugby World Cup has been playing in the background these last few weeks - of course for some people it is very much in the foreground.  The football season must also have started, as I made the mistake of cycling past the City ground last Saturday just as the crowds were getting some last minute refreshment to sustain them through the next couple of hours.  The tiny Spanish bar had a swarm of red shirts outside that blocked the pavement and quite a lot of the road, and the supporters' public rejection of the Green Cross Code forced me to cycle with care.
I stepped into the bike shop, and entered an island of cycling adrift in a sea of football.  The staff were watching a replay of the world championship from the previous week and they wanted to show me how all the riders were so pleased for Peter Sagan that they all came over and slapped him on the back and threw their arms round him.  I suggested that this was one of the great things about endurance sports; despite the competition everyone appreciates each other's skills and efforts.
Some people just seem to be team people, others prefer lone sports - that definitely applies to me.  I just don't enjoy the pressure of team sports, or understand the partisan nature of going out in a group to watch others play.

The Sunday before I had set the alarm for an un-Sabbath-like hour, thrown the bike in the boot and picked up Heidi for the Bristol 100 mile bike ride.  It was freezing when we got there and we danced around getting ready, shivering and laughing, itching to get riding in order to generate some warmth.  There were plenty of riders around us as we rolled under the gantry and onto the road; still no warmer. The sun was low, causing the riders in front to be silhouetted in metallic greys; breath misting across the road.  The peace of the early morning was framed by the gentle rolling of the tyres, with the occasional gear change or comment between riders causing a counterpoint to the shared silence.
As the hours spread out across the day, Heidi and I chatted to each other and occasionally to other riders.  The sun slowly stripped the chill out of the day, and in the warmth we bowled along quite happily, the miles clicking off.  A good number of stops punctuated the ride, with Heidi's parents meeting us twice, the first time to offer sandwiches and mugs of tea filled from a thermos.  We stood in a poky little layby, roll in one hand mug in the other, as riders came past, waving.
The day proceeded in this way, chatting, enjoying the scenery, connecting with some of the other riders, until we rolled into Blaise and the finish.
A celebratory hug and tub of ice cream, and we flopped onto the grass to watch the other riders freewheel across the line or walk to the car park in that bent style cyclists have.  Families filled the park - children, dogs, queues for refreshment, the  slightly damp ground offering a base for just watching people go by.

The following Sunday brought another 100 mile ride - some similarities some differences.  The morning was every bit as cool as the week before; this time the morning clung onto the low temperature by shrouding us in fog.  There were far fewer riders, only 35 for the 100 mile ride, and we all started together, riding through that strange muffled atmosphere that fog brings.

 The first climb from Priston up into the Mendips started the inevitable distancing of riders, and by Cheddar, I was on my own.
And there I was, a solo rider - barely in an event.  One rider overtook me in Wells and another two joined me at Evercreech only to disappear after the King Alfred's Tower food stop.  That was at forty miles, so the next sixty were spent almost entirely on my own.  Signs guided the way as long as I kept my eyes open for them, and I cruised through villages and countryside unknown to me but welcoming further exploration one day.
Up over Salisbury Plain, and I saw three riders in the distance but they were so far ahead I couldn't catch them - actually they weren't in the event, so I couldn't have stayed with them.
Without company my attention was drawn to the mileometer and the painfully slow increase in completed miles.  Without anything else to distract me this developed into an obsession, until I had to ration my glances.
The last twenty miles were an uncomfortable grind with increasingly tired legs - not dramatically so, but without stimulation tiredness became a focal point.  I rolled into the ride HQ, third finisher, an hour faster than last week although I suspect still feeling the effects of the previous ride.

What do you do when you get home from an event like that?  There must surely be an air of exultation and the need to chatter about the day.  But what if there is nobody there to share it with?  I was grateful to recieve Heidi's text asking how it went, it gave me the opportunity to feed back at least a tiny part of the day.  Karin would always ask me how it went - as she got more ill she locked into the one functional phrase, 'well, how was that?' for all my little adventures.

But these events couldn't be closed.  The sealing lid couldn't be placed on the day - I finally understood why people stand around talking after a ride or a run; they need to talk the day out of themselves. The week before I had suddenly felt the need to buy a bottle of prosecco and toast Karin; she would have been an integral part of the ride just by being the recipient of a recounting of the day's exploits.  The second ride found me doing the same thing, missing her.
I started to recognise the social nature of solo events; that odd contradiction showing that we humans need both solitude and company.  We spin between the two.  And, of course, I now realise that other people who may not even have attended the day's events are an integral part of it as vicarious recipients of an experience.  Even lone sportsmen need people.

