“We’re entering the Dorset Coastal Trail Series in December”, they said.
“It’ll be a blast”, they said.
“Come join us”, they said.
So I signed up for the “tough trail runner’s paradise” and started to look forward to a weekend of five going mad in Dorset.
I should have taken more notice of that apostrophe.
“Oh, I’m no longer running because my foot’s fallen off and I need to get it reattached”, said one.
“And I’m no longer running because her foot’s being reattached and I’m going to be caring”, said another.
“And I’ve got the flu and a migraine and feel rubbish”, said a third.
“And I love him so I’m going to make him chicken soup and mop his fevered brow”, said the fourth.
Which left just little old me to head down to the paradise of a tough trail runner singular.
For one of the most spectacular(ly difficult) runs I have ever done.
I had a blast, though by mile 25 I would have paid good money for the teleport button, and the final mile, which featured a steep descent and a stagger around the shingle beach, felt interminable.
But the weather gods were kind enough to grant us a windless day with lots of glorious sunshine, the local café opened up extra early and offered a rather nice veggie breakfast, the other runners were encouraging (and included a familiar face from the NDW100 Holly Hill aid station), and the local ice-cream shop, which is normally shut in December, decided to take advantage of the crowds and open for one day only.
So it may not have been a day which stuck to the plan, but it was still a supremely enjoyable one, and most amazingly of all, my legs were still speaking to me on Sunday when I took them off to a local club race for a gentle pootle around Ockham Common.
So thank you, @totkat, for suggesting it – I’m only sorry that you weren’t able to enjoy it too.