Running means self-isolation, I have never understood the point of running in a group. The pace of others distracts from one’s own. In Bath, runners wore face masks at a half-marathon staged in the twilight of free movement just before the realisation of viral risks had sunk in. The organisers engaged in hermeneutics of government apocrypha to justify their position.
The Class 700 to Baldock is empty. Sunlight flashes on the blue hand-holds attached to each seat designed for passengers to hold on to when they must stand. 3 people get on at Baldock and I get off. I decide to take the “top” route to the hills towards the chalk escarpment of Therfield Heath.
A bird of prey circles by the motorway and I overhear a father telling his two boys that it is looking for lunch. The motorway is proportionally busier than the train. A police-van drives down towards me and its driver waves. A cyclist passes telling me as he passes that he hadn’t expected so much wind. Driving lessons are in full swing, learners nudge their way carefully down the lanes, their nervous breath mingling with their instructor’s effusions.
A jolt of dried mango, new energy, a faster pace. I can get this below 60 mins / 10k after all. Therfield Heath is busier than ever. Golfers, walkers, dogs, people sitting outside their pub pulled by habit like a domesticated animal scratching at a closed front door.