There is a serene almost post-coital moment of self-satisfaction when after the warm down, we are all leaning and stretching against the rugby field railings. Steam from our over worked bodies floats up into the still frosty night, lit by the floodlights above, a comfortable silence envelops everyone as we each assess our individual effort. There is a communal sense of acknowledgement with an underlying theme...we have survived! It was a tough session at RunClub last night, we all agreed. But then it always is. Yet each Tuesday we say it again with a deeper conviction that this really was a tough session, tougher than last week, although this too is what we agreed last week, but really, seriously, this was a tougher session...again!
The evening was cold and getting colder, though a warm day, getting the balance right of what to wear is proving to be an issue for me. I think back to the Cloud race on Sunday and think more by luck than judgement, I got it just right. I do suffer from boiling over with too many layers, but it does take a while to get up to temperature also. But what is killing me right now are my hands...white fingers of death, I call them. If they get cold, they don't recover, so it's always gloves for me, mostly double gloves. But when they do come back to life, it's like someone has them in a vise that is relentlessly tightening until they feel like they will explode like bright purple dehiscent flower buds. It's hard not to constantly moan about it...but I do, obviously!
