A busy week on the hills and seafront and bowling greens, and in the park and the cemetery.
Saturday 31 May
No parkrun today as I had a bowls triples competition to attend to at 10am. Instead, I had the clever idea of getting up shortly after dawn — as 07:00 seemed to be — and heading down to the seafront to get an ersatz jaunt under my running belt. As tends to be the case, my clever idea turned out not to be clever at all. It was a hot and airless morning by usual coastal standards, so after flapping along the promenade for 45 minutes, attending to a smoked salmon sandwich and coffee at the Fish & Crab Shack, returning home for a contemplative shower, changing into bowls togs and hurrying off to the club, I was in no mood for a competitive game of bowls. I could feel myself wilting with every wayward delivery. We lost.
Monday 2 June
Following a prompt from Dan Haldane on the Facebook group, I’d resolved to explore the possibility of adding a bit of off-road plodding. The local parks are a bit small and tame so my attention turned to something more rugged and challenging. Ah, Beachy Head. That’ll do nicely.
The western end of the Eastbourne seafront, Holywell, marks the start and end of the South Downs Way, a 100-mile path that meanders over to Winchester. Alongside the small cafe, three or four paths shoot off in subtly different directions up the steep incline towards the cliffs at Beachy Head. Despite living in the area for three years, I’d never previously clambered up this hill. And nor did I do so today. [Consults crystal ball.] That will happen on Thursday. Today, Monday, I walked down the hill.
I’ve wandered over Beachy Head, as it were, several times, but have always approached from the opposite direction. Today I parked on the road, closer to the cliffs, and set off in the direction of the memorial to Bomber Command. Before I got there I opted to plunge downhill, following the coastal path for a kilometre or so. The views over the town are pretty splendid here. This was all quite new to me. I wasn’t sure where the path would wind up. Indeed it didn’t wind up anywhere. Instead it wound down towards Holywell via a track that ran alongside Bede’s Posh Prep School. From there I continued along a peripheral path which I suspected, correctly, would eventually convey me back to where I’d parked. Towards the end of the track, when probably beginning to tire, my footing slipped and I felt my ankle twist sharply. I was OK but it reminded me how vigilant I need to be on this sort of surface.
The warm and sunny weather held out through the afternoon, depriving me of the excuse needed to avoid getting into the garden and continuing to dig my pond. The consolations were that it was a half-decent workout, and that it inched me towards the completion of the project. We all love ponds, don’t we? I’ve not had one for 15 years or so, and miss the adventures it provides. This will be a wildlife pond. I’d love to have goldfish again but so would the passing herons. Too heartbreaking to witness.
Tuesday 3 June
My midweek plod was another seafront effort. Initial plan was a possible return to Beachy Head to have a go there but the strong clifftop gusts deterred me. The blustery conditions meant that the 45-minute seafront expedition was more of a struggle than intended but at least there was no actual danger involved. I settled for 5 x 7-8 minute plods with a walk in between. The breezy jaunt did at least provide the opportunity to listen to an old episode of Criminal, and learn about the origin of the use of fingerprints in crime detection. I’ve had this podcast bookmarked for years and dip in now and then.
Back home, the wind and rain worsened as the afternoon progressed. Peering through my sitting room window at the palm trees waving madly at me from the garden, I grew increasingly confident that the evening’s bowls match would be postponed. Alas, no such luck. Just as few things give me more pleasure these days than playing bowls on a warm sunny day, doing so in blustery rain can be as grim as it gets. The longed-for text message didn’t arrive, and off I went to do my duty. Fortunately the tempest had lost some of its bellicosity by early evening but the match was still an uncomfortable experience. At least we won.
Wednesday 4 June
A Horowitz morning. Quick Strength for Runners by Jeff Horowitz is a Kindle Unlimited ebook I downloaded a while ago, while my calf was troubling me, on the strength of a recommendation. I’ve finally actually read it and have been trying to establish a routine, something I’ve never found easy with exercises and stretches. Two sessions a week. Today I repeated the first workout, consisting of eight exercises aimed at the core and hips. Strengthening my core seems to have been a lifelong quest. In wellbeing terms, it promises untold riches. And hips are something my physio advised me to pay attention to as she reckoned weak hips are the cause of my recurring calf problems. Who knows if any of these things are true but a desperate man of leisure like me will give anything a shot.
I recovered from the session with a stroll around the cemetery, listening to the Guardian Weekly football podcast. And then in the evening, a drive over to Hailsham for a bowls match rescheduled from last week. My fourth Eastbourne Men’s League B Team match, and my fourth victory. Not my best performance tonight. The green was windy and wobbly which didn’t make things easy but I gradually worked out how to cope with the conditions, and we eventually got there, sneaking into the lead on the penultimate end, then hanging on in the tense final one.
