I am really enjoying my running at the moment. Its great being injury free – long may it last. My blog is proving a real success, now double the following. One being me the other being Robert from Tyneside. Same name as a teenage friend of mine. Scottish, and my mum never liked him. Wonder what he doing now?
On Sunday, my hamstrings were horribly tight after what I thought was an unprompted speed session along our rail-trail, so last night I thought I’d just go out for a simple jog (not a word I enjoy using as it conjures up images I’d prefer not to disclose). Anyway, what I did not bank on was winter. By ‘eck did it rain! I did not know where I was running, as I opted to run in from a nearby town, Nakusp, as the winter tyres were being fitted to the car and truck. So for an hour, I jogged with the dogs (off lead where possible, though Tasky played deer investigations for 10 long minutes. He came back covered in bush, looking quite pleased with himself – quite a comical sight for sure). Id forgotten what horizontal, cold wet winter rain felt like. But there is something about running in the rain which appeals to the soul and heart. I love it. I feel brave, adventurous; doing something that no-body else is doing on a night that most others are tucked up safe indoors. It snowed on the drive back home, and the dogs peered up over the back seat wondering what I was giggling at, with a big childish Tim grin. Winter!!
It’s strange how memories fade. I have been watching the snow level descend over the past weeks, this lowering white veil slowly enveloping the landscape. It’s like nature fore-play: teasing, enticing, exciting. But, true to life, what fore-play masks are the pitfalls: blizzards, storms, power cuts, snow clearing, cold fingers, impossible night drives. In many ways, though, that’s the likeable challenge of winter, my favourite season.
Bonny and Tasky disappeared again this morning whilst I was shoveling in crush rock into the truck from some disused road maintenance site. Bonny came back with a foot in her mouth, seemingly asking permission to take it home. A deers foot, with a large portion of the leg attached. Tasky had one too. The more grizzly side to living in a semi remote area in North America. Hunters. Could I do it? No. But is it a more sustainable form of meat production? Probably, yes. It is bad enough dealing with half dead mice in the house, whose liking for pecan nuts in the mouse trap gets the better of them.
I’ve been scratching my head on how I can use a sentence sent to me in an email this last week, by a local villager. I have failed, but it’s a cracker. So here is my email sentence of the week. May it make the women of the world laugh!
“I'm sad that being a male means he is only good for meat.”
Tim
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