Plans for a swim on Wednesday morning were abandoned due to the bloody Estuary Wilds rain. I’m limited to which bicycles I can use right now. There’s no way I’m getting my Brompton wet for anyone, swim or no swim.

And so a run instead. I didn’t really feel up for it. I never really feel up for it. Just put on your Fores top and go and pound those mean streets of C07, Jase.

I did. The Forest top was something of a surprise. I’m finding long-lost Forest kits following the flat move that I had no idea I actually owned.

My clothing attire of choice this morning, I think, is more of a training top than any match day kit. It had the classic Umbro design, which I feel like I’ve earned as part of my birth rate after sticking with Forest during those mid to late 80s Trent End days.

The run itself was all about beating the rain. Twenty minutes later, my object had been achieved. It started to spit ever so slightly down by the quayside. This was my signal to get a shifty on.

The WFH fella down by the quayside was standing proud by his front window, as ever. He has the best work seat in the house. He stands in front of his screen most of the day, looking out and dreaming beyond the Estuary Wilds. Nice work if you can get it.

Another day, another run. By this, I mean a proper run this time. Sure, it wasn’t the usual 10 km that I crave, but I did manage to get just under 5 km back in my legs.

This horrid, horrid injury has dragged on for far too long. My calf first went pop! back in early November. I’ve managed some rehab over the past couple of weeks, back on the treadmill in the gym. Small steps, etc.

I took it easy out there today. Sure, there’s no such thing as an easy run whenever I am concerned. I always aim to put in a PB. Today was maybe a very doubtful PB, let’s just tread very carefully around the mean streets of CO7, and see where it ends up.

20 minutes or so later, I was beaming. Running really is an aphrodisiac for the soul.

A return to running. OUCH, etc. It’s only been six months or so since I last pounded the mean streets of CO7. All was going well back inNovember on a 10km effort, when… PING! Oh arse. That will be my bloody calf then.

I routinely have little calf strains whilst out running. This has been a constant over almost four decades of putting in the kms. You could plot a graph showing the upwards trajectory of how long it takes for me to recover.

It wasn’t unknown back in my 30’s for my calf to ping on a Sunday, and then I would be back playing 5-a-side at Brixton Rec on the Monday. Sadly those days are long gone.

Like a FOOL I substituted 5-a-side for pickleball this time. My Monday morning booking for a pickle session after the latest PING didn’t exactly go very well. I almost needed a stretcher to carry me out of the University Sports Hall. Oh woe is me, etc.

I was optimistic of a return to running over the Christmas period. There’s something quite special about putting in the strides over the festive period. But nope, this didn’t happen either. Just HEAL, you bastard.

I became restless over January. I wanted to do Run Every Day. I settled instead for Walk Every Day. But I couldn’t do it in moderation. I turned to power walking around Weird Wiv, clocking in around 5km each day.

I enjoyed being out and having a little more time to take in my surroundings. Podcast listening was a bonus. But still I didn’t feel as though the November injury had quite healed.

A visit to the Doc, and then a physio appointment followed. I was told to lay off the power walking, and take a further two months out. Oh dear. That’s not what I wanted to hear.

And so come Saturday morning, my eight week sabbatical had been served. I had a wanky pair of running socks to offer calf support, plus my new Lidl carbon magic trainers to road test. What could possibly go wrong?

Not a lot, actually. I was cautious. I took on a sensible 4.5km route, up to the top of the town and back, strictly no hills. I was a little sheepish at first, but soon found my stride. I clocked my pace on my Garmin. It was like I had never been away.

My ankle feels slightly sore, but not the calf. I suspect this is the cheapo cheapo Lidl trainer support, rather than my running technique. I’ve got an ice pack on my calf just for precautious. I’ve got plans for a Sunny Colch ten mile-er tomorrow morning.

Dick.

A return to Brockwell ParkRun for the second consecutive week. I could make a habit out of this.

Although perhaps not, given my current life plans.

Once again I was reminded that I use to spend my Saturday mornings plodding around Brockwell Park, some THIRTY years ago.

Blimey.

Never change, Jase. Never change.

Having been boxed in at the start last week, I made sure that I was at the front of the pack for the start. I legged it down the first hill, and then waited for the inevitable overtaking.

I’m now familiar with the new-ish Brockwell route. I was able to pace myself. I thought I was on for a strong time.

The dive bombing parakeets caused a little concern for me for the uphill sprint finish. I pushed on.

My final time was one second faster than last week. I was fourth in my age cat once again.

#smallwins, etc.

The official result also told me that this was my fastest ParkRun time this year.

This may - or may not - be my final Brockwell ParkRun. I checked my time when I first ran the race that’s not a race over a decade ago. My timing today is up on that original run.

Like a fine wine, etc.

Chin chin.

A return to Brockwell ParkRun on Saturday morning. It’s been a while.

Much in the same way that Brixton Rec is my spiritual home of swimming, Brockwell is my zen place for ParkRun.

It’s where it all first started, and it’s probably where it will all finish, given those BASTARD hills.

But what a way to bow out, popping your clogs whilst running Brockwell ParkRun.

It’s been a cheery Saturday, Comrades…

It was lovely to see some familiar faces and old friends ahead of the 9am start for the race that’s not a race.

I was on time for once as well.

My forward planning involved a brief shifty at the Brockwell ParkRun FB page.

Ah, and so the start has been shifted up towards Brockwell Hall. There’s a new route as well.

I’m pleased that I took the time to take this on board. It takes ten minutes to walk up from the bicycle parking at the lovely Lido towards the big old Brockwell Hall.

A few brief ParkRun instructions, and then blimey - WE’RE OFF!

I know the park inside out, but the route itself I wasn’t sure of. No worries, Jase. There’s zero chance you’re going to actually be setting the pace throughout the 5km.

I was boxed in at the start, but then soon found my rhythm. There was no shame in a 50+ bloke being overtaken by a blushing Bride in her wedding white, probably half my age.

Good effort, Madam. Now get to that bloody Church on time.

The finish was uphill.

Oh ARSE. That took it out of me.

It was worth it though on a splendid Transpontine morning. I was rewarded with the view stretching out over to the City.

I was buzzing off me tits, natch.

The ParkRun email dropped an hour or so later. Fourth in my age cat. I’ll take that.

I’ll also try and not leave it as long next time.