Day 168: Good Pain

Last night I beasted myself with kettlebells.  This morning I thought it would hurt, so was very impressed and surprised to wake up feeling limber and smug.  Foolish and premature.  By lunchtime I could feel my shoulders and thighs stiffening.  Now I feel like I have taken a sound beating.  I sense it is going to get worse before it gets better. 

But there is a perverse enjoyment to post-exercise muscle pain.  When your arms are so sore that you can barely lift them to wash your hair in the shower.  A good pain. 

On the M25 for a third time this week.  Rain slashing down dramatically.  On one of the bridges above the motorway I see a troop of hikers.  I can tell they are hikers (as opposed to civilians), because they are fully kitted out in waterproofs, and they have big backpacks, and walking poles (professional).  They doggedly trudge over the bridge, in a line of determination.  Hoods up, heads down.  No amount of Gore-Tex could be a match for this quantity of water.  They must be very, very wet. 

I wonder where they're going?  This isn't Cumbria, or Yorkshire, or the Highlands.  It's a bridge over the M25.  Wherever it is (Amersham?  Rickmansworth?), I hope they get the classic post-hike-pain pay off.  The stupidly deep bath, the warm, dry clothes, the pint and the rib-sticking meal.  Preferably in a pub with an open fire.  The rewards are that much sweeter when they are hard-won.