It was the landlord of my old local pub who first introduced me to the idea of running a mile for every pint of beer you drink. I think this was meant to be a moderating influence on the drinking, as opposed to a spur to run hundreds of miles hungover… Why do I recall this now? Running 8 miles the day after a full night of wedding celebration was tough. But, it was simply too nice out there not to get out and get going.
Spotted on this morning’s run: joyous blue skies, the odd whisp of a cloud merely underlining the absolute blueness around it; mums and dads and kids riding bikes, people kicking balls, dogs yelping happily; no sign of the oncoming weather bomb (sponsored by the Daily Express); a steady stream of Ivan Drago lookalikes pounding the pavement with I will break you eyes – man these guys looked good, Jesus, they even smelled good – do these people actually shower before a run? By contrast, I shuffled along short and North Walian, occasionally belching last night’s Fosters and fish & chips, swearing and sweating, chewing the occasional haribo; you know what though? I think I was running faster. Beneath my beer belly my squat legs rest, I’ll run with these. (Sorry Seamus)