I have repeatedly stated how much I enjoy living in the UK. I love Brits’ use of English and the mingling of language use and British humor. I love the rich history. I love the (ethnic) food (sorry, you can only eat so much fish ‘n chips before the arteries begin hardening). I love rainy British days and I love that intensively hot summer days only push the mercury to 85 degrees.

I even love tea. I never drank it much before coming here, at least not the hot variety, but I’ve grown to understand which brands common folk are inclined to drink and which ones the posh people consume, I enjoy them all. I love almost everything about the UK.

And then there’s cricket.

We had a village fair (fete) today and the local cricket club was playing a “friendly” against a neighboring village.  I focused intense energy from afar trying to understand what the heck was going on. Having played baseball I could draw some similarities. There is a batter (batsman) and a pitcher (bowler) and a ball (interestingly enough, also called a “ball” in cricket). That was about all I could piece together. I wandered down to the scorer’s tent in a determined effort to come away with an understanding of how score is kept at the least. If successful, I was certain I could handle an explanation as to why test matches last four days.

As I approached the tent, I picked up some handy vernacular. “Oh, well played James,” as a ball was thrown back toward the wicket; and “Peter, that was well handled, brilliant!” when one of the fielders actually managed to catch a ball without trying to surround it like a soccer goalie. “Cracky” got a mighty swing on the ball and hit it over the boundary and into the weeds. “Cheers Cracky. That’s a six.”

“Hey, could I disturb you gentlemen for a few moments to explain to a novice the nuances of cricket?” I asked, certain I’d get a most welcome response, which I did.

“Actually, cricket spectators and baseball spectators have much in common,” replied one chap waiting his turn to bat. I asked how so. “Both consume massive quantities of beer.” Of course I laughed and agreed, but in my mind thinking “I’d probably consume gallons if I actually had to play cricket…or watch four consecutive days of it.”

Thirty minutes later I got up to leave believing that if for some odd reason our television only received one channel, and I was desperate to watch TV, and the only thing on was a cricket match, I’d at least understand better how score is kept (but still with no clue for why a game – match – takes four days). As I was about to slip away, one kindly gentlemen (as all of them were) invited me to play next Sunday. How to respond? “I’d rather be beaten with a sticky wicket,” shot through my mind, but I managed to say, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t do the game justice, but I deeply appreciate the offer.”

Maybe I’ll give lawn bowls a go.

I should be on a train clattering down the tracks sitting exhausted but blissfully staring out the window at the countryside that only hours before I’d been hiking. I should be exhausted from four days of hiking the North Downs Way, satisfied with having covered nearly 100 miles. I should be reveling in the glory of achieving such a challenging accomplishment.

But I am not. I am sitting on my couch watching a World Cup match resting blistered feet and a mildly bruised ego. After all, I was somewhat certain that despite my lack of conditioning and slightly strained knee, I would rise to the challenge and impress massive masses of people who knew I was plodding toward the coast. Unfortunately, reality hit at mile 10. There was a slight reprieve about mile 14 but at mile 20, on a steep downhill, the bottoms of my feet felt like they were shredding. And they were. It was also about the spot where I learned that it is possible for shins to cramp – and keep cramping for quite some time.

My hiking companion and I limped into Otford, ate dinner at The Bull pub and I pretended the reason I didn’t get up for two and a half hours was because I really had no place to go, having reached our Day 1 destination. It wasn’t until I got up to go to the loo that I had to confess the real reason I hadn’t moved was because I couldn’t – or my body wouldn’t. There was certainly a full blown rebellion from waste down.

But the pain didn’t diminish the enjoyment of 7 hours of hiking. We set off at 6:30 am and made our way out of the city up a rise to the trail that unfortunately paralleled a major thoroughfare. Soon enough it diverged however, and we enjoyed quiet rolling hills covered in maturing wheat. Views across the valley were more than worth the effort to get out and see them.

As we sat at the pub and I had to come to grips with reality that the dream (delusion?) was over and the best option was the train station two blocks away, I determined I’d return. The North Downs proved itself a formidable opponent for a middle-aged, under-conditioned hiker. But although I may be short on accomplishment this time, I am long on determination. I will enjoy the view along the cliffs after having walked miles to get there.

Here are a few other images from an enjoyable day outdoors.

NOTE: The postmortem is here after you read this one. You can find out what happened.

I haven’t blogged for close to three months. I could say my time has been filled with intensive sprints up and down steep grades, weight workouts that would make a rugby player wilt and long hikes through the English country side building the stamina of a Kenyan marathoner – all in preparation for my Dorking to Dover hike (wrote about it here) along the North Downs Way.

I could say all that….but it’d be a lie. Truth is I’ve spent time running around London chasing after a bunch of guys from The Upstream Collective with a video camera, over to Paris where I suffered through delicious chocolate crepes, long lines at EuroDisney and a sprint along slick cobble stone lanes through Pere Lachaise Cemetery to spend five minutes at Jim Morrison’s (The Doors) grave site before sprinting back to the subway in an attempt to make an appointment on the other side of town (and was one minute late).

Somewhere along the way I strained a tendon in my knee (aggrevating it by paying more attention to the Eiffel Tower than walking in the dark) so haven’t been training for the 100 miles that lie ahead. Undaunted, but mildly concerned, I’ll launch out this week for the big trip. Concerned because to complete the ramble (as we call it here in the UK) I’ll need to cover about 25 miles a day to finish the trail in  four days.

Some of the challenge of the trip is that the North Downs occasionally brushes past a few villages but unfortunately more times than not an additional 1-2 miles is required to hoof it into town. Not interested in the extra mileage so for lunch I’ll dine on the packaged cuisine of PowerBars and Oberto beef jerky.

Most of my countrymen don’t know that “pubs” is actually short for “public houses” and aren’t just for for sampling wheat and barely in liquid form. Pubs also offer lodging – cheap lodging in many cases – and I’m counting on cheap lodging since I’m not hauling a tent, sleeping bag or much of anything else. Along the way should pass some castles, hike along an old Roman Road, see a bunch of WWII stuff, choke down several pounds of fish ‘n chips in the evening and walk along the white cliffs that lead into Dover. Provided I survive it all the way to Dover, I’ll enjoy the train ride home and post an account of the big adventure in a week’s time.

And aside from taking occasional  “creative license,” the story will (mostly) be accurate.