Each of the last mornings has been grey, about 13°, ominous with rain but without actual precipitation, my legs moderately limber, and proceeding at a satisfactory pace. Two more two miles-es.
Great to see Dave running — pardon me, ‘exercising’ — along with me. I’ve never run more than the two miles that’s my daily mark, so his deprecatory remarks about his two-and-a-half miles not being a marathon, not being a half marathon or 15K or even 5 miles amounts (to my ears) as a mark of an Olympian returned to mortal distances. But again, it’s great to think of him running along with, or more likely past, me. This is somewhat the way I think of the communion of saints: the common participation in a shared exercise, not necesssarily in the same space, nor in the same time, but following a common path.
You know that I never go outdoors without a hat (as a civilised gentleman), but I make an exception for running; so Dave, I tip my hat to you metaphorically, but not literally, as you whiz past me along the Iffley Road.