I've been having a spot of trouser trouble this past week. Dampness of an unwelcome nature and some associated chafing. Chris, it seems, had had a busy weekend constructing some kind of seating area on his driveway. His call for our PCR Monday evening outing included a dropped pin with the instruction to meet here. As you'd expect, he was proud...and we were merciless in our critique of his design and build skills. James not one to mince his words was full of advice, making reference to the positioning of the outside lamp.
His arms waving, explaining and suggesting alternative strategies, while Steve stood there as silent as ever with a face that said it all. I, on the other hand, was keen to try it out...and sat on his new bench, which was wet and left comedy wet-paint stripes on my arse. How they laughed! Then we split up, Steve and Chris going with a club session to the track at Macc, while James and I plodded our usual route. It was a dry week, the trails littered with dusty tracks. Until Friday when it rained. Saturday mornings run up to the Edge across the fields had me in a bit of grump. The paths are becoming overgrown, and long lush wet fronds of grass were tickling the tops of my thighs...not in a good way.
It was a little bit like stepping out in to the cold ocean, and there's that point when the water just starts breach the gentleman's area. All-in is better, or completely out, but this was a permanent, cold, wet state of neither in or out which left me feeling like I'd been interfered with. Dripping wet from the balls down, bone dry from there on up and left me feeling slightly ridiculous once I'd emerged from the other side, also now with bright red lacerations to the inner thighs. People don't understand the anguish us runners are going through when they us running around.
