Well that was an interesting exercise. Not entirely successful, but great fun and, at times, beautiful.
Run/ walking is all new to me. The discipline required to take a break every ten minutes - never mind run at a slower pace than usual - does not come easy. I tried but failed on this front, especially in the last hour when in all truth the wheels got decidedly wobbly before coming off altogether. By then, over four hours into the journey, I was taking arbitrary walk-breaks of two or three minutes without taking note of how long I'd run in between.
It started very well, just after 7am (BST, so 6am to you and me). No rain but an eerie mist wrapped the downland summits, restricting visibility and adding to the wonderful feeling of solitude. Sheep and strutting rooks aside I was alone on the hills for two hours. I set off towards Kingston, up Juggs Lane onto Kingston Ridge, the hilly spine than runs around the back of Kingston Village before it climbs up onto the downs proper by way of the Big W. I usually walk the W anyway, finding the steep climb too harsh to run, and cheerfully did so here. My pace dropped to around 16 minutes per kilometre at the steepest point. I took advantage of these regular strolls to snap some shots (attached below).
From the top of the W I continued to climb to Castle Hill Nature Reserve, home to the largest collection of Wild Orchids in Sussex. The trail through the dense shrubbery drops sharply to join Death Valley, tucking back along the lush green cleveage nestled between the hills. The fields were full of proud mother sheep suckling their young, wholly disinterested in my heavy, breathless passing. If only they could have read my mind ... Mmmm: Mint sauce.
On through the abandoned farm buildings, a right turn and into the foothills of the Snake where I continued walking for 60 seconds every ten minutes. I struggled to maintain my 'agreed' running pace of 7:00 minutes per kilometre. As soon as I got distracted by the fabulous views and interesting flora & fauna my pace steadily increased to around 6 minutes to 6:30 per kilometre. Suzie mentioned how important pacing and regular walk-breaks are from the start so I knew I'd be paying a price for this bad behaviour. Up the Snake I managed to hold 7 minute kilometres on the dot, rewarding myself at the top with a chomp on some buttered malt bread and an extended drink. I'd loaded a rucksack with all manner of essentials. A windcheater, spare socks, additional water (I also donned a water belt but this clashed uncomfortably with the rucksack. Must invest in a 'grenade' belt), malt loaf slices, wine gums ... it felt more like an expedition than a run, a useful aid for getting my 'run/walk' head on. El Gordo speaks often about race/ distance heads and he's right as usual. This was no race, much more a test of endurance and discipline.
I loped on through Woodingdean, across Brighton Racecourse and down through East Brighton park to the marina. As luck (or meticulous planning - ho ho!) had it I arrived at precisely nine o'clock. I turned on the main road to see a multicoloured hoard gathered in the usual place. Adi, GillyBean, Stevio ... quite a few familiar faces appeared amidst the throng, swapping tales of training and recent races and seeking explanation for my sweaty appearance and bulging rucksack. And it is hear, dear Reader, that the best laid plans of Mice and Sweder came to grief. My natural instict was to run with familiar downlanders, chatting easily as we jogged eastwards along the cliff-tops as we do every Sunday. I missed my first walk-break and the next, finally remembering to stop just before we reached the drop into Saltdean. I pulled over and snapped a few shots, self-conscious as the peleton cruised by. Whilst the runners gathered at the restrooms I chugged on by, resolved to return to my game-plan come-what-may. Pah!
Halfway up Telscombe Tye the lead group caught me, asking again what I was up to. I told them of may crazy scheme and let them go. Then another batch bounced by, and another. It was miserable but I stuck to my snails' pace, jaw set, plodding ever onward as the sun, making a belated appearance on the first day of British Summe Time, got around to lifting the mist from the downs.
I followed the ridge behind Telscombe, now heading west, before turning right towards the North Face, a brutally steep escarpment dressed in thick mud. I walked up the footprint-hammered climb as yet more Jog Shop Joggers arrived from behind. As they caught their breath at the top I carried on, and so we played Tic-Tac-Toe all the way through Incontentent Cow Corner and on up the Yellow Brick Road. I felt pretty good chugging up here, but again I let my concentration slip. Despite a strong headwind I knuckled down and pushed hard all the way to the top as I might on a regular run, passing a number of strugglers along the way. Only as I bade them fairwell and set myself to fall back down the first stroke of the W towards home did it dawn on me I'd undone all the good work of the first two hours.
