This is one of Clive’s fabulous FIT Club Beach Beasters, down in King Edward’s Bay in Tynemouth, a broken caldera of steps, endless steps up bleak enclosing walls of scrub, bleached skies, skin run raw by wet sand, joints like lead from running and pulling others across sodden sand, and the greatest glory of all, the freezing seawater.
Right now, at this second, 2.09 on Thursday morning, I feel like I’m hauling myself across the sand.
The void is astounding, and I don’t know what to do with it.
But I’m hauling … that’s me, hauling me. Just keep hauling, just keep going.