A Red Foreword
My husband told me that he likes the way I highlight some words in my posts in paprika red. He did not understand the onward journey these words take. For the avoidance of doubt – the red is a happy coincidence; all words in red are clickable and will lead you to other pages that I nerdishly like, or want to refer to.
The Not a Treeo urged me on again. It was a sight for sore legs.
Although I felt unusually awake this morning, in both mind and body. Most days it’s one or the other – or neither – but rarely both.
The bonus of this unexpected surge of energy pushed me past Not a Treeo, and as I ran, I planned the day ahead, wondering how best to attack an Everlasting To Do List. But my brain had other ideas and drifted off task as quickly as I turned the corner of Knole House.
Scattered thoughts came with each gasp for breath, ranging from the serious to the frivolous. From concerns that plague me daily with dogged determination to the fact that 19th April is National Garlic Day in the UK. Which bodes well for the bolognese sauce I’m slow cooking.
Facing the challenge of an uphill path, I put my head down and considered the frequency with which I have mentioned garlic in my posts.
Wild garlic counts too.
And here we go again.
On reaching home a closer National Garlic Day Google inspection has revealed that a clove of garlic contains just 4 calories, and that an irrational fear of garlic is termed alliumphobia. Moreover, National Garlic Day appears to be an American idea, which lays bare my hastily bold assertion (above) claiming the day as the UK’s own.
Garlic is farmed all over the world, with China being its top producer (click here for the top 10). There might be a garlic farm near you that would be delighted if you helped make (whichever nation’s) National Garlic Day an international one.
Back to that run
I’d moved on from garlic by the time I reached a fork in the pathway. Which way – short and sweet, or long and downhill? I took the lengthier path (not necessarily the one less travelled by, Robert Frost).
Half-way along this last length, and feeling almost triumphant, I heard another runner behind me. The breaths were loud but not my own, the footfalls heavier and catching up. I increased my stride – I could afford to now that the end was in sight.
The path inclined further downwards – surely I could do this? But with a cheerful Irish-accented “Hello!” the competition came within view. A friend, much fitter and stronger than me. I urged him to zoom past and not to worry about a catch up chat. “No!” he said. “I’m taking it easy today.”
So I charged on with him by my side, trying not to breathe as deeply as my lungs demanded. Today my friend was aiming for a 35km run. I gasped and picked up pace (again). He asked me how far I was running. “Oh – far enough.”
I saw my escape route – a path less travelled and nearing on the right. We puffed farewell, I turned off and came to a panting stop feeling utterly spent. Still, I mused, my friend was much redder in the face than me. Just saying. I think the path I took made all the difference. Or it was simply shorter.