My whining legs reminded me of this and the fact that despite hauling half my wordly goods on this trek I had failed to pack any Ibuprofen. As I juddered down the slippery concrete road my knees groaned, swelling with every step. My calves were tight as piano wire and my errant plantar, spurred on by my militant legs, finally chimed in with this chorus of disapproval. I could have kicked myself (except I'd have fallen over).
Attrition is the enemy. The Connemara Ultra is certainly 'do-able.' Not only on paper - the race takes place over 39 miles on less-forgiving tarmac - but perhaps in real terms. Time is not a factor. Discipline and joint failure - swollen knees, dysfunctional feet, mutinous muscles - will be my undoing. Pain relief and anti-inflammatories will help, but by the time we get into the last of three consecutive half-marathons the alarm will be playing Tubular Bells. I need to find a way to deal with lactic acid. At some point during my third 10k I could feel my legs hardening as if someone had poured quick-drying cement into them. Bananas help, but I'd need a bigger backpack (or MarathonDan's Brighton Marathon Gorilla suit) to convey enough of them to get me round. Besides, there must be a less volumous, more scientific solution though I've yet to find it. I could use some of that Chia Fresca favoured by the Tarahumara, though the suggestion that it looks a lot like frogspawn may cause a problem or two. Google beckons.
I completed the W descent, ran/ walked past Kingston and back into Lewes. By now I’d covered around 34 kilometres, but I wanted more. I ran on through the town, past Anne of Cleaves and the beautiful Southover Church, around the station and on into the freshly-cobbled Cliffe High Street. In keeping with this stage of a road marathon I didn’t appear to be adding much mileage despite a good deal of (warm) sweaty effort. Warmth was a factor. To counteract possible chaffing from a variety of accessories - DAB radio (for live Australian Grand Prix coverage early on), the backpack and general nipple erosion, and to counter the chilling effects of the expected but mercifully absent deluge, I’d donned a long-sleeved Under Armour top beneath my Reading Half (2005) technical shirt. The lack of rain, welcome yet surprising sunshine and lack of inland wind combined to raise my temperature. By the time I got to the Gardiner’s Arms in Cliffe High Street – home of the best-kept pint of Harvey’s in the town according the Master Brewer – I could cheerfully have popped in for a half (well, several pints if I'm honest). In hindsight I should have done precisely that (I carried £2 for 'emergencies, enough for a half).
I pushed on up the long climb out of town towards Ringmer and Uckfield, turning left at the top to drop down to the riverside and pick up the Ouse riverbank trail. This was delightfully slick with slime and proved a devil to negotiate. My slow progress and growing fatigue meant disappointing progress on the Garmin. I looked again. Bugger; I’d managed to pause the bloody thing! Hopefully not that long ago … disheartened and devoid of ambition to carry on I turned left and started the long, brutally steep climb to home, the unforgiving concrete slabs stabbing my petrified thighs with every jarring tread. Home was a sight for sore legs. Mrs S returned with the dogs as I leaned, dripping nastily, against the house. 'You look dreadful' she chirped gleefully, before enthusiastically pointing out all the shrubs that needed moving and handing me a shopping list. Endurance is relative, as is the love of a good woman
The stats say (and remember they’re slightly unreliable) 39.63 kilometres (24.7 miles) in 4:56:09
Ascending 14.03 kilometres/ Descending 12.49 kilometres
Total elevation change +816 metres, -856 metres (eh?)
Weather: Misty early, brightening, breezy along coast, sunny later, no rain!
All in all I’m pretty happy. A near-marathon in under 5 hours on less than 20 kilometres per week is a fair return. Certainly the terrain was as undulating as we can expect in the west of Ireland. To counter that the ground for the most part was soft and kind to my tiring legs, though the last 8 kilometres were mostly on road and pavement. I’ll have to give myself a proper talking-to if we’re to complete the run in Connemara within the allotted time.
Pictures: Route map; Elevation map; Misty view (top BigW); Big W ascent; JSJers at 9; Drop to saltdean; Looking back down Yellow Brick Road; Top of the YBR (view over Lewes); Thunderheads over Lewes; Ouse north of Lewes
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Tremendous result Sweder, great to see this late plan coming together so well. I suspect Antonio may be getting worried; I don't think he originally intended to complete the course but now you're going to drag him round the whole bloody thing.
