This Saturday I ran 15 and a half miles. That’s right. 15 and a half miles. Look, I can prove it:
It was a lovely run. I simply ran straight out of my front door, until I reached the Hertfordshire countryside.
The first arresting thing I found was this, the Everest of white sliced bread:
Now, I’m no nutritionist, but can you imagine what would happen to a goose if they ate all of this? A one-way ticket to constantinople and no mistake. Luckily, there is probably a swarm of dog-sized rats just waiting on the bank for the sun to go down and they can chow down on carbomountain.
At Picketts Lock, just passed the North Circular, this part of the river turns into an awesome combination of rural, suburban and industrial. So, you have apparently-abandoned bits of riverside machinery like this:
Literally across the river from a field of grazing horses. Looking at these dreadlocked horses again, it now appears that one of them is doing a frighteningly good impression of dead. Let’s hope it’s just having a lie down and hasn’t gone up to the big oat-sprinkled paddock in the sky.
By this point I had run about 11 miles and was pretty desperate for a wee. Comfortably enough, there seem to be absolutely no public toilets between Tottenham Hale and Waltham Cross. Oh joy. So, I did what any self-respecting woodswomen would do and climbed behind an ivy-covered tree to pee al fresco. Only mid-stream did I realise that I was directly opposite a golf course. Ah well.
Things start to get really pretty around Brimsdown, with canal-side cottages giving way to lovely open fields and grassland. And then one of the most exciting things happened. I ran under the M25. This is it, here, that blue thing running over the river:
This was about 14 miles in and, frankly, I was having a nice time. I even stopped to kick this guy in the face:
Okay fine. I didn’t. But look at his face. He was asking for it.
Anyway, I had finally run a shitload of miles and was at Cheshunt. Just to prove that I had infact run all this way, here is a photo of me, standing under the sign on the platform, looking like a sweaty egg/ Harold Bishop hybrid:
I then got the train to Tottenham Hale and ran home from there, bringing my grand total up to a leg-shuddering 15 and a half miles. So far, in fact, that after about a year of solid running I had finally killed my trainers. Leaving them gaping and grubby like, well, I’ll leave the analogies up to you:
Nell “fucking badman” Frizzell
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