My aim with this blog has never been to post every day. Quite the opposite, in fact.
I only really sit down to write when I've got something worth remembering, something worth recording, or when an event crops up that feels worthy of adding to this ongoing chronicle of miles run and beers consumed.
Today's entry falls firmly into the latter category.
Normally, Friday is a rest day. A final opportunity to let the legs recover before the customary Saturday long run, which these days rarely seems to dip below the twenty-mile mark. However, university open day season remains in full swing and, with another campus visit planned alongside my daughter, I knew the run would have to happen before dawn.
Not that this is particularly unusual for me.
So, at 4:30am, I found myself stepping out into what was easily the coldest morning since summer finally gave up and retreated.
The cars were covered in frost. Parts of the pavement glistened with patches of ice. Conditions that instantly make you question your footwear choices.
Unfortunately, I was wearing my trusty Asics Novablast 3s. Brilliant shoes in dry conditions. Absolutely hopeless in anything remotely slippery. Running in them on frosty surfaces sometimes feels less like distance running and more like an audition for Dancing on Ice.
The ten-mile pre-breakfast run therefore started cautiously.
As I climbed towards the higher ground on the far side of town, the freezing fog began to emerge. At first it appeared in small wisps across the fields before gradually enveloping everything around me. Streetlights became blurred halos in the darkness and visibility dropped dramatically.
Thankfully, by this point I'd warmed up enough not to care. The weather wasn't actually the biggest challenge of the morning. That honour belonged to my Garmin.
About halfway through the run it decided, entirely unprompted, to reboot itself. Any runner who enjoys poring over their statistics afterwards will understand the deep sense of irritation that accompanies such an event.
One reboot became two.
Two became three.
Then four.
By the end of the run I'd lost almost three miles worth of recorded data.
Three miles!
Now, logically, I know the miles still happened. My legs certainly knew about them. But it doesn't stop the feeling that some important evidence has vanished into the ether.
Thanks, Garmin.
Podcasts, Pints and Yorkshire Discoveries
To distract myself from contemplating throwing several hundred pounds' worth of sports technology into a hedge, I put on an old episode of Daft About Craft.
I've worked my way through their entire back catalogue and am now in that frustrating position where I eagerly await the next episode like a child waiting for Christmas morning.
Come on lads. Stop messing about and get another one uploaded.
One thing that continues to amaze me about beer is how vast the landscape remains. Despite spending years reading about brewing, listening to beer podcasts, homebrewing and generally behaving like a fully paid-up craft beer bore, there are still countless breweries I've never encountered.
This particular episode introduced me to Yorkshire Heart Brewery.
I'd first heard it back in the summer and, during our family trip back to God's Own Country, managed to persuade the girls that an entirely necessary detour to the brewery was in everybody's best interest.
Somehow they agreed.
I came away with a decent haul of bottles and cans, most of which disappeared during the holiday itself. However, I deliberately held back one special beer: a large bottle of Pinot Noir barrel-aged porter.
A proper winter beer.
The sort of thing that deserves an evening by the fire rather than being hastily consumed on a random Tuesday.
Hearing the podcast again reminded me that both presenters rated it a full five stars on Untappd, which is about as glowing an endorsement as you'll find.
The question isn't whether I'll drink it.
The question is when.
A 750ml bottle of 7% barrel-aged porter really only has one appropriate destination.
Christmas.
An Alternative Porter
That said, while writing this particular ramble I'm increasingly tempted by a can of Burning Sky Baltic Porter sitting patiently in the fridge.
At 7.2%, it hardly qualifies as restraint, but it feels entirely appropriate for a cold, frosty evening.
I can already picture the evening ahead: a decent porter, an old episode of Game of Thrones, and the comforting knowledge that there appears to be absolutely nothing new worth watching these days.
Perfect.
A Homebrew Disaster
Unfortunately, that porter may also be required as emotional support.
A few weeks ago, inspired by a memorable trip to Nothing Bound Brewery (a story worthy of its own blog entry), I decided to brew a heavily hopped New England IPA.
On paper, it seemed like an excellent idea. In practice, it was an absolute nightmare. The primary culprit was my decision to use whole hop cones. Homebrewers reading this will already know where this story is heading.
Whole hop cones are wonderful in theory and infuriating in reality. They absorb extraordinary amounts of beer, expand dramatically and possess an almost supernatural ability to block anything they come into contact with.
Every stage of the brew became a battle.
The transfer from kettle to fermenter was awkward. The dry hopping was difficult. Getting the finished beer out of the fermenter and into the keg became an exercise in patience, profanity and creative problem-solving.
Yet somehow I thought I'd got away with it.
So Close...
One of the greatest challenges with the NEIPA style is preventing oxidation.
These beers are extraordinarily sensitive to oxygen exposure. Even tiny amounts can dull hop character, darken the beer and introduce unpleasant flavours.
Despite all the challenges, I was convinced I'd managed it. The first pours from the keg were magnificent. Honestly, I thought it might be the best beer I'd brewed to date.
It was bright. Juicy. Soft. Packed with hop character.
Even my wife, who serves as the harshest and most difficult beer judge available, admitted it was excellent.
In fact, when I compared it directly against a Nothing Bound beer, it held its own remarkably well.
I was delighted.
Then Came the Heartbreak
This evening, however, I poured another glass.
Immediately I knew something was wrong.
The colour had darkened noticeably.
The aroma seemed muted.
Then came the flavour.
That unmistakable wet cardboard note.
Oxidation.
Game over.
One of my planned Christmas beers had quietly deteriorated before my eyes.
The verdict was unavoidable.
Drain pour.
Painful.
Not because of the monetary cost, but because of the hours invested. The planning. The brew day. The transfers. The waiting.
All gone.
Still, that's homebrewing. Every bad brew teaches you something. And trust me, this one taught me plenty. The only problem now is finding the time to brew a replacement before Christmas arrives.
Better get planning
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