Is it possible to incorporate a few stretching breaks into your schedule as well? Might help with the legs. But of course that means you have to progress faster between the stretches.
I don't know what your Garmin is capable of, but I recommend the old-fashioned pace band on the wrist for pace planning.
You are a machine SW! I am impressed. It is hard to stick to the slower pace; so easy to get distracted and pick it up. I always carry either Advil or Ibprofen with me on a long run (and usually take one half way through just for good measure).
I'm still very happy to be doing the half and not joining you and Antonio for this 'fun' run. And I'm still shaking my head over you deciding to do it!
Shamefully Dan I too have no idea what the Garmin can do. It may be possible to set an alarm if I go too fast. I know I can set a virtual partner to guide me on time & distance. It's crazy. I know I can preserve my legs if I stick to the plan. I can map a route that avoids meeting up with other runners but there again on the day I'll have my co-Connemarians all around me so best I try to get a grip and not worry about others.
Suzie that's good advice. I've done that with Ibuprofen on road runs before and I'll need to do it this time too.
I slipped out for a 45 minute spin session at Bridge's House of Fun last night and took it easy, working warm blood through tired muscles. It felt good, so I'm planning on a recovery run plus a second spin this week and another leisurely meander early on Sunday, though probably nothing more than 15 miles or so, just to work on pace management.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Your long run on Sunday sounds like a great achievement after just 20k per week leading up to it. I wish that I could come and join you this Sunday but I will probably still be on running rest after seeing the physio of Thursday.
My calf is feeling good whilst I'm just strolling around and race walking. I've done two race walking sessions in two days, but when I give it a self massage I can feel that it is pretty minced up with lots of sore lumps.
(30-03-2010, 01:26 PM)ladyrunner Wrote: ... but when I give it a self massage I can feel that it is pretty minced up with lots of sore lumps.
Sounds like you have something in common with Ricky Martin
Come along if you like; you'd be most welcome. As you can see my pace is modest at best, pedestrian by your standards. I quite fancy mapping an all-new run through town, up past the golf course, across the east Lewes downs to Mount Caeburn, Firle Beacon and ... well, let's see eh?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(30-03-2010, 01:49 PM)Sweder Wrote: Come along if you like; you'd be most welcome. As you can see my pace is modest at best, pedestrian by your standards. I quite fancy mapping an all-new run through town, up past the golf course, across the east Lewes downs to Mount Caeburn, Firle Beacon and ... well, let's see eh?
Lets see how painful my leg is at the Physio's this week. I'm very tempted though
Despite the end of the world arriving in Sussex overnight I elected to pull on my runners and hit the hills. I can’t remember a windier, wetter, muddier outing; it was brilliant! Relaxed, Garmin-less (I’d left it attached to my lap-top at work) and with dogs in tow I stepped into the maelstrom, grinning like a fool, happy to be out in the elements.
Yesterday was a mixed bag. First my order of Chia Seeds arrived and I busied myself making my first ever Chia Fresca, preferred beverage of the Tarahumara. I followed Glaconman’s advice, warming honey and adding lemon juice (I’ll get some limes today) to the waterlogged seeds, by then clearly resembling frogspawn. The mixture tasted a good deal better than it looked, and had the desired effect (probably psychosomatic at this early stage).
Then we had the Bayern/ Rowdies match, providing a reversal of fortunes from that match in 1999. On that occasion Bayern were by far the better side, taking an early lead, hitting the woodwork as they assaulted a pitiful United team who looked lost and bewildered in the Camp Nou before Messrs Sherringham and Solskjaer combined to drive a steak through German hearts.
Last night the full moon (or was it that blasted LHC?) worked its magic as that wrong was righted. United – for periods at least – were the better team, spurning several chances to put the game to bed. They scored via their talisman in the second minute and continued to probe, though with less conviction perhaps than if they’d missed that chance. You can score too early it seems; United certainly did. Every Manchester player seemed to know that, with the away goal in the bank, the raft of chances eschewed during the first half didn’t really matter. All except one man, that man. A man who unwittingly deflected Ribery’s free kick past his own 'keeper to level the scores, who worked tirelessly to win possession ofa ball constantly given to the opposition by his sleep-walking team-mates and who, even as the coup de grace was despatched from Olich’s unerring boot, lay prone, gasping for air, grasping his injured ankle in utter despair on the halfway line. It was not quite Sammy Kufour banging his fist into the Nou Camp turf but to some, me included, it was much more significant.
