NOTE: Citron Pressé does not feature at any point.
It has been an odd sort of day. It started off with a VO2 max assessment which was less intimidating that I was expecting, involved far too much treadmill running, and which left me longing for a trail run.
As luck would have it, tonight’s Wednesday Nights Headtorch Run (meet at 6:30pm for a 6:45pm start) was on Wimbledon Common, a mere hop, skip and a jump from my house, so at 6pm I left the house to head up to the meeting point at the Telegraph Pub in Putney. I thought I’d left plenty of time, but the traffic gods, who had scuppered my plans to join in last week’s run at Caterham, had other ideas. I sat in traffic watching my SatNav update my expected arrival time from 6:16pm to 6:25pm to 6:36pm to 6:45pm to 6:52pm, and my stress levels rose exponentially.
I arrived at the pub. There wasn’t a headtorch in sight. I howled with frustration and considered my options. I’d just decided to head home, when I saw a familiar face, obviously dressed for a run and also looking slightly disgruntled.
“Were you also here for the headtorch run?”
“Yes. I missed them by about 2 minutes!”
“Shall we go for a run anyway?”
“I’d love to, but I don’t know the common at all.”
“I do … at least, I do in the daytime.”
Apparently, sort of knowing the common in daytime was good enough. I parked up, changed into my trainers and we headed off.
Amazingly, we didn’t get lost. I won’t claim to have always known exactly where we were, but I did manage to string together a route without any dead ends which brought us back to the start just in time to meet up with the other runners for the last 100m run to the pub. I’m not sure who was happier. My companion because she found someone to guide her around the common or me because I found someone to help me run off my grump.
Either way, the sack of lemons so thoughtfully provided by the traffic gods ended up being transformed into a much more palatable, running god endorsed, soft drink.