In every garden, on every hedge, there are hazards. Normally unseen, these hazards have come out to play in Crosspool, a leafy suburb of Sheffield. Weaponised, creepy undead, reanimated corpse cloth, lurking and ready to catch out the unwary, they don't have a clue, and they are dangerous.
Well, that's my excuse for running too fast, fear of these weird objects lined up all along Manchester Road. It's ill advised to do this for any length of time, but it turns out while running my maximum heart rate got up to that of someone ten years younger, all the way to 182bpm.* Although as it was only for a few 10 second periods during a 30 minute run that it got that high then perhaps that's ok...**
Obviously exceeding this peak was a result of being spooked by the clueless brexit zombies,*** perched and staring all along my route. Perhaps they also once cluelessly ran too fast before going into hiding.
* That's wonderful, how young and fit I appear to be - or it's the precursor to it bursting.
** Famous last words.
*** That's almost certainly what they were, that's definitely no assumption or prejudice.
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