Got to Get to Goring 51.530120214547 and -1.0772539764009.


The text came around noon. ‘I’m at Nuffield,’ it started…

Nuffield meant Andy’d already walked 10 miles.

‘I’m going to try and get to Goring.’

That was another five miles.

‘I’m hurting a bit.’

Worrying. Andy never mentions his injuries or illnesses. I’ve had to hone my detective skills as Andy’s wife. I’ve asked why he’s holding his arm funny (second degree burn), demanded to see what came out of his mouth (half a tooth…he didn’t want to be bothered with the dentist) and tracked the smell of TCP to a grisly cut. If he’s actually written about hurting, he must be in agony.

I stifle the urge to rope in friends for child and dog care so that I can immediately drive to Goring.

Doing the afternoon’s emails, running Olivia to her ballet class and walking the dog, I am thinking about Andy. He so doesn’t want to fail in his challenge. But he is fifty years old. I’ve tried his phone about five hundred times.
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