Thursday 5 June
Beachy Head again. The purpose of this second hour-long hike was to check out more of the terrain and consider its runnability for an urban plodder like me. I think of myself more as a pompous, self-satisfied rat, confidently oozing round the open streets, and not the sturdy darting rodent hiding in the dense undergrowth on the steep slopes above the town. But here I was, Mr Town Rat visiting his cousin in the country, and feeling somewhat disoriented.
This time I parked at Holywell, took a deep breath and launched myself up the steep hill. I arrived at the top some time later, panting like a steam train with the throttle all the way out. Unlike warm and sunny Monday, today was wet and overcast.
I’d created a route and downloaded the .GPX map file to my watch. I thought this a clever move but as alluded to last Saturday, my clever schemes tend to unravel as soon as they introduce themselves to the real world. I’d mapped out the route from the paths shown on the OS map, and had presumed these would be wide and hospitable tracks. Some were in parts but in the main they turned out to be narrow and bumpy, often overgrown or semi-invisible beneath overhanging branches.
Lumbering along these gnarly paths in the drizzle, the inevitable happened. My right foot hit a tree root and I stumbled. Left foot tried to rescue the situation but the patch of earth it chose to anchor itself to didn’t exist, and next thing I knew I was lying on my back in a shallow ditch at a 45-degree angle, peering up at my feet in the distance. The resurrection took a few moments. I wasn’t physically hurt but the fall did alarm me. If this could happen while walking, how much more hazardous would a run be? Apart from the slip, it was a thoroughly enjoyable walk but I’m starting to think that a regular hike on the hills might be better than attempted running, at least to start with. I’ll get the same benefits of stretching and strengthening my lower limbs but with less danger attached.
Saturday 7 June – Eastbourne parkrun
I made the cardinal error of arriving late for the Eastbourne parkrun, a consequence of mistakenly setting my alarm for 0825 instead of 0725. After a quick shower and half a banana, I was through the door and away. I don’t have many good habits but one that’s remained in the locker since my distant days of entering races was to have everything laid out and ready the night before, to avoid last-minute panics about missing items. I don’t think of the parkrun as a race but one can tell from the anguished gurning of the leaders as they hurtle towards me while I’m still less than halfway through the experience, that many do. My current inventory is much simpler than it was for marathons. No race number and safety pins. No heart rate monitor, sweat-mopping wristband, painkillers, gels or vaseline. No Compeeds or nipple plasters. All I have to prepare these days is cap, shirt, shorts and socks, and the lycra undershorts that aren’t strictly necessary for such a short run — but old habits and all that. Running belt with keys and bank card preloaded by the front door, along with running shoes. Phone and Shokz headphones pre-charged. The one new item in the inventory, and one I feel destined to leave behind one day, is the plastic ‘ultraband’ I purchased that conveniently stores my parkrun ID and barcode.
The Met Office weather alert I’d received yesterday, warning of a typhoon arriving in Eastbourne at precisely 9am on Saturday, turned out to be an empty threat. There was a bracing shower that spanned the eight-minute drive but it switched itself off as I jumped out of the car. On another day, the four minutes or so it took me to jog to the start of the run might have been regarded as a handy warm-up but just as I reached the throng, the hooter sounded and we were off. This is not ideal preparation. It’s happened before, in a race in Hampshire somewhere, I think. What was it? If I’d tidied up and relaunched this website, with all links working and races listed, as is my intention, I’d be able to put my finger on exactly when and where it was. A 10K or a half marathon, back in the early days of prep for the 2002 London Marathon. I’ll find it. But I’d similarly turned up and legged it to the start line, arriving just after the field had left. The crowd enjoyed it. I didn’t.
Back to the parkrun. At the sound of the mournful hooter, I had to just plough on without the chance to stop and get my breath back. I had no plan or general strategy to follow. It was just: keep going and see what happens. It was tough. I never quite settled into a rhythm. Just one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, and feeling tired and unenthused from the start. By the time I reached the halfway turning point, it had become a slog. I must have looked fatigued as the marshal, no doubt well-meaning, called out: “Keep yer ‘ead up, not dahn!” I must have obeyed him as he followed up with “That’s better! ‘Ead up, not dahn!” There’s something to be said for the advice. I can recall my old Philosophy tutor at university saying that Plato or Socrates had opined that a fellow looking downwards as he walks along the road is thinking of the past but is thinking of the future if looking up and forwards. I’ve not been able to trace the origin of such a statement but it does have an air of perspicacity. Anyway, I took the marshal’s advice, for at least as long as I thought he might be watching me. Sometime later, I reached the finishing funnel and was finally able to take a breather.
I got home this time in position 282 of 312, in 39 minutes 22 seconds. Not a time to make the Olympic selectors sit up just yet but one that I was happy with. More useful might be the parkrun ‘age grade’ which was 43.4% this time compared with 36.3% three weeks ago. I’ve just discovered what this means. According to the parkrun website, “This score is the ratio of your own finish time against the world record for your sex and age, expressed as a percentage. For example, if you take 40 minutes to complete a parkrun and the world record for your age and sex is 20 minutes, your age graded percentage score is 50%.”
