SINCE the reissue of Kings of the Wild Frontier, I’ve been bursting at the epaulettes to run to the sounds of the dandy highwayman. The mix of fun and the familiar was a recipe for swashbuckling success.

Adam and the Ants- Kings of the Wild Frontier

My course mirrored the drastic change of the early ant days, past crushed larger cans and stray England car flags, to flamboyant golfer-tartan and cantering ponies through shady streets.

With the trademark Burundi drums pulsing through my running shoes, the gusto of Antmusic pulled me up giant hills.  While Jolly Roger brought thoughts of wholesome Captain Pugwash piracy and a chance to swap the pulsing ache of shin splints for a peg leg was swiftly considered.

The day was uncomfortably humid, every intake of breath sitting in my throat like a cold oily chip.  Just as Adam snarls: “you’re- so-phys-i-cal” the syllables falling out of his mouth, dripping in sarcasm. Slogging down the homestretch, I was chaperoned by a black cat (with white paws) surveying my weary steps through his territory. I named him Dirk, of course.

Kings of the Wild Frontier is as recognisable as the pre-blister sting, but much more fun.  Surely it’s time to flick a stripe of sunblock under your eyes and set out on your best run ever?


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