Sam and I ran 8km today. Mostly up hill. Except for the bits where we were going down hill. I'm not sure which was worse, the endless agonising climbing or the occasional rapid descent. The latter puts a lot of stress on the tops of the thighs and the knees and I couldn't help feeling that I was going to fly uncontrollably face first into the mud. Or else involuntarily perform the splits and then have to wait to be airlifted to the nearest hospital. Sam led the way. This was his run and he would occasionally dart off into the distance, or show off by jogging backwards or sprinting up a slightly higher hill and then back down again just to fill in the time it took me to catch up. From the top of the hill it wasn't possible to see fully back the way that we had come. Mist lay about the road 100 metres lower down and below that the trail slowly wound its way another 200 metres deeper into the fog. The sheep stood by, bleating their discontent, covered in war paint.