Thanks to  Bike Events and Somer Valley CC for the sportives, and Nic Meadows for the photos

Bristol Half Marathon 2015 in memory of Karin, and raising money for the hospice

Who, or rather, what am I?  A trite question currently struggling to be answered.  Runner?  Not really, given the prognosis of my degenerating cartilage.  Husband and partner?  Yes, but only as a historical artifact rather than a practice.  How about communicator?  Possibly, whatever a communicator is.
Running the Bristol Half Marathon was familiar in that I have run it a good number of times, and a Sunday of competing as part of a huge crowd is hardly a novel experience for me.  What was different was the layering of an emotion on top of that - rather than just running for fun I was running to remember Karin; I was running in order that as a group we all come together to remember her; and I was running to promote the work of the hospice and telling our story so that others can benefit from it.

The hospice seemed very excited at my presence - I was immediately drafted into photographs and radio interviews and I attempted some lucidity and analysis - although I am not sure that was what was needed on a warm morning filled with noise, restless bustle and nervous anticipation. Still, it is what I do.
The sun started to excise the cool out of the air and there wasn't even the hint of a breeze; perfect conditions for a run.  Perfect conditions to clear the roads of traffic, strip the urban machine-noise out of the air and celebrate life.  A life, our life.

There wasn't time to go through the normal over-preparation, so I managed with a banana and a hurried pee before we slipped into the restless crowds on the start line.  And off.  The first few miles floated away through the oddly muted atmosphere of hundreds of running shoes in a car-less environment; punctuated by clusters of relatives and friends clapping and shouting.  The portway was a genuine pleasure, no cars just a gorge rich with trees and water - runners padded along, some talking; a few came up to me and commented on the picture of Karin on the back of my vest.

A starnge juxtaposition, the solitary experience of thinking about the loss of Karin, sat right in the middle of a hugely public act. 15,000 runners around me, all thinking their own private thoughts while engaging in the collective worship of humanity.  Crowds lined the streets the whole distance, shouting and clapping, there were samba bands and a man playing the bagpipes.  What were we celebrating?

Returning to Bristol for the second half was equally easy.  I left Jenny and tried to keep up the efficient cadence I have been practicing; given extra energy by the number of people I knew that were shouting for me. It was hot so at every water station I took a bottle, drank half and then poured the rest down my neck and face.
As we returned there were two flows of runners, those heading back into the city, and those still running out; I placed myself in the eddying middle so I could give a shout to anyone I knew; there were also a number of runners wearing the yellow hospice vests that received a fraternal yell.  There were also plenty of people I knew both in the race and beside it;  Natasha was prominent in her wonder woman outfit; I saw the distinctive white vests of Bristol AC runners and there was Andy, trying to focus his ipad camera and watch the race at the same time: but I really wanted to see Ingrid and Francine, at the back and purely there for Karin.  There they were, so far back that they were being followed by a van, wearing big smiles and waving, leaping round in an unfocessed and energetic way, connecting with everyone.  How like Karin that was.

The end of Portway provides an excellent viewpoint for spectators and Mum was there along with Mark and various other people.  The shouted support always provides a boost, but oddly as I left that area, all I could hear were shouts that were eerily like Karin.  She often stood at that point to urge me on so maybe I was expecting to hear her voice, or maybe women sound similar when shouting, but it really did sound like her.  Somewhat dislocated by this experience, I continued, succumbed to a hated sticky energy gel and prepared for the tough bit round the city centre.  My focus was very much on the unaccustomed discomfort and how many miles I had left to go - a steadily diminishing number.
Past the Hippodrome and I was pretty tired, boosted by the thought that no matter how hard it feels it isn't as hard as having terminal cancer, and anyway I could always slow down; you can't step away from cancer, there are no days off.  The constant daily presence of the illness as well as the prognosis must have been a terrible pressure.  I know that because at the end she just wanted release from the relentlessness of discomfort.

I had yards to do; I urged my neighbouring runners to give it one last push, round the corner and under the gantry.  I was met by ecstatic hospice workers who already wanted me to be interviewed but made my excuses and wandered off as wave upon wave of sadness enveloped me.  There was nowhere to sit - runners were streaming through and barriers prevented me from leaving the route.  I perched in the corner on a bend, blinking back an overwhelming sense of loss and absence.  I was circling the whirlpool, whipped round and round by the current which threatend to drag me into a place I wouldn't be able to escape from.  Jenny arrived, clearly in a similar state, and we clung together, wet and sweaty, in a bleakly honest and animal way.  Deep breaths, wiped faces, allowing ourselves to be distracted by water, medals and t-shirts, and we were back.  Back to the excitement of the event and back to the hospice publicity team asking me how I felt about being interviewed by local TV.  I felt OK; well I didn't feel OK but could still function.

