Windmill Hill. Definitely A Name Of Two Halves!

Hello.

Bailey here.

It seems it has been a while since old 'Captain Speedy' there has penned anything on here. He would tell you he's been far too busy and hasn't got the time these days. Yeah right. That story is a double bagger at least!

Anyway, I thought it was about time you heard my side of our sorry story. It ain't easy living with 'Baldilocks and The Three Hairs' there as I'm sure you can imagine. So, here goes with one of the many 'lowlights' from our canicross year. An outtake. Only in our lives they are very much the norm rather than the exception.

Let's take our first Brutal race for example. Windmill Hill. The more observant among you will note that there's a clue in the title as to the type of terrain that was involved in this race. And no, I do NOT mean we had to practice running around windmills.

Or hills either apparently.

Nope. Up until then, anything steeper or longer than the incline of a drop kerb was to be avoided altogether. Or at best walked up, with him gasping and wheezing like an old set of bagpipes that are on the receiving end of the unwanted advances of an octopus.

We did most of our training on terrain that would make a billiard table look like the alps! It's like training to go on a diet by eating a whole gateaux.

So, we turn up for the race. It's February and a little chilly. Now I am a fairly thin coated chap, but despite this, I don't really mind the cold. Old chunky there though starts to put on layer after layer of clothing. I have heard him talk of chest high water crossings to come in this race. As long as they aren't any deeper. My running buddy there has the swimming abilities of a tangled octopus.

Mind you, anyone running through the water after us, not that there will be that many, need not worry. With the amount of layers 'Viscount Vileda' there has got on, he will absorb all water immediately on contact!

So, the race gets under way, and as usual it isn't long before we are pretty near the back despite my best efforts. And as we come out of some trees into a small clearing, the ground suddenly goes vertical. I look up at it in awe.

Wow, what a hill!

A very small voice from behind me gasps.

"You are (insert expletive of choice here, but I'd recommend a very strong one) kidding me!"

My admiration for the piece of geography in front of me turns to concern. We are only about half way through this race, and I am without a doubt going to be dragging a corpse around the second half of it if we even attempt to go up this!

We arrive at the bottom of the hill, take about 6 steps up it and come to a dead stop. Thinking that the line has got snagged, I turn around to see 'Edmund Hillary' there face down in the dirt. Now call me old fashioned, but I thought that the idea of a race was to get around the course as fast as you can. Or at the very least show some signs of movement.

"Aaaaaany sign of movement at all back there big fella?"

"A thumbs up will do!"

"Speak to me dammit!"

"Hello?"

Nothing.

I am perched precariously about 6 foot up what is admittedly a rather steep hill, attached to the carcass of my soon to be dead, stiff, but otherwise not much worse smelling than usual ex running partner.

Thinking the worse, I am about to go into emergency resuscitation mode, when it finally begins to show signs of movement. An arm reaches out, has a feel about and eventually finds a tree route above and to the left of him. Then the other one goes high and to the right to grab a tuft of grass. A foot then extends and scrambles before finding a proper foot hold.  the other leg extends and finds purchase on another root. It's head then raises and to look for further anchor points above it. Finding none, it swears profusely before letting it's head drop into the dirt again.

We stay like this for some considerable time.

From behind us, a proper runner from the group that started 10 minutes after us heads towards us. He eyes the sight before him, barely disguising his amusement.

"Are you OK there?" The proper runner asks, with barely a gasp OR a slowing in his pace.

"Yeah fine thanks" it lies through a mouthful of dirt.

"Really? Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yeah great, honestly. You carry on!"

"If you're sure then" says the proper, surefooted runner and sprints off up the hill.

At this point, I decide to lie down too, and put my head between my paws, mortified with embarrassment.

To the point that my fur is starting to curl.

I'm turning into a Labradoodle with the shame!

I lift my head and turn around and take in the scene. Bless him. He looks like he's doing an impression of a little starfish there, with his arms and legs spread out the way that they are. I also notice the bungee line caught around his leg and riding a little too high for comfort up his leg for his own well being.

The bungee line!

Now dear reader, I am not a vengeful puppy. Not in the least. But as more and more runners run past us, either laughing, smirking or completely ignoring us, an evil plot of revenge begins to form in my cute, beige head.

All I need a bit of cooperation from some of local wildlife, and the perfect crime can be committed.

I look about for some form of wildlife. A squirrel. A bird. A passing deer would be absolutely perfect right now. Anything that will give me a legitimate reason to run, and in one violent tug of the bungee, resolve our little furniture 'dry humping' antics.

My search for wildlife now becomes more frantic as there are signs that 'Sergeant Surefoot' behind me is attempting some form of forward motion.

A fly. Ant. A leaf blowing in the breeze. ANYTHING!

Nothing.

I consider just going for it and pleading guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility at my trial, when it finally manages to haul it's bulk up from the ground, untangle the bungee line and slowly ascend the hill.

Very.

Very.

Very.

Slowly.

What follows is several minutes of taking a couple of steps, sliding back a step, swearing, taking another couple of steps, pausing to admire the view, more sliding back and so on. All the time this is going on, other runners are trotting past us with barely a stumble, slip or profanity.

Eventually, the hill begins to level out, and the speed of our forward motion accelerates from glacier like to that of a heavily salted slug. Only more messy.

And do you know what?

Despite the amount of sightseeing time we had, we never saw one windmill on the whole flippin' race!

Lots Of Licks

Bailey.