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.
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