Juneathon the seventeenth

My father was a fine runner. He ran for his college and retained a keen interest in athletics, though I can't remember him running after he tore a hamstring in the father's race at oner of my prep school sports days. He swam though, right up to his death. When he was the age I am now, 57, he would swim a mile a day, every day. He was the oldest contestant in the Swim Through Cambridge, before this annual race was abandoned because of the pollution in the Cam.  By his standards, my efforts are modest. I ran, a short three miles along a well-known route. I stall felt shaky, and towards the end of the first mile wondered if I had tried too much, but I persevered. It was humid and bits of me hurt.