It’s nice to have somewhere to go. If you’re going to run 15 miles, which you shouldn’t, I can assure you, it’s at least nice to have a destination. Even if it’s seven and a half miles away, and you turn around as soon as you get there. Or just before you get there, because the tow path you’d been following along the river suddenly disappears and you can’t find the right road. That can happen. But I’ll still say I made it to Abingdon. And back. And it was beautiful. The path past Sandford Lock nearly empty, despite the sunshine. Just me and my music and thoughts. There’s something gloriously fulfilling about pushing yourself almost too far. More alive, even in your suffering. Or because of your suffering. Something like that. But as I flew along the shore of the Thames, I was loving it. And I couldn’t help but think to myself what should have been farthest from my mind.
My God, but this feels good.
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