Bracknell Bounders

Desperate Shitfor Donut Hashgate Billy Cerberus Whinge TC SkinnyDipper MessengerBoy Iceman TinOpener Lilo and dog Minx Nappyrash HP Motox RandyMandy BlindPew Bumwiper and dog Ebony Snowballs Slippery Simple Skids Nutty Potty OldFart Itsyor Chopstix Shandyman and little fellow Dylan BGB Tequilova ShutupWally and renamed dog Toto

The Woodlanders (Hardy Souls)

HP and Nappyrash parked next to us, giggling. They had followed Whinge and TC almost to South Hill Park when suddenly the two of them veered off in completely the opposite direction, HP and NP found it most amusing that Whinge’s satnav had set him off towards Bagshot and imagined him blowing a gasket, throwing all his toys out of the pram and becoming rapidly fissionable. Fortunately, no mushroom cloud appeared over Bracknell and they shortly rolled into the car park. As I overheard it, Whinge had decided to view some ironwork, it being of particular interest to him, a master welder. Almost as amusing was the sight of MessengerBoy who parked, unfolded his frame from the car and, to my inner guffaws, strolled forwards in a pair of the biggest mauve crocs I’d ever seen. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t out on the pull.

Well, it was pretty cold and a damp mist hung in the air so we were glad to be setting off even though Hare Honeymonster had read out a list of hills up which we were to be running. At least, we thought, it would keep us warm. Fortunately also, we thought, we have two highly experienced Hares so we should be in for a good, well-laid Trail. We were, though a few of us needed their expert skills more than others. See later.

Starting with a quick loop round to the back of the rather beautifully designed South Hill Park centre we skipped lightly across the main road and plunged into the depths of Swinley Forest. For those of you not familiar with it, this is high up in the Premier League of forests with miles of trails through the leafy trees. Some sandy. Others springy with layers of pine needles. Nearly all with slippery tree roots running along or just above their surface. Desperate nearly shot sideways in front of me with what would have been a “Yikes!” if she had been capable of such language. We met a group of friendly horses with their largely, but not all, friendly riders who had dismounted in order to get the beasts into a horse trailer. Now Randy Mandy is a tad worried around our equine friends so I suggested she stayed behind me and close while we stepped gingerly through them. I put my hand in the small of my back so she could hold my wrist if she wanted to. She did. The last time I’d been in a grip like that my daughter was about to be born. A peckish Burmese python on two hundred chin-ups a day couldn’t have exerted more pressure. Just as my hand was exhibiting the pneumatic qualities of a blown-up Marigold glove we were past the horses and RandyMandy shot off, covering me with a splatter of gravel while I recovered from the shock of the Marigold rapidly deflating. I ran on, limp fingers flapping by my side and caught up with Mandy. She (in front of me) and NappyRash (behind me) greeted each flour blob on the narrow track with a simple, staccato, “On!” One an almost falsetto. The other a burnished tenor. Quite why nappyRash opted for the falsetto I never quite found out. I managed to slip in the odd basso profundo Paul Robeson “Oooonnnn!” Though I was too out of breath with the rapid pace to rumble out to much of ‘Old Man River’. BumWiper joined us, with RandyMandy saying how frightened she had been of the horses. BumWiper (rather unkindly I felt) offered her opinion that the horses had been much more frightened of RandyMandy’s face than she had been of theirs…

Up wooded hills. Down ferny slopes. Clattering along stony tracks. Bouncing through sandy trails. We ran On and On. Checks, Bars and Two-Way Checks slowed us marginally. No sooner had we stopped than we started again. Honeymonster had also mentioned earlier, quietly of course, that the Trail was 7 miles long. It began to feel like 17…

Tequilova, Itsyor, OldFart and I thought we had cracked it when we accidentally hit the front, pelted rapidly down one long hill on a wide, open track. Then staggered breathlessly up another steep one to where we saw a lone figure in a bright yellow BH³ T-shirt. All seemed well as we hit the top. The fact that the T-Shirted figure was Billy should have set off the alarm klaxons. Bells, buzzers, alarums, air raid warnings and maroons should have sounded and burst in the sky when we heard the throat-gargling sound of Cerberus calling “Oooonnnn Baaaaaaccckkkk” half way down the hill we had just run down… ½ a mile away. In an exceptionally stupid moment (possibly due to semi-exhaustion) we believed Billy when he said he’d seen flour on the end of one of the neat pile of logs by which he stood and which we (even more stupidly) didn’t check. So we stood there in the sunshine that had burned off the earlier mist and waited for the Pack to loop through the forest towards us at which time we would have recovered some energy and could enjoy knowing we’d short-cutted. We waited. Then we waited a little longer. “Quiet isn’t it?” Said OldFart. “They’ll be coming through any minute.” Offered Billy. Itsyor had had enough a bounded off down the track through the woods. OldFart trotted off left to try and pick up some flour. He came back. Itsyor didn’t. It began to dawn that the Pack wasn’t really going to come and join us. We’d have to find them. We followed Itsyor’s path, meeting a large group of cyclists at the bottom of the hill. “Have you seen any people in bright yellow T-shirts?” He asked them. “Yes!” Replied one. “You.” They all seemed to find this rather funny. We took the unanimous decision to backtrack to the place where Cerberus had yodelled at us and started the long, catch-up process. Billy and I let Tequilova and OldFart slip away and we trotted along through the quiet forest, the silence punctuated occasionally by Billy telling me “If we weren’t following the Trail that track leads to the main drag.” After the fifth time I stopped counting and mused on whether I would either a) be able to give Billy mouth-to-mouth resucitation if needed (hopefully not, in more ways than one) or b) be able to bury him in the forest without the body ever being found. After 2 hours of running we returned.

Returned to a moment of high comedy. Cerberus was getting changed, surrounded by Desperate, Shitfor, Nappyrash, HP, Donut and me. She had clipped her bra round her waist before doing that clever upper body clothes swap that ladies do that preserves their modesty. She turned to do something else then turned back to Billy, asking sharply, “Mick! What have you done with my bra. Sure I had it a minute ago.” Desperate pointed to the empty pair of lacy hammocks that dangled round her tummy and the entire group fell about laughing 

Excllent Trail, Hares. Many thanks.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Shitfor officiated, mostly with authority and panache, and only lost control completely once.

Up and Coming