Capital Letters

Ah, Thursday. Which unfortunately doesn’t mean an end to running dilemmas but does at least mean, barring last week like late notice, an axtra half hour in bed on Saturday. Actually, that may be an hour – no need to get to the parachute club early since they’re doing a gay competition. That’s not to say the contest is for gay’s, just it seems a touch queer. 10 people touching each other in a set shape, on camera, as fast as possible upon leaving the aircraft. It’s probably jealousy that i’m not qualified to take part – ask me next year. But i’ll almost certainly still pass, thanks!

Oh, and the addition of my brother to the comments page can only mean a drop in the quality of banter for which I apologise. Maybe he’ll start running and beat me at the Stelling Minnis 10k next year, at which point i’ll consider his abuse valid. Until then, bollocks. No capitals.

Unfortunately after last night and the sprinting aching legs, tonight was always set for disappointment. Setting off from site again, my legs still felt sore. Both calves this morning were tight as the aforementioned skydivers buttocks will be in a dodgy clinch, which hadn’t eased. So I promised a 20 minute run. Seeing two women shovelled into too-tight white trousers, proudly displaying massive black pants complete with cordury seams beneath (why oh why does Hastings attract such horrors?) only strengthened my resolve. So when I got to the new unfinished cafe thing in the middle of the prom, I turned and headed home.

Spot on 22 minutes. I’ll find a mapping device sometime so I can verify the mileage (or drive the route and round down the tenths if I can be arsed sometime), but unless the wheels fell off and I ran slower than ever, I’ll happily say a safe as houses 2 miles as far as Juneathon claims go. Or is 22 minutes counted as valid?

369 cars. Some great cirrus formations (clearly some high altitude atmospheric disturbance this evening) but no rain. Got to love cloud spotting.

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