Yes, I'm like a London bus: I write nothing for ages and then two essays in two weeks. Here is one I have written for the New York Review of Books Daily, on running, fell-running, how much I miss the moors, and how we are rubbing along -- or not -- in contested outdoor space. And here is a picture from a year ago, more or less. Now impossible, but it will be possible again. My condolences to anyone who has lost a friend, relative or acquaintance to this vile virus: I write about running not to belittle the awful death toll but because we have to keep going in all manner of ways, to get to the other side.