An Isis run

There's nothing like running in strange towns. I was up early to run in Oxford, a town I don't know as well as I should. I decided that the river towpath was the best option, and set forth. I ran along leaf-strewn paths, under a bridge where a man who'd spent the night there greeted me as he pulled together his carrier bags of possessions. Oxford is so like Cambridge, yet so different. Then I came to Christchurch Meadow, and found a magical sight, rowing eights training in the dark, pilot lights on each bow. I felt a bond with these young women and men, as they pulled their oars, though, as a good son of Cambridge, I should probably have hidden their bungs. Back through the side-streets and allies, and more street sleepers. I had covered 3.25 miles; the knee hurt a little