"Bandits at 8 o'clock move in behind us,
10 ME-109s out of the sun,"
Friday's high-end aerobic run was interrupted by a pitbull hurtling down the slope from my blind spot and launching itself at me (the little fokker). Fortunately it was a result of enthusiasm rather than aggression, but it hassled and mauled me like a skint whore.
I've always been a dog lover, but have never owned one because I couldn't be arsed to train it and I speculate my shite picking would be inconsistent at best. This doesn't stop many dog owners who happily allow their untrained canines to trip pedestrians and spray the park with brown depth charges. If you can't be bothered to train the mutt keep it on a friggin' lead or better still don't exacerbate the over-population problem in the first place.
The pitbull was pleasant compared to the trio of miniature collies, whom I have named "Napoleon Complex", which are the bane of my morning runs. One day I pray they charge me during a BBQ - I won’t hesitate to end to end them with a spit and forcefeed them to the shreaking bitch who owns them together with a bag of dog shit garnish.
Running has a way of punishing hubris. The original topic of this post was going to be an inspiring forlorn hope-type heroic description of my first 80 mile week for years. Unfortunately a back strain has scuppered that, done during a bout of stretching. No good deed goes unpunished as they say and that's why I don't give spare coins to lepers. So today's training was curtailed and tomorrow will see who wins the contest of the long run - my back or the diclofenac overdose.