In the afternoon we visited the Towner Gallery, Eastbourne’s high art fulcrum. M wanted to peruse the textile exhibition while I settled for the café, and the chance to start writing this report. Later on, the intellectual temperature dropped as we headed over to Hastings to see Jack Dee. This was more like it. A funny man indeed.
Sunday 8 to Thursday 12 June
I need to truncate these meandering reports and yank them back onto the straight and narrow.
Sunday was another Horowitz day, this time Core and Upper Body, with the added pleasure of using weights. In recent months I’ve acquired some excellent adjustable dumbbells and a kettlebell, all from Northdeer. Needless to say I’ve not used them as much as I should but the habit is gradually evolving. In particular, I’ve been trying to do 50-60 kettlebell swings most days of the weeks. This is a miraculous exercise (it says here) that strengthens the core, the back, glutes and hamstrings, and burns a few calories while it’s at it. Good form is essential but just 5-10 minutes a days feels a bit like a 30-minute run.
Tuesday was my midweek run day this week. For reasons explained earlier, I decided against plodding along the cliffs, and instead returned to the predictability of the seafront where I knocked out an uneventful and almost comfortable 5K. For reasons lost in the mists of old age, I set my watch for 5 x 7:45 minutes, separated by two-minute breaks for walking and stretching. I’m guessing that because 5 x 7:45 would equal 38:45, I was thinking this would be a target for the parkrun. As mentioned on the Facebook group, I wore my Berlin Marathon tee shirt for probably the first time ever. Well, since the evening of the race. One always wears the marathon teeshirt on the evening of the race so that once can luxuriate in the gasps and pointing in the street. Not that I’ve ever noticed this occurring.
Also on Tuesday was the first of my three bowls matches this week. The Tuesday evening Eastbourne Mens League fixture had us pitched against the formidable Motcombe Gardens this week. We won again, and now sit proudly atop the league table, having played one more match than our six pitiful rival sides. On a beautifully warm and sunny Thursday afternoon, we took on our neighbours along the coast, Rottingdean. Maybe the perfect conditions were responsible but I played probably my best game ever, and we ended up with a convincing 25-13 victory. It was a triples game (three per side) and I later discovered that my opposite number playing lead was 95 years old. If I’m still doing my stuff on the greens of East Sussex in 28 years time, I’ll feel satisfied. Next match is tomorrow (Sunday) afternoon, a friendly against a touring side — Maidenhead Thicket.
Saturday 14 June – Seaford parkrun
A rest day yesterday but today I was back in action with the short trip along the coast to the pleasantly sluggish Seaford, and its parkrun. The ‘park’ bit of parkrun should be interpreted generously as there isn’t a park to be seen anywhere, unless you want to count the many handsome car parks decorating the coastline near the starting point, the Newhaven and Seaford Sailing Club. But the run along the front is as good as any, I’m sure, and more scenic than most. The morning was overcast, with a light mist coming in off the Channel. But pleasantly warm. In short, near perfect conditions.
There was no starting gun or hooter. Instead some mysterious device was used that emitted a disturbing sound like a loud anguished groan, followed by a shouted exhortation to get running. We did so. I couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of awe that my dainty steps were tracing the heavyweight clumping of the original Seafront Plodder, Andy Bishop. His concrete-cracking gait was once a popular tourist attraction along this stretch of coastline but alas, no more. All we are left with, folded into the mournful coastal gusts, is the long-distant echo of the great man’s puffing and wheezing. I had stronger hopes of encountering another famous local athlete, Tom Roper, but Tom too had failed to materialise. I was on my own. Or as on your own as you can be in a group of three hundred runners.
The course was a simple out-and-back. Nice to see that Seaford has a Martello tower. The fascinating topic of Martello towers is one I must address sometime. When the announcement was made at the start that we were to go round the tower, I presumed it would mark the halfway point. I keenly looked forward to doubling back as we approached it but my hopes were dashed as what was left of the field was directed to continue up the path for another two or three hundred metres before reaching the true halfway point.
I was 11:57 minutes into my race when the leader passed me, heading in the opposite direction. He finished in 17:53, well under half of my final time. I staggered into the finishers’ funnel at 39:28, a full six seconds slower than last time out. A slight disappointment on what should be a fast course but I resolved not to feel too crestfallen. I was stupidly anxious about time all the way through which prevented me from squeezing more than a few meagre drops of pleasure from the event. Getting stressed about finishing time is a bad idea, especially at my age, when I know that diminishing returns is more likely than steady improvement. With the magnificent Seven Sisters in the background, this should have been a refreshing and liberating plod along the seafront. And I did eventually allow myself to enjoy it, once I was home and hosed. Next time, I’ll turn down the pressure a notch or two.
That’s it. Sorry for the long slog. It was hard enough writing it. Reading it must be worse.
