This step back into winter is just not funny any more. Should long, baking hot summer days ever become fashionable again here, I’m sure the cooling breeze off the Channel will be a good thing but in wintry times, these same maritime gusts mean another layer of pain, and I heartily disapprove of them.
While the more sensible folk of Eastbourne were wrapped up like Michelin men, the blank-faced joggers were chugging along in their own icy little worlds, wondering what the hell they thought they were thinking of when they opted to set off from their centrally heated homes. That’s how it felt to me, anyway. But I got through it — my 5-minute and two 8-minute runs, each separated by 3 minutes of purposeful striding. So 21 minutes in total, an advance on the previous best effort of 20.
The next 10 days or so will be interesting. After this week’s 8-minute runs, the program I’m following escalates these longer stretches to 10, 12, 15, 18, then 20 minutes over successive sessions. There’s no reason to think I can’t do these, though I won’t hesitate to repeat a day, or even take a step back, if the ascent seems too rapid and too precipitous. When I’m through that, we’re into possible 5K Parkrun territory but I’m not rushing it. There’s no point in guessing when that might be. I’ll know when it seems right.
The run itself was comfortable enough. Just inescapably grey, like the sea, the sky, and the distant cliffs. On a summer’s day the glare from the white escarpments form a brilliant contrast with the rich blue of the sea below. But at this time of the year they sort of fuse together, merging like one great dismal wave sloshing up against the land. It doesn’t lessen the appeal to the walkers though. Before I left the car, I sat and watched a continuous line of day hikers creep up the steep track above Holywell. As each made it to the top their silhouettes froze against the sky for a moment or two, before vanishing over the top and making way for the next to take the stage. The walk, to Beachy Head and Birling Gap, and possibly on across the Seven Sisters to Seaford, is one I’ve still not done, but shortly must.
I was so wrapped up in my plodding duties that I overlooked the other item in my calendar — the spring meeting of the bowls club I’m a member of. It’s almost time to get excited about the start of the season, which is nominally set for mid-April but which always depends on the rain gods’ cooperation. I’m hoping to take the sport more seriously this year after drifting in and out of it last year, my first full season. As mentioned previously, it’s not an aerobic workout but pretty good for balance and hand-eye coordination, and overall a useful extra bit of physical movement. But the main appeal is the pleasure of competition and the comforting, inconsequential chat that lubricates it.
