I do a Birthday Run every few years (here’s the one from 2020, for example) and it seemed a good time to see how my body is holding up after the monthlong loss of training. Birthday runs almost always start in a Wetherspoons or, on occasions like that previous one, with a heroic quantity of psychedelics. The carpet at the City Arms made me wonder if the latter were the case, but, alas, it was only an IPA and the BBC news.
The beer was good. The skies were intermittently sunny. My directions were absolute shit. Overall, I will call the day successful.
Very little went to plan. I got to Coventry intending to make this a Rail Run of about 27 miles with a side trip to Coles Hill. Stopping in a Wetherspoons for a breakfast IPA was the last real success (besides the scenery) as Google sent me down several miles of country roads unintended for pedestrians leading me to abandon this plan and head down a permissive path along farmland. When I emerged, GMaps sent me on a loop through a neighbourhood and after I abandoned the 2nd pass it was suggesting it recalibrated and sent me on a larger loop (one I visited more than once as was also the case for several other parts of the trail) and to not one but two road closures (the first involving a long backtrack).
I recognised a canal crossing and decided to ignore Maps and just head to Knowle thinking there would be a pub to prop up in. I didn’t want to hit the Red Lion as I had done that one on a long run a few years ago but all the others were very posh or converted to posh restaurants.
I caught the bus from here but couldn’t find an interesting pub in Solihull, either. I took the first good train back home and me and the missus went for a nice beverage at our local. Sometimes you can’t fight it.
Warm day, belly full of fish, week off looming…pub? My god, there’s one now! Friendly proprietor and quiet fellow drinkers and a bit of Indian Premier League cricket on tele. My day just keeps getting better.
An outstanding afternoon deserved an outstanding snack. Heading home after picking up a bag of tile adhesive, I completed this algorithm with a delicious — almost perfect — piece of cod from Spon Lane Fish Bar. It’s a bit out of the way but worth seeking out in a town full of not so stunning examples of chippies.
Disappointing chilli sauce, chips that tasted like they were leftover from the night before, steam table meat with the texture of a pencil eraser. But, the guy behind the counter was so friendly I’d probably give this place a second chance.
I’ve done back-to-back commute runs each of the last three weeks and decided to mix up the inbound journey this morning via the upper branch between Spon Lane and Smethwick Junction. Stopped for a slash under the Bridge Street bridge and found all the trimmings of someone’s agricultural harvest. This could have been used to make a few pounds of cannabutter but now it has been pissed on at least once. If this doesn’t bother you, I’ve told you where to look.
Not far before the dope remnants, I spotted this massive owl carving just before the Brasshouse Lane bridge:
We were in Coventry to visit our new cat (still 5 weeks from coming home, but he’s growing rapidly). Afterward, we explored the city centre for the first time and stopped in some charity shops (I found a couple of shirts and refrained from buying a bunny book).
Heading back to the train, Jackie had a capital idea that we should stop in a pub. There were more compelling options but we would need to back track a bit so we settled on the Litten Tree (a former Wetherspoons so now it is without the cheap pricing or large selection of beer). We talked about cat names and wondered where the litter is in this city — not kitty litter but actual garbage (maybe residents of well-to-do buurts don’t drop chip boxes and kebab wrappers where they decide they’re finished with them).
Then, we went home and got stuck back in with the tiling (but it was a nice break while it lasted).
Off the train in Dudley Port, the busses were fucked and The Horseley Tavern seemed more attractive than standing around the bus shelter. It was.
The place is bigger than you’d think and was packed with regulars. I found a quiet place to answer an email then the band for the night started rearranging the furniture around me. Proper pub, this. Keeping it in mind for a weekend piss up, for sure.
Had a few tentative jogs this week and, whilst changing into and out of my running kit, realised just how emaciated I still am after the two weeks convalescence. Since full recovery is months away and I don’t have months to train for these planned, ludicrous, summer runs I went ahead and ran the full, double-digit distance home along the canals. In pain and completely knackered I’ll get my Salmonella blood levels checked late this morning.
Oddly, no dreams last night although I felt like I slept more deeply than I have in months. Been dreaming funny shit since The Big Illness After Easter. This one could actually have happened — and may still. Some Sikhs serve platters of food to anyone who walks by (largely people who need it, but not exclusively) over at the bird killing clock tower several times a week. In the dream, I was on my way to pick up some wine at the off license and swung over to express my admiration.
“And, here is a dinner for you.” I waved it off, “thanks, really, I’m honoured but I’m alright. There’s fish in the cooker that I need to get back to.” He said what I doubt he would in real life, “and have you thought about joining us?” I then launched into what I usually don’t say out loud with:
“No, man, religion ain’t for me. You know, I’m on board with the love of your neighbour and ethical behaviour and and general kindness to and protection of those that need it and the whole outside force unknowable and both unbearable and compelling that you long for. BUT,” and I pause and look at his face for a moment while he slowly closed and reopened his (frankly gorgeous) eyes, “the costumes are a bridge I will not cross. Every religion has a costume, even evangelical christians back home try to dress one class grade lower than their actual class — no mean feet for most of them.”
“I meant, we see you go by all the time and thought you might like to help with the distribution.” I tried to recover with, “sorry, and to be frank as far as the costume thing goes,” I stopped a moment to trace a snake from crown to foot, “this is rocking but, you know, like I said.”
So, this month I discovered I can publicly humiliate myself in REM sleep. THAT’S going on my list of skills for my professional development review.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 