This poem was written by Ed.,
Who ought to have long been in bed.
But he thought he had time,
To write up some rhyme,
So he sat there and wrote it instead.
This is the on-line journal of a small ill-defined group of mostly geriatric runners who share a love of the fells. It also covers a sub-group, best described as drinkers with a running problem, who struggle to combine dwindling athletic ability with an increasing thirst for cheap alcohol. A sort of "Last of the Summer Whine" (sic) in Walshes. Posting limited to registered contributors, but comments welcome.
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