Running With the Pack
“The heartbeat is the essence of the run, what the run really is; and the heart beats outside me, not within. Permeating everything is the backbeat: the gusty, undulating thunder of the wind in my ears. I am on the Rathmore Peninsula of Kinsale, slap bang in the middle of the southern coast of Ireland, and the wind accompanies every step I take: ebbing and flowing, never constant, whoosh, silence, whoosh, silence. Then there is the pack. I am running with Brenin, the wolf, Nina, his dog-friend, ...and Tess, his wolf-dog daughter. There is the pad-pad-pad of a dozen feet, the click-click-click of forty-eight claws, enamelled metronomes tapping out the beat of distance covered and time elapsed on the cracked, faded, potholed tarmac. There is the pant-pant-pant of three breaths and the jingle-jangle of three chains. These all fuse with the whoosh and the silence.
There are few cars on these narrow, crooked country lanes, and I can let the pack run as it will. More or less: anywhere behind me, but nowhere in front.MoreLess
There are few cars on these narrow, crooked country lanes, and I can let the pack run as it will. More or less: anywhere behind me, but nowhere in front.MoreLess
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