Updating the betting odds at the end of January 2012, we find a thinner pack at the top level but interesting things happening at the Republican Vice-Presidential table (although the fact that gamblers think Hilary Clinton, who isn’t even running, has a better shot than most Republicans is telling):

odds from Ladbrokes.

Heading back through Wroughton from the Fox and Hounds, the White Hart presented itself on the right.  I had only seen it in the dark from a bus and hadn’t realised what an attractive, old building it is.

Inside it was hopping, with a couple of dozen folks spread out around the lounge and at the bar.  There was another room adjacent to the bar with a skittles court and I used it to change into my dry shirt.  The staff (a lot of them here) were especially friendly and I would think this is down to the likewise friendly landlord and landlady.

I had a Wadworth Boundary which had a funky aftertaste, sort of like pencil sharpener shavings.  I assume this is what it actually tastes like but it is hard to be certain.  I’ll definitely try something different next time (four others on the pumps).

Finished resealing the shower and reckoned I deserved a beer, but also still needed to get a Sunday run in.  I had not been outside since morning and thought it would have warmed a bit but it was still foggy and cold at 3 pm so to force a little internal heat I headed toward the hill into Old Town and continued back down into and through Wroughton stopping at the Fox and Hounds just as the hill started up toward Avebury.

I heard a lively crowd inside as I reached for the door handle, but the place went silent as I strode in.  This was especially odd with 30 or so folks milling around the length and breadth of this large old pub, but the bar had the Arkell’s Czech-style Pilsner on tap so I was happy.  I took it over to a table by a window and everyone started talking again.

More like David Mitchell than Churchill, I think

The run progressed from the Woodshaw, around the town centre, and back down the Swindon road toward my bus stop, a net 3.4 miles but with the stop at the Churchill only 3 uninterrupted miles.

It is a big roadway eatery and looks like they offer pretty standard fare.  There is a five quid special before five pm which is advertised on boards outside and which the old couple near me commented on to the exclusion of all other topics, like “oh, it was £11.40 they charged for the food and bevvies;” “£11.40 for the food and bevvies, I don’t know how they do it;” “yes, it was five for yours and the half and five more for mine.  Then there was my half;” “ooh, that was never £11.40;” “yes, £11.40.  Because it was five for mine, and…” and on and on for 10 minutes.

I dropped my glass at the bar and asked where the gents was, and the barkeep said, “just between those two pillars there, m’love.” I didn’t see the door beyond and commented I didn’t think that would be especially sanitary.  Walking back I heard the conversation had moved on to “yes, I think they forgot to charge for one of our halves; it was five for yours,” etc.

I need structure when preparing for a marathon or an ultra, even something like the London Marathon which will probably require walking the first mile or so due to the crowd and, as a result, I will not really take too seriously (stopping a few pubs, run a couple of miles backwards, etc).  I’m following Hal Higdon’s Intermediate 1 schedule for marathons to dictate minimum distances although most of my long runs exceed the prescribed ones and I only do speed work once a month or so.  Anyway, I didn’t get out Thursday due to some visitors at the lab so that 3 mile minimum got pushed to Friday and I surveyed a hilly loop in RWB that roughly would bookend with two pubs.

To start, I hopped off the bus a stop too early and got a little quarter-mile warm up jog to the Woodshaw, which I would guess is a lot older than the estate built up around it.  It is an Arkell’s house and they had the Czech-style Pilsner which has to be my favourite yellow beer in this county if not countrywide.  There were two customers and the barkeeper taking the piss out of each other; one customer was a dead ringer (attitude, looks and voice) for Ricky Tomlinson.  I could have lingered all evening in this place but Hal is a slavedriver.

Burn’s Day: everyone has haggis, neeps and tatties.  Wetherspoon’s runs a special so you can get either a Talisker single malt (and a hip flask) or a pint of Caledonian with it, but I got both AND a 1/2 pint of Carling.  Happy Birthday Robbie! (Big lunch with a bunch of hashers, then off to Swindon to do some bits and bobs round the garden before an annual inspection).

I have made better haggis, but I usually skimp on the drinks…thanks Wetherspoons!

Now it is another election year and it is time to air out my Kucinich for President gear, again, and start putting out my crude (and crudely rendered) political posters…like this one:

You go into these prefabricated places expecting (and rarely disappointed in that expectation) to find prefabricated people.  Such was Rudi’s, so I assumed that this airport bar-esque joint would be populated by folks that at least would understand the airport bar etiquette wherein dude-that-goes-off-by-self isn’t looking to make friends with anyone but his beer.  But, nooooooooooooooo….

I set the camera up to shoot the obligatory 100/100 shot (number 75) and was checking out the shitty results with some glee when this Scotsman comes up and asks if I want him to take a photo for me.

“No, I got it, thanks.” Thinking that would be the end of it.
“But, you were just setting it up on the table and…” but I cut him off with a wave of the hand.
“They’re better when they’re bad.”
“But,” he started.

“I said this suits my purpose, for fuck sake.” But this didn’t put him off either; folks are friendlier the further north you go but I think that just makes them let their retards out unsupervised.

“Oh. Hey! Where are you from? I can detect an accent. Are you Canadian?”
“Yeah, okay, we’ll go with that,” I said while pounding down 2/3 of the pint I had originally hoped to linger over.
“Oh, where then?”
“Look, pal, I’m from Atlanta,” then I burped, stood, and turned my chair completely away from him. Another table full of Americans (where are all these fucking foreigners coming from, anyway?) seemed either amused or nervous but at least they shut up.

“Oh, Georgia, huh?” I turned and had to laugh at this giant, grinning moron. “I changed planes at the airport there once.”
“That’s the place to do it.”

Returning my blessedly empty glass to the barmaid, I said thanks and that it had been a pleasure.

From the Three Crowns, I rolled downhill toward the rail then generally east but drifting north due to mismarked trails, finally reaching a roadway that would take me back to Royal Wootton Bassett for the bus home.  Another steep climb brought me onto the High Street (although I’m not too sure if that is what it is called) and a check of the schedule showed I had 20 minutes before the bus would arrive.  Plenty of time to hit the Angel and change into my dry shirt.

The Angel is an old inn and a welcoming fire was in the large fireplace near the bar.  There were ales but I really fancied a lager this time and got yet another Carling then travelled the plank floors until I found a semi-private area beyond the stairs so I could strip down and re-dress.  Another friendly crowd, here, I got one to snap a photo for the 100/100 challenge and listened to some incomprehensible local football chatter before gulping down the last drop and dashing out to the stop.

It was cold and windy out but inside it was too hot and humid…fine if you drive to these places as did the 100 or so folks crammed into the house, but after nearly 7 miles of uneven fields with shoes full of cowshite I really couldn’t take the environment and so took my Weighbridge Ant Sally out to the garden to cool off a bit.  It was served a bit warm, close to 20°C, but it had a depth of flavour–chocolate, nuts, malt–that excused this sin.

Toward the end of the beer I started to get a bit chilled and went in to stink up the place a little.  ”You must be lost,” one old codger said and when I looked confused he added, “because you’ve got a map out.”  I smiled and told him that I know exactly where I am, I just don’t really know where I am going next.  This response (or the fact that it came from a bloody foreigner) apparently caused offence and he and the three in his crowd turned away and maintained their silence while I finished up and headed out again.