There’s never been any rhyme or reason to when I feel good running, or when I feel terrible. Or at least no pattern I can detect. So, it was welcome relief – but no great surprise – to be able to do a relatively sharp 6 miles this morning, after the grim 4 mile plod yesterday.
Spotted on this morning’s run: a thin, spiky moon and a lonely silver, deflating, birthday balloon, standing out and steady. Emblems against a world rushing to work. A plane high up enough in dawn’s dark blue Cardiff skies to reflect the first sun back down to us pedestrian specks; and a fierce stream of princely clad cyclists racing the rising, rushing Taff to the Bay.