Winchester Words

The road out across the front lawn sloped eastwards down towards the town, but looking westwards it led off into countryside. It was an ideal place from which to run or cycle. It was running that Ant did, running rather than jogging, that is. He felt that jogging was something for the middle-aged man or the good-looking couple in their “His & Hers” tracksuits. Ant preferred to run hard when he ran. Often this would coincide with moments of frustration, anger or horniness. It was an, “I-need-some-space-to–think” run which did not require a smart tracksuit. In fact, he did not even own a track suit, smart or otherwise. He set off at a fair rate across the damp lawn to the brow of the hill and into the dip beyond.

The still coolish air was a shock at first. Ant wore only a running vest and shorts split high up each leg. The flapping material created a pleasing sense of speed that he enjoyed. As he coasted down the slope Ant stared across the school field that chased past the wire fence on his left. The jolting of his heels as he stretched out long economic strides made his head throb slightly and he had to concentrate temporarily on his breathing pattern. A few more elongated strides and the slope flattened out. Ahead the path rose up to the next hilltop. Sucking air, Ant altered his stance, leaning forward and bringing all his inner anger about the interview, his lack of a girlfriend, along with his inconvenient sexual urges, to focus upon the mechanical pumping of heart and legs. He pushed his body up the hill. No time now to gaze benignly at the rabbits. ‘Sod the lot of them! Who wants their shitty job? I can’t, won’t be what you want me to be. Just bugger off and leave me alone. Go away.

Ant reached the crest of the hill and was able to ease his running action. He leaned back, looked up and scanned the scene on each side. On the left were a few understated, large houses with crunchy gravel drives. A stone squirted from under Ant’s heel as he ran and went skittering across the empty lane into the hedgerow to his right. The hedgerow thinned and the land beyond fell away, giving access to a panorama across fields receding from grey to mauve to blue.

It was quiet.

The slap…slap…slap of running shoe on tarmac plus the drifting interplay of bird song, wind in the trees and occasional scrape of gravel underfoot was all that could be heard. Ant felt the burden of anxiety lifting. The rhythmic pattern of footsteps together with the blowing, sucking and blowing of his breathing settled to an automatic pace, altogether less passionate and consciously channelled than those first few miles. Rather than focusing aggression into speed, Ant began to ponder that which had fuelled his adrenaline. As thoughts passed through his mind, mixed-up, partial and snatched, emotions illogically connected and rambling, they became numbed and blunted by the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other. The road narrowed here, edged by tall, grey-skinned trees. Ant found his thoughts floating from his uncertainties about the future, to his feet, back to his mind, then to the gently undulating ribbon of road …and so to memories of happy times.

******

He felt he was racing now. He had to win. Which side of the pothole to tread? How to attack the hillock that came into view between the jolting trees ahead? To these immediate, important questions Ant felt he had the answers – so assuredly! He flew up the tree-lined slope towards the farmhouse and crossroads that nestled below at the foot of the reverse slope. He stared hard at the enemy road that flowed beneath his feet. An occasional upward glance was all he allowed himself. He knew how to conquer this hill and leave those others in his wake. His God was watching and smiling approval. He cared and applauded the supreme determination with which he destroyed the chasing pack. In this he was the best.

Feet pounding, he ran, sweat dribbling saltily into blinking eyes that switched every few seconds from muddy winding road to distant horizon and back again. The trees drifted past on both sides again as though in a haze; silent spectators who arched their appreciative arms around and above him. It seemed to him like he was rooted, running on the spot, whilst this narrow belt of world moved from before to behind him, like the track of a car chase game in an arcade.  

Though Ant ran all the harder to reach the end, his pounding could not increase the speed of the enormous conveyor belt that ebbed slowly past, enveloping and engulfing both his body and mind. And God was with him.

******

By the time he reached sight of the Monument, Ant’s immersion in meandering sensibilities had become less intense. He grew more attentive to his surroundings. The trees had been largely left behind, and across to the right, open grassland inclined to the feathery soft form of silver-birch, mixed dark and light green yew, and fir, wrapping the rolling land that dissolved into the misty blueness of distance. Beyond the banked hedgerow on his left, the gentle hills lapped around the up-thrust pyramid of the monument, which sat atop the mound overlooking Farley Hill. Ant branched off from the road onto a chalk-scarred track that wound around behind the mount to the left. Hurdling the low gate, he rose onto his toes to make the final assault upon his determination, up the open grassy approach to the earth-worked cone, which the monument crowned so emphatically. Round the spiralling steps of wood block construction and he was there! Chest heaving, striving to quieten the noisy gasping of his burning lungs, Ant turned to gaze across the quilted folds. A green, bluish brown patchwork issued forth in every direction. He viewed and reviewed the scene several times. The Isle of Wight was barely visible today. Then, with a glance at his watch, he stepped down, holding the elation of that view to buoy his weary limbs. As he left the white-washed pinnacle behind him and sank into the comfortably familiar greens, Ant began to turn his thoughts to the present awaiting him. And, as he ordered his feelings, he drank in the peacefulness that lay on each side of his measured stride.

Taking long decelerating steps Ant thudded up to the glass fronted porch, bent over his knees for a moment, then entered. Sarah, a girl from the first floor held open the fire door, commented on the shortness of his shorts, and turned up the stairs with a fresh coffee in her hand. She looked a little flushed, though not as hot and well exercised as himself. Steaming and satiated, Ant’s eyes dulled as the heavy door hissed shut behind him. He heard the urgent strains of Elgar’s Cello Concerto pulsing through his neighbour’s door. Treading quietly past the closed doors along the corridor, Ant was soon planning the evening ahead, luxuriating under the steaming spray of the shower.

In the rest of the house, a few sat in their rooms working. Dismal summer weather helps the reluctant student. Ray had met his aunt and mother for a few hours. A tarnished kettle grew cold on the cooker. The phone rang unanswered in the hallway for minutes on end. Some undefinable sighs seeped through a closed first floor door, and a rabbit twitched its nose at the orange curtained window.