I spent a good amount of time that day talking to reporters and presenters and having my photograph taken, all of which was carried out by my parallel persona, the professional one.  The person who was intimate with Karin was wandering around in the background, unsure of what to feel.  What to feel became less of a problem when the race actually started - I knew what to do, I was in my place, and this was easy.  This comfort ceased when the race finished - all of the stored confusion and sadness spiralled to the surface and I had to take a good while to recover my composure; added to by Jenny finishing and clearly feeling exactly the same.

Back to my house; my house not our house, a close-knit group of people united in our connections to Karin had a commerative glass of prosecco and some snacks.  As people drifted away, I was left with a sunken feeling - the race was over; we ran it to remember Karin, and now we have finished there isn't anything.  I just sat, nursing glasses of cider, all evening.  What was there?  Just her absence. Not even a race any more.


On its own, I can handle the loss of my personal relationship with Karin - but I struggle to come to terms with the threads of communication and connection with other people, the public side of losing her. It is so much bigger, and forces consideration of how she and I interacted with countless individuals.  Karin's connections with others extended in all directions and in her absence these connections are now flapping around like untethered ribbons.

So where does that place me? Runner? I ran the half in 1:38, nearly 20 minutes slower than previous times and firmly in the realms of casual runners.  Unsurprisingly, given my knee and my lack of training, but not me:  I run fairly fast. Communicator?  Well, I certainly linked with people in a way I never have before, both in terms of sharing the day as part of a group and also being interviewed.  Husband?  Spouses do things together, and this we can't do any more. No, I am not a husband because that is a state of being and I can't be that.  Perhaps I should focus on the day; a great day where I felt part of something, much more than normal.  Crowds came out to watch us, to support us, the hospice made us feel welcome, so we were part of the inside of the race as well as the outside.  A powerful day.

Karin

Karin and I were a couple for over thirty years – we started going out the first night we met. We have owned three houses, three children and hundreds of cats.  I was always into cycling and running and Karin was always into books – over time our interests blended, like a Venn diagram where the circles are moving together.

Oddly, Karin always claimed that after she left school she convinced herself that she wasn’t sporty: bad mistake marrying me then.  As she got older her physical vocabulary came back, starting with karate in Canada then progressing to running on the road, followed closely by my favourite hobby; off-road running.  We also bought her a nice road bike that she could use to go to work on as well as recreational rides.  She was pretty strong; I have a very clear memory of her riding in a duathlon and riding round grinning and laughing the whole way to fourth place in the cycling section. 

The last two years have seen us sharing the burden of cancer. Karin was the one who had to endure tests and scans followed by chemo and radio-therapy.  She vomited, had seizures, and lost the feeling in her legs. Her headaches lasted months, not hours, and her hair was scorched off her scalp, but she very rarely complained.  No, she planned holidays, parties, visits, she identified what she wanted to make the little life she had left as pleasurable as possible.  She wrote and published a novel and filled countless books with ideas. She planned and had special moments with our children to provide meaningful complete memories for them. She insisted, insisted, that I buy a titanium bike (a real chore for me). People became very important, to the point at which Karin’s strength was only in evidence when friends or family were around – often when they left she just collapsed into exhausted sleep. 

What did I do? Cooking, cleaning, counting the medication out, being company, working, writing this blog, staying in touch with people, and latterly, organising everything.  I also went running – Karin told me to.  She said it was important I had some ‘me’ time and it would help me unravel my head.  And I was her partner.  Not as a passive state but active, like two people pressing their foreheads together. We sat and just existed.  We went to the supermarket and actually enjoyed it, we talked, drank prosecco together. We sat in bed until far too late in the morning and drank tea made by the Teasmaid. She liked toast in bed, one with marmalade and one with jam or occasionally marmite. I loved it; I could care for her and we would connect deeply.

When I went running I always had to have my phone on me just in case she had a problem.  Now when I go out I have to check my reflex and leave the phone at home – no-one will phone me.

Karin’s energy ran out three weeks before she died.  She knew how close she was to the end but still spent her time making sure everyone was ok.  She still sent me out running, although I was scared to go for very long.  I took my running kit to the hospice but never felt confident enough to change and get out, despite being very close to Blaise estate.  The staff in the hospice looked after her while I tried to sit and understand the changes that had occurred in us.  They recognised the journey both of us were on and provided the care and guidance we needed.