The match contained some interesting cameos. Ribery versus Neville was a horribly one-sided contest between two men not known for their ability to raise a lady’s pulse (unless confronted after dark in an alley). At times it looked as if Neville were playing in front of a magic mirror; now you see your reflection (in a red shirt), now you don’t. Olich looked cursed, doomed to miss chances, to fluff his lines in front of the fervent Bayern fans, until that final, glorious side-step and assured finish past the otherwise excellent Van der Sar.
I spent most of the second half straining to hear the Five Live commentary as I scoured the Lewes streets for my AWOL teenage daughter. Free of the shackles of school (Easter break) she’d arranged to sleep over at a friend's house. The plan unravelled when said friend's father rang to say he needed P’s mobile number as 'another parent was trying to reach their daughter.' Alarm bells clanged horribly, drowning out Andy Gray's gutteral pronouncements from Munich. Why, are they not with you? They’d gone ‘into town to get some chips’ some time ago and had not yet returned. After trying and failing to contact any of them I set off in my truck to scan the streets, visions of of drunken gangs emerging from noisy pubs filling my head even as Simon Brotherton continued to wind me up by ignoring Bayern’s equaliser. He boldly continued to assert that ‘Rooney’s early strike separates the sides’ although I'd clearly seen Ribery's free kick, handed to him on a plate my his struggling doppleganger, sail into the United net not five minutes earlier. Like my daughter Brotherton came to realise the error of his ways, attoning by repeating the correct score every 90 seconds or so until Olich bagged the winner. It didn't help my mood.
Finally I found my daughter, plastered in mud (they’d been ‘up on the downs’, a euphemism in my experience for gathering with boys to smoke and drink alcohol). She observed me through weary, droopy eyes, a look of resigned surrender on her pale young face, and climbed slowly into the passenger seat. Sometimes there’s no need for words. We tracked down the person who had her phone (hence the earlier lack of response to my calls) and returned home just in time for Ruud Gullitt to spell out in his doleful, hang-dog way just how utterly dreadful United had been.
As I ran over the slick mud this morning, droplets of freezing rain whipped into my face by a rageing south-easterly blow, my mind wandered towards the weekend. For United and Rooney a season-defining week has started about as badly as it possibly could. My day-dream, welcome for the distraction it offered from the foul conditions, presented a montage. I wish I could edit film clips. If I could I’d put it up on YouTube for a giggle. It’s an amalgam of a scene from Star Wars: Return of the Jedi and the pre-Chelsea press conference at Old Trafford. In the original movie scene the Evil Emperor explains to young Jedi Luke Skywalker that the hitherto crippled Death Star is, despite it’s half-built appearance, in fact a fully operational Space Station.
In my recreated scene Lord Ferg appears in front of the sports media, suitably robed and hooded, or maybe even in his nocturnal garb of shiny black helmet replete with rasping voice-distorter, to reveal, despite the appearance of crutches and a large bandage, a ‘fully armed and operational’ Wayne Rooney in time for Saturday's crunch game. Cue cut-away shots of Ray Wilkins (played by Christopher Lloyd in full Uncle Fester regalia) recoiling in wide-eyed horror next to Ancelotti, his amazing performing eyebrow wriggling up his forehead and out of the frame.
Hmm. Perhaps I should go easy on those Chia seeds.
Anyway, the run itself was, despite the conditions, delightful. I donned leggings and windcheater and kept to a steady, relaxed pace. At certain points the terrain was pure swamp, splashing gloopy mud up my legs and soaking my off-roaders (and socks). I nearly went over a couple of times, letting out a yelp of alarm that morphed into a hysterical laugh as I avoided what would surely be a tumble that would register at CERN. The round trip took a shade under 50 minutes (according to the kitchen clock). My legs felt good as I stretched in the rain. Another spin session tomorrow, the good Good Friday Friday run with the Jog Shop (on Friday) and another cross-country ramble on Sunday should see me right for Connemara. Sort of.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Congratulations, S. You seem to be fit enough to do the ultra marathon. I´m very glad you´re going to do it. I don´t know if I´ll be fit enough to finish it but I´ll do my best. However, if I am realistic, I don´t think I´ll be able to do it under 7 hours thirty minutes. My aim is to try to finish it under 8 hours thirty minutes if I´m allowed. So, you´d better keep your pace since I´m sure you´re fit enough to do it under the cut-off limit in spite of having been injured and not trained specifically for that race.
