So Holly, my favourite, has made it through. You can see she knows what she's doing, has natural talent and oodles of experience. Passion too, you sense that. It manifests in a kind of steely determination. She's serious about this. Janet, went home tonight. I made her Rhunarb and Ginger cheesecake last weekend. Not a terrific success, though it's maturing nicely. It seems I beat my batter too vigorously. Must be a man thing, as I chose to do it by hand. The project is the process. The journey, not the destination.
My journey last night took me on a fast run to The Mill, to try and shake off rapidly solidifying thighs after Sundays Tower Run. I say fast, meaning it was above tempo. My eyes were very blurry and I couldn't really see that much with any degree of clarity. I'm often looking out for things to photo, images to capture, but I couldn't. So instead, I listened. Like taste, sound is sometimes overlooked. You hear stuff, but last night I opened my ears and found that as I focused on what I could hear, images from eyes were replaced with images from my ears. It was a curious state of mind, heightened audible sensation. At first it was footfall, breathing, plants brushing my shins, and then as I ran into the Mill yard, this micro listening opened up...the chime of the clock exactly as I ran past..
My subconscious broken, I look up, six o'clock. Up the hill, I zone in again, breathing hard, contrasting with the massive silence that the clock tower has left, a car leaving the car park, I don't look round, sheep in the field chewing, I can hear them watching me, the crunch of the gravel on the new path, a couple discussing dinner as we cross in close quarters, under the trees, the sounds contained, a bird in the hedge, back through The Carrs, dogs being chased by their owners, kids playing in the river, through the car park at the top, parents encouraging their children in the playground, traffic coming as I cross the road, people everywhere, the roar of a passing train above as I run under the viaduct, through the tunnel, the stream bubbling next to me, silence with echos, ...I see all this, but I never looked.
Something's going on with my ankle. I hate to think, but it flippin hurts after a run, Throbs, then stops. There's nothing to see. The fear of injury. Injury, it keeps coming up. It's not about the pain, the hurt, the flesh and blood, it's the fear of not running. The fear of being robbed of your passion. They say that injury is part of a runners lot. Why don't other people get injured? Well, actually I'm sure they do, but we don't notice. But when it's you, and you can't do what it is that makes you feel alive, feel free, running around...it sucks! Some will say pack it in...don't listen to that!
