Load of Cobblers

Another week mostly ticked off on the training and adventure front—nothing to write home about but plenty to keep things interesting. Who would have thought the peak of excitement would be the purchase of a new bin? But here we are. This one is Ernie-proof (finally!), so with any luck he’ll stop raiding the rubbish for extra calories, and his ears will no longer be tinged green from wearing Moo’s slime like some strange badge of canine honour.

On the home front, Spoon’s made a musical leap—I caught her tentatively piecing together ‘No Surprises’ on the piano. It’s a joy to hear, and a testament to quiet persistence. She’s off on her own adventure now at Lye camp this week, hopefully carving out stories to tell when she returns. Talking of music - got some new (old) vinyl from Jackie's cellar. Not sure if the vinyl is salvageable to be honest, but one of Josh's pics was which was neatly tucked away in this collection of records.

Training-wise, I got a couple of runs in—mainly early mornings with Ernie as my ever-enthusiastic sidekick. Still haven’t summoned the will for a properly long run though. Motivation’s been flagging; perhaps I’d fare better if I shifted that effort to earlier in the week before apathy takes over.

Cycling offered a bit more variety. Took both the fixie and the DI2 out, clocking up several rides. My longest spin barely scraped past 50k, but it packed in plenty of hills for good measure. The highlight was the imaginatively dubbed ‘Cobblers Cock’ route. The name was Phantom’s brainwave after gifting me a can of IPA of the same name post-ride—hard to argue with serendipity, especially as the route itself climbs both Cobley Hill and Coopers Hill and loops in a satisfyingly C-shaped arc. A route name that tells its own (slightly dubious) story.

All in all, another week with small wins, minor mischief, and just enough forward momentum. Onwards.

Wild Trails, Wacky Tales, and a Missing Mojo

Finally, after what felt like a minor quest, my copy of Dub Trio’s “Exploring the Dangers Of” landed on my doorstep—on glorious vinyl, no less! Spinning that first track as the needle dropped felt like the week’s true starting gun, the basslines rolling out a soundtrack for all the mayhem to come.

My new kicks had their debut run around the Uppy-Downey where I played with spotting deer in the corn. I spotted two deer right at the start of the run and, as I finished, those same two heads popped up again—I’m pretty sure it was the same pair giving me a nod of approval. Later in the week, Phantom and I went on a great cycling adventure, sticking mostly to trails (just a little road in between) on our mountain bikes. We followed some new paths I’d found during last week’s run and a trail Ron had discovered in the Woods of Doom. We must have covered about 30k, which took forever on these heavy bikes, but it was worth every pedal stroke. We wrapped up by cycling over the new (and probably temporary, since it looks like it’s being built) bridge in Studley, which felt like the perfect end to our adventure.

On another run, Ernie and I headed up to Coughton Court where he got a little mischievous. He stole the tug-of-war rope and shook it like crazy before dashing off with a Coughton Court frisbee meant for their frisbee-golf game, looking hilariously menacing as he ran. Another cycling trip with Phantom ended early when his tubeless tyre punctured. We had planned to finish TROAD with some tweaks, but that plan got scrapped, and we cycled home instead. Back home, I swapped bikes and took my fixie out for a spin, exploring unfamiliar roads around Woodrow.

My training was going okay this past week, though I cut my longer cycle a bit short (menace happens), and by Sunday, I lost motivation for my long run. Maybe the missing mojo was because I partied a little too hard at Bretforton Proms the night before. Still, it was amazing seeing Eleanor play, and it was the first family trip with Spoons’ first boyfriend, so definitely a weekend to remember.

Can you spot Eleanor?

Feeling like me again

The Pinfield Phantom

After months of little cycling, eating decent grub for short spells only, then slipping back into dodgy foods, plus only an occasional run, last week finally felt like me again. I hit 170 km on the bike — split between Eleven (now upgraded to Di2, sweet) and my trusty PXE, the Dolan Fixie. Even managed a spin on what’s pretty much the original TROAD route, first time in yonks. Rode with Phantom once; a bug zipped under his jacket but no drama, no “crow of death” situation there. (Poor Moo got stung by something nasty but she’s all good, no major reaction).