We all get pestered constantly for contributions to this or that charity, but it is only when you need the support of one you really know their value.  I knew what hospices did but I didn’t know what that felt like.  I had no idea that a nurse would see me sitting on my own and come and chat with me for 30 minutes. I didn’t know that the care extends beyond the death of the patient, or that relatives who live a long way away can access counselling skills from other hospices; this means our children can still be supported even when they are away at university.

Please consider making a donation to the St Peter’s Hospice.  I want to give back the care we all received during Karin’s time there so that someone else can have it.  Everybody deserves a dignified death.

Click on the link below to go to my fund raising page;

 http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/displaySomeoneSpecialPage.action?pageUrl=KarinDixonWilkins

In Memory of Karin Dixon Wilkins

Last week I cycled through the top field at Ashton Court in the evening. They had left the grass long for the flowers to complete their cycle and the field was lank and rich with life.  Orchids were standing alongside moon daisies; flies and moths hovered above, and the air was full of swallows etching the sky; their peeping calls bouncing back from the silent woods.

How do you buy a wedding ring for a singular person?  For Karin’s ring we trawled the usual sterile chain shops but found only two possibilities; an overly expensive vintage ring in an antique shop or having one made, which we ordered. The resulting ring was perfect and defined Karin accurately – quirky, unique and classy in a way was unique; a sine wave; gold with a twist.  

I lost it at Ashton Court festival in that same top field, after having offered to put it in my wallet for safety.  I must have dropped it in the grass amid the conspicuous rejection of plain living, the wine hidden in kids’ juice bottles, sweet illicit whiffs of cannabis, colours, eclectic images, sounds, tastes.  Those bright colours sat well on her. 

But now, the clatter of people had gone and the predominant sound was the gentle hum of nature. Over the years the field has changed; trees that I remember leaning over the path in the past have since dropped large branches that feed fungi and creatures.  The field has the same shapes, same indents and bulges but now there is a small new path that mountain bikers use to thread along the top. The bottom path that led out of the field is gone, buried under nettles and brambles. Karin’s ring is in the field somewhere, sat against the bedrock, maybe for millennia, maybe for eternity.

Two years ago we stayed in the Alps.  We packed loads of water to counteract the heat, a cold pizza folded in half for food, and a map, and set off jogging up a steep path that was toothed with rocks.  Plenty of walkers stepped aside to let us past – some made encouraging comments in French which only Karin understood; she was good at languages.  In fact she was good at all communication and thrived on contact with others.  I sometimes felt guilty at taking her up into wild places away from people and subjecting her to the physical discomfort of steepness and wind, but she would do these things for me.

After two hours of running we hit a plateau followed by a final climb to a cliff face that offered a startling view of Mont Blanc.  We felt we could reach out and touch it; its implacable face blinding in the sun.  People cluttered the spot and Karin was taken by what they were up to.  One family had a full picnic, complete with a jar of jam and a baguette.  Another man was reading Le Monde; neither seemed appropriate up a mountain but she thought this was excellent – people thumbing their nose at what you are ‘supposed to do’.

As the afternoon came to an end we started running back down the path.  It’s harder running downhill, the gradient burns your thighs and the temptation to speed up is controlled by fear of roots that could trip you up. The high plateau and Mont Blanc were left behind, still there but out of sight. 

That run was when the landscape entered Karin’s soul. We had travelled into the land and gained some understanding of how we fit in the world. The consistent cycle of days, rocks, impermanence, the annual cycle of orchids, the sun setting. We are mortal, even mountains are mortal. The only way to understand the different speeds of change is by sinking gradually into the land, the great breathing of bedrock.  Since that holiday Karin changed dramatically; her terminal diagnosis pushed her into thinking about how she fitted in her life and how her life fitted into time. Karin’s approach to her own mortality has given us a new template, one that understands that in a thousand or a million years none of us will be here; what we have right now is what we have. This is a gift from her to you.

Karin was scared of running up mountains; she hated heights and was cautious of going somewhere that was potentially dangerous.  What leads a person to give in to the desires and interests of their partner, despite being terrified? Only I know how much she struggled up there; I could read the body language as the ascent and descent both brought their challenges. Karin was prepared to face her ghosts head on and her reward was a final two years that were rich and meaningful.

I bought her a new ring.  The jeweller that made the first one still had the original design but despite a couple of attempts just couldn’t recreate it.  We bought their best effort; a lovely ring but not the same.  There is no trace of the original, no photos, nothing.  Except it sits somewhere in that field – it has gone but is still present.