We were walking down the Wrekin yesterday when we came upon a fell race (8 miles and up the Wrekin about 6 different ways including up the goat path which brings me out in a fever just looking at it).
It was very uplifting. We joined the race over halfway through. The leader came through turbo-charged and the second placed runner billy whizzed past a couple of minutes later. And then five minutes later came about 20 people taking it far too seriously considering just how far they were behind the two leaders.
But then came the bulge of mud-spattered, rain-soaked, infantrymen slipping and sliding their tear-sodden way round. My spirits were lifting by the second. And then came the broken, the limpers, the walkers, the frankly too fat to be doing this kind of thing. With what unbridled joy did we shout our encouragements.
It was with something akin to euphoria that we came home and settled down in front of the fire with a nice cup of coffee and large slice of homemade apple cake and bathed in the glow and righteousness of a run lived vicariously...
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