Waxing lyrical

COULD there have been a better night to run up to the mast?
We started at sea level and griped and grumbled our way along the sea front, legs aching from Saturday and Tuesday and feeling our age.
JP appeared from behind a parked car and took a picture.
Up over Manor Cross we were still grumbling, and Occombe Valley Road didn't help, but then we climbed up through the woods and everything got better.
At the top the group had the option to cut back through Preston, go a little further down by Top Shops or go the whole hog and climb over Beacon Hill.
Nigel the Magician made the decision, and we headed for the big hill.
It was perfect. The light was low and the air was still and heavy.
To our right the moors seemed within touching distance. We could see Hay Tor and Hound Tor, and way out beyond them.
To our left as we reached the high brow, the soft South Devon cattle let us pass. They were silhouetted against a silver sea without a single ripple in it.
A tall ship sat in the middle of the bay, and oil-heavy tankers waiting for the world petrol markets to move seemed to hang in the stillness where you couldn't tell sea from sky.
To the east we could see right along the Devon coast to Dorset and Portland Bill rising in the distance. To the west more ships hung on the mirror of Start Bay.
We waited for a moment at the top to take in the view. Even Jamie the Legs and his fast group following behind looked up from their fast feet for a moment to enjoy the view.
Then we clattered down through the lanes again to Great Parks and Waterleat, St Michaels and the Big Tree, and a final, joyful sprint back to the car park.
Nigel the Magician consulted his wrist-mounted Goonhilly device and it said 8.5 miles.
It was a tough one, but I don't know a better place to run in.

Bondage Canoe Lesbians

Well, that's got your attention.
A busy weekend, with the Bank holiday still to go, but I'm working, so this Bank holiday doesn't count.
Friday night, and a great radio show with the Caerphilly Kid. We were led astray by people sending in requests. Normally we mock them and treat them with shabby indifference, but this week we ended up playing Chesney Hawkes, Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber alongside the usual fare. Oh well, if that's what the people want, who are we to deny them?
We were back on the radio on Saturday afternoon doing the sports show, and in among the football results we squeezed in Busted, Dolly Parton and REO Speedwagon. It was just one of those afternoons.
Mrs H has been helping out as bucket-and-sponge run-on physio at a couple of youth football matches this weekend. It's all part of her sports science course. This morning at Denbury it was sub-zero, and nearly 12 hours on, I'm still cold.
Yesterday we were talking about all those football matches you see where the physio never gets on. I hadn't finished the sentence before she was sprinting on to tend a nasty clash of heads, to be followed by a couple of ankle injuries and a bad back.
Oh well.
A great meal out with friends, too, at the local all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet restaurant. Having got there late there wasn't time for me to put the all-you-can-eat bit to the test. I had spare capacity but closing time beat me.
The ladies around the table were discussing being out on the town without their menfolk, and how much they were enjoying one another's company. They suggested going canoeing, and one suggested paddling around the Manacles.
I'm sure it was all quite innocent, but I never could resist a salacious headline.

Marathon Men (and women)

THE London Marathon contingent has arrived back safely, though not one of them turned up for speed work tonight.
Slackers!
The Caerphilly Kid put in a fleeting appearance to show off his medal, and Charlie turned up at the end to collect Tall Paul in the car, but apart from that they were absent. Elmer was seen hobbling into Morrisons to buy Hob-Nobs, and Jamie The Legs apparently has feet that look like he has been starring in 'Jaws' - as someone whose feet have been attacked, obviously.

Poetry in Motion

Sunset tonight over the River Dart at Galmpton Creek.
Three weary travellers pause for a moment to enjoy the splendour. From left they are Come On Eileen, Erica and Nigel the Magician, who is a magician, hence the name.
Poetic, isn't it?
Actually, they are gasping for breath after hacking up the muddy track from the creek, and they have some hefty climbing still to do before the long, gentle descent back to base.
Still, the clocks have gone forward. The evenings are long and sunny, and we're running just for the joy of running.

