Got a stamp on my skin

May 31, 2010 at 11:56 pm | Posted in Stuff | Leave a comment

Sheepstor and Burrator. With lots of wood.

Kurt Vonnegut reckoned that, when storytelling, every sentence must do one of two things – reveal character or advance the action. Clearly I haven’t felt like doing either for a few weeks; mea maxima culpa. And yada yada yada.

The only thing you’ve missed, dear reader, is that a week before the Teenager with Altitude my back decided to do something horrid to itself again. Since then I have been hobbling around even more ungainlyish than usual. That’s not the reason for not having written though. That was just laziness.

Anyway, back at the plot, the days have been lengthening and stretching out, and so, very gradually, has been my tortuous running posture. Most recently, I even encouraged my beloved B to nudge me up a hill or two. We went for a little recce of the Burrator Horseshoe, one of my many favourite races.

It’s based at the Meavy village fair, close to the summer solstice. There is a fancy-dress pageant for short people, a rifle range for brave people (the bullets ricochet a bit, in a refreshingly laid-back way), and ferret racing for small boys.

The race itself has a bit of everything too; three big ups, two big downs (not sure how that happened), and a fair bit of wet (a reservoir to run by, a bog to sink in and a ford to splosh through).

Our first potter back in March was a bit shortened by weather at the top of Sheeps Tor; the ford later on was waist-deep, but it still wasn’t the wettest part. This time we made it the whole way round, even stopping for something illegal between the two dams (not what you’re thinking. Possibly.)

And, at the top of Sheeps Tor we got all excited about a tupperware cake container someone had left, but sadly it turned out to be a letter-box. We stamped B just the once, and solemnly vowed never to stamp again.

Back at Meavy, we nearly bought marmalade from a roadside stall, but we couldn’t agree on liking marmalade, and anyway we had to save our money to buy pies up the road. Another day.

And talking of other days, I’ve been reappraising my running plans for the year, in the dim light cast by my troublesome back. But that’s ok. All I’ve ever hoped for is to be something barely approaching the best I can be, and that’s a very relative concept after all.

Running slower just means I have more time to enjoy it. I’m practising saying that in front of the mirror to make it more convincing…

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