Moo's sting

Ran about 34 km, mostly with Ernie—thinking of keeping these early morning runs up while motivation’s high. Found fresh trails leading to Coughton Court and new terrain round the Uppy-Downey area. Ate reasonably well—definitely room for improvement but can’t have it all, can we? With all this trail running, reckon my current kicks won’t cut it much longer. Time to track down a new pair.

New paths to Court

Took a trip with SJ and kids, along with Kim, (and met up with Aunty Chris and some of our fellowship), to Cotswold Wildlife Park for a cracking day out. It was blisteringly hot but well worth it. The giraffes weren’t nearly as pongy as I remember — still not winners in the aroma stakes but less offensive than expected. Proper family adventure, naughty kids and exploding melon.

Merlot (Doo Little), SJ and Spoon

Who inspired who?

The Stinkers

The Capybara's

Daventry ParkRun

Ninety-one ParkRuns done,
Daventry was a first,
Five kilometres on varied paths,
Through tarmac, mud, and thirst.

Bridges crossed and grassy trails,
Shale beneath my feet,
A warm and sunny morning,
Made the run complete.

Seventy-fourth I finished,
In 26:28,
A steady pace, a solid time,
No slowing, (hmm, debate?)

Each run a step, a challenge met,
New course to explore,
Daventry’s mix of paths and views
Adds something to my score.

The crow of death

I always swear I’ll eat my greens,
Jog a mile, cycle through the scenes.
But every time I make a start,
Fate intervenes and breaks my heart.
My latest try, though met with woe,
Turned out to be adventure—so.

Phantom and I, with hope anew,
Set off for lanes with skies of blue.
He let me pick the winding way,
Webheath’s lanes where songbirds play.
Fifteen kilometres, all was right—
Sunshine, birdsong, pure delight.

Phantom and Merlot (previous adventure)

But then, a brown bug, sneaky chap,

Slipped ‘neath my jersey for a nap.
Bite, bite, bite!—a burning flare,
I flapped my layers, bug took air.
The stings swelled up, I groaned in pain,
Phantom, patient, heard my refrain.

Bug(ger)

First-aider’s wisdom, dock leaf found:

“They’re named for use, so rub it round!”
Still, pain persisted, sharp and hot—
“Could you ignore a poker? I cannot!”
We cycled on, I tried to cope,
Stopped to spy some beasts through hope.

A fox? A deer? We couldn’t say,
But then a crow, as black as clay,
Appeared and fixed me with a side eye—
A sliding glance, both sharp and sly.
It chilled my bones, I joked, half-breath:
“That’s surely now the crow of death.”

The Crow of Death

Soon after, things grew strange and dire:

A taste metallic, ears on fire.
My face went numb, my chest grew tight,
Phantom saw my swelling plight.
“Let’s call for help,” he calmly said,
While swelling crept from toes to head.

Shoes off, nausea, itching scalp,
Saliva pooled—I needed help.
SJ arrived, antihistamines three,
Then off to A&E with me.

At hospital doors, I shuffled in,
Reported symptoms, pale of skin.
IV fluids, steroids, pills,
Paracetamol for extra ills.
They scolded me for pills I’d had,
While pumping more—how very mad!
ECG and low SATs too,
Hives appeared, then slowly withdrew.

A few hours passed, I mended fast,

Sent home with swelling that would last.
A strange adventure, not my plan—
Was that bug the crow’s own man?

Days later now, I write these lines,

The crow of death still in my mind.
Not one for luck or superstition,
But since that day, I’ve faced attrition:
Internet dead, CT scan delay,
Family struck by Covid’s sway.
Not the adventure we’d have picked—
But life, it seems, is rarely strict.