Sunday I was running the bush tracks above Fanny Hill.
It was as cold as charity, and the loggers had scoured the track with mud and slush, and stormwater sat cold and deep in the ruts left by their bulldozers.I tiptoe along trying not to fill my shoes with water.
The view is astounding, but not today. Today I am above the clouds with the rain slanting uphill to meet me.I am chilled to the bone, and there is an irritating trickle of cold water and sweat leaking down between my shoulder blades.
Every yard or so there is a footprint planted daintily in the clay, I try to lengthen my stride to match it, and do so for a time, before it gets away on me again. The footprints belong to my 15 year old Godkid, who has long since dissapeared into the fog.
This is our 5th time around here, it is 15 miles of brutal hill running, and we will do it 12 times over the next three months. Every time around here she gets stronger and faster and has improved some 17 minutes since the first time I introduced her to the course.
By the time I finish she is sitting in the wagon with the heater on reading a week old newspaper. We stop for cokes at the local dairy.
Back at my place I shower to get rid of the clay and the chill, and then we head off to the supermarket for buns and ham, and lettuce and tomatoes for lunch.Then it is back to her parents place for hot tea and soup made from a pumpkin that sat on the bench for two weeks.
The 9th of each month is when their mortgage is due, and the tension becomes palpible the closer that day approaches.
I have a date tomorrow.
Apparently, and I have no recollection of the conversation, butI once said to her that if ever she became single then she should call me. She did and she did.
She's as cute as a button, and my fantasy life has, quite frankly, been rampant as I await the day.
We'll probably roast a Koala for lunch.
