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.
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 |
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.
Sent home with swelling that would last.
A strange adventure, not my plan—
Was that bug the crow’s own man?
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.
Ninety-one ParkRuns done, Daventry was a first, Five kilometres on varied paths, Through tarmac, mud, and thirst. Bridges crossed and grassy...