The Good Life

THE shallots are in. The sprouts are sown.
All is well in the garden.
It's hardly a 10-acre field, but this little plot has the aforementioned veg in it, along with some peas.
Elsewhere in the garden chitted potatoes are forcing their way through the soil above them, ready to burst forth. I can practically hear them.
There are peppers, and chillies, and tomatoes on the go, and soon there will be beetroot and beans.
Don't tell her, but under Older Daughter's bed a darkened box of potent compost is about to burst forth in a flush of mushrooms.
Mrs H (pictured in the spotty wellies) and I have been tending the soil, with a little help from Reg, whose idea of assistance is to drop his ball in the path of the spade and keep doing it until you stop what you are doing and play.
Blackberries and raspberries have been planted, too.
We got the grass cut and even got the shed tidy.
We even went to Trago Mills, a place we had both sworn never to visit again the moment the girls got too big to want to go on the Pirate Ship. We bought things in their garden centre.
It must be the sudden onset of spring.
Mike the gardener hasn't been in touch yet, and all down the cul-de-sac people are beginning to fret.
Bowling George is about to succumb and mow his own unruly lawn. I had to do the same.
If Mike doesn't get in touch soon, we are all going to have to up our game this summer.
We spoke nicely to the big spiders in the shed, by the way. The one guarding the golf clubs must have been out doing whatever spiders do when they aren't just standing there. The one in the other corner, behind the box of golf balls, ran first one way and then the other when we moved the box and exposed him.
Mrs H was reassuring, and leaned a piece of wood into the corner to give him a shadow to hide in again.
Good karma.

Return of the blog

It is high time the blog made a comeback.
After all, if Maddie Grigg can pick up the reins again after going halfway round the world, I really should make the effort.
Tonight the spring has brought gusts of wind tugging at the velux windows again and splatters of raindrops the size of 2p coins.
It is good to be indoors, warm and full of pasta and coffee after a training session in which the Hocking brothers ran me ragged. I got moved up from the remedial group into the big boys' group for the second part of the session.
I asked Coach Alan if it was promotion or punishment, and he just smiled. My legs were like jelly come the end.
I have so much to do. The regatta programme is still unwritten, the England Athletics affiliations will have to be done on Thursday when April 1 signals the start of the new membership year, and I need to start writing some quiz questions.
Then there is a playlist to put together for Friday night on the wireless. Click the link to listen.
Tonight the gas bill arrived by email. Getting it electronically doesn't make it any less painful.

Through the pain barrier

AFTER almost a month of non-blogging, it's time to resume.
Much has happened.
Mrs H is recovering well from her knee op and should soon be running again. The Caerphilly Kid is wincing from cracked ribs and damaged legs, but he still beat me by (literally) miles at Hestercombe on Sunday. He is smiling through the pain with a little help from the two bottles of Jail Ale he won for being Man of the Match for Hookhills at the weekend.
Every time he laughs he goes a little pale and flinches, so we make him laugh as much as we can.
We were joined by Nanna for the Nightrunner, a modest eight miles or so round bits of the Grizzly Cub course in the pitch dark complete with flurries of snow, swooping around the deep, deep valley at Branscombe, splashing through the ford, crashing across the shingle and finishing with the scramble up the Stairway to Heaven before a welcome pint and a bowl of cheesy chips in Beer.
The Inca Trail at Ilchester was a seven-mile mudbath and the nine-mile Hestercombe Humdinger did exactly what it said on the tin.
It was at Hestercombe (a rather pleasant country house near Taunton) and its hills were indeed Humdingers. Here we are afterwards.

As you can see, the fast ones are already changed and ready to adjourn for refreshment. Some of us, on the other hand, have not long arrived at the finish.
I don't know what The Cardinal is looking at. It's probably something on the back of Macanory's head.
After so many miles in such a short space of time, my right hamstring feels as if it is constantly just a little bit on fire, and there is a point on my back that feels like an electric shock when I touch it. Like the Caerphilly Kid, though, I am wincing through the pain barrier.
There is news, too, of a return to the airwaves for me and Mr Hedge, but more of that later.