‘Trust me’ I’m a Cow Whisperer…Erm, what a load of old bullocks….

If you go out in the fields today, be sure of a big (bullock-sized) surprise….

“Let’s run through this field” I said

“Are there any cows?” someone said

“Er, no, but there’s some bullocks’ I said “but panic not, they’re over in that corner, gorging on a feast of grass, picking mud out of their hooves, chewing the cud, completely disinterested in a bunch of women running through their field. We’ll be fine; we don’t look or smell like grass and we’ve only got to get as far as that gate (the one over there, covered in barbed-wire)”

“Anyway, I don’t know why you’re all so afraid” I said “It’s not like we have dogs with us, AND they’re not in calf (on account of the fact they’re bullocks!) AND they’re just cute little things AND it’s not like they’re predatory animals for crying out loud! I mean, what are they going to do? Hoof us to death, then chew on us for a while before regurgitating us??!! Don’t be ridiculous, I mean, look at them, with their cutsie brown eyes, munching on grass, minding their own business, not interested in us, One. Little. Bit.”

It would seem that bullocks of today aren’t satisfied with chewing the cud in the corner of a field. Bullocks of today like to include a bit of stealth, strategy, cunning and running in their lives too.

I hadn’t accounted for this modern-day bullock approach to life.

Oh for the Halcyon days when bullocks were satisfied with being born, eating some grass, burping a bit, creating some cow pats and then being taken to the abattoir, slaughtered and eaten.

One minute we’re running, carefree, Julie Andrews-like across the butter cup-filled, cow-pat free meadow.

The next thing, the bullocks were charging towards us (very fast), they’re cutsie little eyes fixated on their target: us.

It’s incredible how quick one can run when 20 bullocks are heading in your direction.

But not quite quick enough it would seem. Maths is not one of my strong points, but even I could work out that the distance to the gate was greater than that of the one between us and the bullocks and the speed we were travelling was significantly slower than that of the marauding bullocks.

No need for formulas to work this one out: Shit! Run! Really Fast!!

We immediately employed survival tactics. We screamed a lot. This clearly helped the situation, as it meant the bullocks could now not only see us but they could hear us really well too.

Amid the screaming and general arm-flailing, I turned to assess the situation (I had, after all got everyone into this predicament with my cock-sure ‘the bullocks are our friends’ bollocks) I realised at this point that they were in fact not our friends at all, even worse, they were ‘strategic bullocks’ intent on hoofing us to death!

I knew this because they had cleverly separated the less-quick runners from the main pack. Strategic bullocks; who knew?!

“What to do??” I thought “Everyman for himself’ or ‘do the right thing’…arghhh, a moral dilemma with no time to think!

Having a conscience can be overrated.

I stopped running and proceeded to yell…at the bullocks. They paid no attention to my desperate plea to negotiate some kind of settlement deal, one where we would all be winners, where we could live in bovine harmony, chewing on the cud of life with no mention of the word ‘abattoir’…

Instead, they sent some of the herd on ahead, in the direction of the style to BLOCK OUR ONLY EXIT! Devious buggers. Time to start running again!

I then noticed that they had two extra legs than us mere mortals, meaning they could cover a lot more ground a lot more quickly; it appeared that we were doomed. We would in fact be hoofed to death.

I’d been running quite fast for quite some time now, however, unlike the bullocks, I only had (& still have for that matter) two legs so I was beginning to panic as to how the f@ck I was going to get to the end of the field without collapsing. The bullocks weren’t playing fair; this was not a level playing field (quite literally). They had four legs AND seemingly, a strategy!

My legs gave up (well, my lungs) so I stopped running, said one final prayer and awaited my hoofed-demise.

But no hoof frenzy followed. Phew. Hallelujah. Praise the Lord. I clapped my hands together in celebration…and they only went and stopped and looked at me.

They seemed to like me clapping! So I did some more clapping. They just looked at me some more. So I just kept on clapping. We’d only gone and found ourselves some Evangelical bullocks; who knew that was even a thing!?

So, I continued to clap (in an Evangelical rhythm) as we backed our way out of the field, edging ever closer to the barbed-wire gate, preparing to throw ourselves, lemming-like over the top, into the next field impaling our lycra-clad bodies on the gate as we did so.

The clapping did the trick, the bullocks began to tap their hooves in time to the rhythm (ok, maybe I was hallucinating at this point) but they did gather around the gate to make sure we’d made it safely to the other side!

So, the lessons learned that day? If you want to do a PB at your next race, take a bullock with you and if you want to negotiate your way out of a field of Evangelical cows; probably best to take a tambourine!

Oh and thank God I had my Garmin switched on; fastest 400m I’ve ever run!

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