9th of Juneathon; I don’t do fast and I don’t do long

Being all things to all men, having cake and eating it, being rich and really good-looking, running huge distances and doing it fast.  Some things just don’t fit together.  Today I was chased by newly re-acquired, 2:1-bearing, former student son #1 round my favourite 3-mile loop.

As a rugby-player (albeit with a well dodgy hip) Charlie is physically fit but he’s not a pretty runner.  I know because nor am I.  But he’s quick; used to putting in those fierce bursts of energy that rugby demands.  I ran behind him watching him dab the road with a short stride and a natural forefoot land. He found a 5:30 minute kilometre pace no trouble at all as I puffed and wheezed along trying to keep up.

The sky was heavy and the fields were wet with rain-sodden corn which with evil nettles slapped our calves as if to whip us on.

He left me with a sprint for the last half mile, a diminishing stalk of washing-to-be.  But we got round anyway and I put in a little over 28 mins to his 26 for the 5k so not too shabby for an old f4art.

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