I´ve thought about what Suzie advised me. She said that I should take one minute walks more frequently, for instance, 4 minutes run, one minute walk. I´ve practised that pace and I found it all right. I think that would be good for me since my level of fitness and training for the distance is not very good. Actually, it has been quite poor. Although last month I did 165 kilomnetres, my longest run was 22 kilometres.
I´ve read that we can leave three items at three different mile markers. As you have more experience than me in ultra races, I´d like to ask you what items we could take and where we could leave them.
Try to walk the steeper hills .. you'll save more energy and lose less time.
And don't think of them as walk "breaks". They aren't breaks .. they're an essential part of the run. As ladyrunner would say, it's "race walking".
The very best of luck to both of you. 7 and a half hours is going to be tough but it's a real challenge and I reckon you could show some of those hardened ultra runners a thing or two....
Hope you found that Marco Olmo clip inspirational.... 60 years old and still a living legend of the European trail running scene.
The Olmo clip is outrageous. To make matters worse I'm head-deep into Born To Run.
Antonio the idea is that we run/walk together to get to the finish. If it takes 8 hours 30 then so be it. I'm happy to go at your pace.
As for the three things we can plant along the way I would say a jacuzzi, a crate of beer and a motorcycle Seriously I don't know. I plan to carry food & drink in my rucksack. I guess spare clothes in case it's raining? More water or energy drink?
I'm really impressed by your training mileage: 164 kms in one month? That's excellent preparation. I've only done 110 kms this month - and that includes 40 kms last Sunday!
Let's see how it goes.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
How frequent are the water stops on the ultra? If reasonable then you shouldn't need to leave drinks at the mile stops. Unless you are planning to use energy drinks, in which case you might not want to be carrying several litres of those. Your food requirements should be fairly light and portable - I'm sure the organisation is good but I think I'd be happier knowing that my energy bars etc were safely stowed in my rucksack.
(31-03-2010, 10:34 PM)Sweder Wrote: The Olmo clip is outrageous. To make matters worse I'm head-deep into Born To Run.
Antonio the idea is that we run/walk together to get to the finish. If it takes 8 hours 30 then so be it. I'm happy to go at your pace.
As for the three things we can plant along the way I would say a jacuzzi, a crate of beer and a motorcycle Seriously I don't know. I plan to carry food & drink in my rucksack. I guess spare clothes in case it's raining? More water or energy drink?
I'm really impressed by your training mileage: 164 kms in one month? That's excellent preparation. I've only done 110 kms this month - and that includes 40 kms last Sunday!
Let's see how it goes.
That´s very kind of you, S. I think we could go together until we do the marathon, hopefully in 5 hours. Then, you could do the last half marathon under 2 hours thirty minutes so that you can do the whole ultra under 7 hours 30 minutes. Therefore, I´d still have three hours thirty minutes to run / walk - mainly the latter- the last 13 miles.
Looking forward to meeting all of you in Dublin next week.
Issued my formal request to Connemarathon organisers upgrade from 'half' to 'Ultra' this afternoon.
Hopefully they'll discount the date before chucking it in the bin ... er, giving it their due consideration.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(01-04-2010, 04:12 PM)Sweder Wrote: Issued my formal request to Connemarathon organisers upgrade from 'half' to 'Ultra' this afternoon.
Hopefully they'll discount the date before chucking it in the bin ... er, giving it their due consideration.
Err ... they took me seriously ...
'This is such an unusual request I will allow it :-)
Well done - It's great to hear someone doing well.
I will change your number in the morning. Meanwhile see below an email that went to all ultra participants.
Regards
Ray'
Gulp
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Tootled along to the Jog Shop good Good Friday Friday run.
To explain, it's a good run on a Friday, which also happens to be Good Friday. Oh please yourselves.
