Blues, bikes, bags and busting moves.

Packing in progress

After my last escapade with Boof on the 'Mad Marchers', I've found myself floundering in the post-adventure doldrums. Turns out, returning to work isn't quite the heroic quest I'd hoped—it’s more like being seconded to Mordor for admin duties. Eventually, I coaxed myself outside for a lovely 6.5k run across Studley fields, dodging sheep and existential despair. Spotting the homemade swing by the river was reassuring, and even better, some kind soul has added a pair of chairs, presumably for exhausted wanderers or dedicated picnic enthusiasts. Not long ago, the Phantom and I unearthed a wheelbarrow here—no one knows why, but the countryside collects oddities like I collect questionable race medals. Despite the temptation, I skipped the swing and chairs; running was my sole purpose, and I didn’t fancy explaining wet kit to the Mrs!

Seat or swing?

My first cycling outing was no less epic. Phantom guided me along a sprawling 37k loop, introducing some new roads and climbs that didn’t appear on my Garmin to date. My bike felt positively weightless for once, probably because I’d left all my bags and emotional baggage at home. There was minor drama atop this technological marvel: just before setting out, I had to charge my Di2 for the first time—a reminder that even fancy gear needs attention, much like houseplants and the Queen’s corgis. Admittedly, Di2 isn’t flawless, but nothing says “modern adventure” like scrolling through menu screens while getting rained on. The ride itself was a splashy affair, and the nights are drawing in, meaning I spend as much time locating my gear in the dark as actually pedalling.

Following this burst of athletic zeal, I missed several days of exercise—side effects of severe post-adventure blues and good old workplace stress. Lately, I’ve been gloomier than a cat in a thunderstorm. In my unfamiliar struggle with a 'black dog', sleep became a concept rather than a reality. Family and friends were kind with textbook encouragement, but it was reading 2 Corinthians 1:2-4 that finally untangled a bit of my neurosis and provided comfort.

Spot the Doo?

The weekend rolled around and with it, my 94th ParkRun at Arrow Valley. An uncanny occurrence: I didn’t spot a single familiar face, which, frankly, felt like being cast in a parallel universe. Dodging elbows and shoelaces, I suspected my time would be lacklustre, but my watch told a better story—under five minutes for the first kilometre! Buoyed by this statistical miracle, I pressed on and not only set my fastest ParkRun of the year (by a racy 18 seconds), I finished 114th out of 502, squeezing across the line at 24:34. Warm-up, cool-down, and the feeling that I've done something worthy of a smile.

Whacked now!

My weekend starring GoaTheaD, my steadfast bike, wasn’t all sprints and celebration. She received new, slightly less posh aluminium bars for next week’s Rat Race. Fussed, packed, and faffed for the event, and on Sunday, exercise meant walking Ernie—who remains less concerned with race prep and more interested in sniffing out tennis balls. Perhaps tapering is wise anyway, given my sparkling ParkRun peak.

Monday’s run crossed Studley fields again, the full moon still hanging about like an eager spectator. Mist lingered over the grass, heightening the sense of meaningful poetic reflection—or just making it trickier to avoid cowpats.

Funky bar

Tuesday, a gentle cycle to test GoaTheaD’s new bars, still wrapped in the retro Kinesis tape - bonus, and thanks to Des at the shop (best bar tape I've ever reused). The eternal kit list still needs finalising, and my Garmin needs a charge.

Wednesday, my last pre-event run: a quick, breezy jog around Studley’s streets, which always ends with me mentally packing things I’ll forget. Now, if only my Rat Race kit could magically bag itself, I’d truly be ready for Thursday’s next chapter.