Some slightly sad news. My orange Patagonia shirt has got to go. It has reached the point of critical stink, the stench of no return. For quite some time it has gone straight from fresh-washed-fragrant to stinky as soon as it comes within 100m of me. Usually the stink settles behind me as I run along, assailing only the nostrils of those I pass or leave in my wake (ha!)
Not today though. Today I offended myself with my own stink as I ran around Obsevatory Hill. Now it is time to retire the old shirt, a shame because it has taken one hell of a beating and is, by my standards but no-one elses, still servicaeble.
I suspect I'll also need to get rid of my oldest pair of proper running shorts. Hundreds of miles of my scrotum rubbing against the onion bag has rubbed a couple of holes right through. More worrying than the prospect of uncomfortable nut-slap is what could happen if the veg fall through the hole and I do myself no good with a sudden change of direction. Ouch.
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