Mental Recovery Run With A Horse
My new shoes arrived today. I bought the same ones I took with me on LEJOG. Fucking epic. I left this review about them the other day on Amazon.
Last night I had a mental recovery run.
What is a mental recovery run?
It’s one where I don’t spend it ruminating over the past and calling myself a cunt.
I ran up the hill into the countryside with my headlamp switched off for most of it. Then I heard grunting. And a sigh. It was a horse. I must have woken it up.
That horse was up there for ages alone on that fucking hill before it heard me clip-clopping up. Probably smelled me from a long way off. On guard. Ready to take out the infidel.
It started to whinny when I switched my head lamp on. I remember when my dad used to yell at me for switching the hall light on after bedtime and for some reason I thought of that. I’d disturbed the horse. It had shit to do tomorrow.
The mental recovery run was relaxing. Sometimes I can practice mindfulness and thoughts disappear completely and I’m just struck by the absurdity of lonely horses snoring in fields for no other reason than some farmer cunt didn’t want to get the animal a crib.
Every day for an animal is an uncontrollable psychedelic experience. Sad cunts with mini moon’s hanging from their heads come stomping up and down the hill where they live like the Duke Of York seemingly for no reason. This isn’t Amsterdam. Horses cannot close a door on a field for some privacy like a stoner in a hotel room. They stare at you. You stare back. Some sense of recognition. The confusion is mutual and somewhere in the overlap God died.
It’s asleep now up there just as dawn comes around. I might go up tomorrow with my dog’s mask on and see if it remembers me.
That’s obviously not a court case waiting to happen.
Don’t die, cunts.