It's an out-and-back race along the east Brighton cliff-tops, a gentle four mile meander out to The Wire (just past Saltdean) followed by a helter-skelter, eyeballs-out blatt back to the Marina. I decided to take it easy in both directions, not wanting to tempt fate this close to the daunting challenges of Connemara.
Inspired by my current delve into the dusty canyon treasure of Born to Run I elected to take my Vibram FiveFingers along. I started in my beloved (and now extremely thread-bare) red Mizuno off-roaders, packing the Barefoot skins in my ever-present rucksack. Mercifully the weeping heavens had taken a breather, the sun peeking out from behind the moody clouds on the stroke of four PM. A strong offshore wind added a chill to proceedings as we loped off into the east. It was hard to discern if this would help or hinder the sprint home, and I decided worrying about made no sense as we could change neither route nor weather..
Forty minutes later I arrived at The Wire, the rusty chain-link fence that happens to be precisely six kilometres from the marina steps, found a small dip in which to change footwear and proceeded to fumble about with the Vibrams. It dawned on me that I might have been better served putting these on at home during the day so as to 'inflate' the snug (and still horribly crinkled) toe slots. Oh well. Sam growled us to order before I'd managed to squeeze my baby toes into their pockets so I left them crushed in besides their neighbours. Thrusting my Mizunos into my backpack I joined the racers for the off.
True to my earlier pronouncement I took it very easy, loping back up the first slope at roughly the same pace as I'd arrived. The peleton took off before me, all pumping elbows and quick, short strides. Despite the mis-aligned pinkies my feet rejoiced at their reacquaintance with soft, yielding turf without the barrier of a thick cushioned sole. I started thinking about changing my gait, landing on the fleshy forefoot rather than hammering in my bony heel, when disaster struck.
Cresting the tallest hill above Saltdean, just past the memorial cross, the cliff-top plummets towards the sea, a perilous rollercoaster drop marked by a distinct lack of grass along the fence line. So wrapped up was I in foot-falls and stride patterns I failed to detect the lack of grippy grass as I tilted into the descent. With the angle away from me so acute I couldn't help but land one of the slick Vibram skins on the slippery mud heel-heavy. In a scene reminiscent of those wonderful Buster Keaton movies my foot, soon accompanied by its' partner, shot out from under me. Time slowed impossibly as my body flipped up, perfectly horizontal with the ground now several feet below me. I sucked in a huge lungful of air as the few runners around me started to turn their heads towards me ... then WHUMP! My bulk hit the deck with remarkable force. The air I'd been drawing in left my lungs in a rush. My rucksack flew up my back to clout me in the head. I could feel my ample backside dredging a layer of mud off the hillside as I slid along; buy the ticket, I thought, take the ride. Then my feet found purchase and I launched into an upright stance, somehow managing to continue to run as my weight shifted forward then downward. I slithered across to a patch of grass, relieved to find purchase as I accelerated towards the on-rushing concrete in the hollow between the hills.
'You OK?' An astonished, concerned voice from above and behind. 'Yep,' my curt, embarrassed reply invited no further inquiry. Adrenaline flooded through me as I continued to pound out a much quicker pace, performing a fair sling-shot through the dip and halfway up the opposite climb. Moving well, the dull ache in my lower back starting to make itself known, I pushed on, reeling in a few stragglers. Best get fresh, warm blood flowing around that battered backside. My pace settled at around five minutes per kilometre until the last mile when I pushed it to 4:45, pretty much my Almeria Half PB speed.
As I gulped air at the finish Stevio, looking horribly cool and untroubled after a comfortable run (some five minutes quicker than mine), ambled up, eyes widening at the sight of my mud-spattered kit. 'Bloody hell what happened? You take a tumble?' I offered a mumbled account drawing barely muffled chuckles from those around me. I gazed forlornly down at the Vibrams. 'Guess I should have taken these out on a quiet local run before today.' Like most wise words these came too late to spare my blushes. Happily ibuprofen and a night on the tiles with Captain Tom and Seafront Plodder, sampling the excellent, just-released Harveys Olympia Ale, worked healing magic.
Sorry to report that Mrs S has fared less well. A trapped nerve in her shoulder has caused consecutive sleepless nights. She's in terrible pain despite chugging the contents of a small pharmacy. We're off to see a number of physicians and witch-doctors today in the hope she can be cured. The alternative is to cancel our trip to Connemara, something I'd really rather not think about just now.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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