Back on the Trail early Saturday morning.

MUD Man, innit

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It was drab, I’m afraid.


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I reached Castle Park with seconds to spare for the start of Park Run. I saw this as a sign that the Clock Gods would be smiling on me as I pegged it around.

Colchester Park Run, innit

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I’ve been thinking about Park Run – probably too much.

I don’t obsess over the PB in the way that Anna does. I haven’t yet got to the spreadsheet stage.

But I do LOVE the challenge of putting yourself up against the clock each week.

My deep thoughts have led to the strategy of: just f-ing PEG IT.

It seems so simple when you are thinking about the run with a clear head and away from the buzz of the race itself.

And so I started right at the front of the pack, and yep – I bloody PEGGED IT.

Oh dear

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About one minute in and I realised that I PEG IT every week. It’s just that my calm, collective PEG IT thoughts appear in my mind as being far faster than the actual reality.

I lapped some fella wearing a body warmer laden down with weights.


The official race of 22’06” was 35 seconds off a PB. I was second in my age category.

And then I went away and thought that Park Run is simply something that makes a lot of people smile.

I was always shit with spreadsheets, anyway.

The Saturday morning haircut was ACE. I use to dread going to the barbers around these Estuary Wilds parts. In six years I have yet to find a half decent razor man.

I hit GOLD at the start of the New Year with the Turkish place along the High Street. It’s around £5 more than what I feel comfortable paying for back in Brixton, but yer man does a bloody good job.

The actual haircut takes less than five minutes. He then pampers you with a hot towel and tries to attack your eyebrows.

I’m having none of that, fella.

But I do like the fire in your ears thing that singes all the crap that shouldn’t be spouting out.

I cycled from Sunny Colch and on to the pool. A GRUNTING weights session was broken up with a charming conversation with Nick W.


I hit the pool. It was empty.


I did 40 forty power lengths, and was keen to push it to 50.

But then the bloody Butterfly Boy got in.

He has a half butterfly technique. The arms are doing the manic rotation thing, yet his legs just trail.

I fear his butterfly has been hit with a fly swatter.

Conversation in the UKIP went from female nose job speculation to a crematorium visit.

I didn’t stick around to see if the two were related.

I did notice though the tattoo of some fella back in the changing rooms. He had a very moving image of Jesus on the crucifix inked into his back.

Jesus had a MASSIVE knob. It was a right stonker.


This image remained in my mind throughout the bicycle journey back to base.

da daffs, innit #WeirdWiv

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I was pissed off that the Forest Vs D***y match wasn’t on Sky. I couldn’t even listen online via BBC Radio Nottingham.

Following Forest on Twitter is ‘king nightmare.

But yeah – #TwoStarsOnTheBadge.

I did a few domestics. I’ve decided to experiment with the litter tray situation whilst Anna is away.

Two kittens, two trays, two amounts of litter to clean (and pay for) each week.

Daisy and Dotty seem to be shitting outdoors at the moment. And so I took away one tray. This could go badly wrong.

And then out went the shout of:

“To Wivenhoe Town!”

The Dragons did try, but they were out-muscled by a bloody strong Walsham team. I did the usual snappy snap thing.

Bournemouth Vs Swansea kept me entertained back at base.

Plus tea. LOADS of piping hot tea.

Saturday evening was spent catching up with the Milan San Remo.

Bloody LOVE the spring classics.


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