February 2013

[The Beast of Bevendean]

I look forward to it, and conditions look good. At the same time, about thirteen miles to our west, thousands upon thousands of runners will be on the Brighton half. 'The noise, my dear! And the people!' as a young exquisite of a Guards officer was supposed to have said when asked to describe the Dunkirk evacuation.

[Sweder]

What a difference a week makes. Last Sunday I had the flesh flailed from my bones by winter's whip. Today was all sun-kissed golden hills with a light spring breeze to shove us gently on our way.

There was a bit of mud. Alright, a lot of mud. In fact, the first 2.4 miles were pretty much Mud City. Tom and I were joined by eminent Lewesian Rob K Read, a fellow Rooks/ Rookettes fanatic and regular scribe for the excellent local monthly, Viva Lewes. Rob is relatively new to running and this would be by some stretch his longest outing.

Having met at the Friston/ Cuckmere interchange we set off up through Friston forest. The mud trails were slippery, snaking around trees and bracken. Happily I used to be a dab hand at SEGA Rally Championship (arcade version) and I whooped as I slid sideways into a series of slick bends. We chatted (as much as we could) as we climbed, about Sussex folk of yore, running shoes, Jog Shop Sam and the like. At the exit, next to All Saints Church at Westdean, we became confused by a bewildering array of road-laying machinery and the heavy waft of fresh tar. Tom proclaimed that we should drop down to East Dean and thence Birling Gap via the Church graveyard, whereupon he set off in the opposite direction. After a hundred yards or so he stopped to admonish himself as he turned back towards the conspicuous spire.
'Hmm. The clue was in the word 'church' wasn't it?'

We slipped through the last resting place of several Sussex souls before cavorting down the lush green slopes into East Dean. I did my best Little House on The Prairie take-off which morphed, mid leap, into an ugly, heel-clicking parody of Ron Santo, celebrated Third Baseman for the Chicago Cubs.

At East Dean we hit the road to Birling Gap. Rob related a tale of some folks who use to live in the Fisherman's Cottages ahead. They now rent the property out to artists and writers, whist their neighbours recently sold theirs for a pound, so high is the insurance for houses hanging by their damp course to the eroding cliffs. Another right turn, onto the first of the Seven Sisters. I don't believe I've ever known the names of these Great Dames (Tom knew a few - easy now, Tom knew a few of the Sisters. Oh, come on ...), so I've looked them up. As you might imagine each sister has a bottom. That is to say, for each peak there is a corresponding trough, and they too have names. I've shown these in brackets after each Sister, named east to west, the order in which we ran them today:

Went Hill Brow (Michael Dean)
Bailey's Hill (Flat Hill Bottom)
Flat Hill (Flagstaff Bottom)*
Flagstaff Point/ Flagstaff Brow (Gap Bottom)
Brass Point (Rough Bottom)
Rough Brow (Limekiln Bottom)
Short Brow (Short Bottom)
Haven Brow

*Tom's tale, told as we crested Flagstaff Brow, of an aquaintance who had recently named his progeny Flagstaff Catchpole, had us chuckling through our gasps for breath. That's some handle.

Haven Brow is so-named as it offers a cracking view of Cuckmere Haven, the point at which the Cuckmere River kisses the English Channel through a series of shallow sand bars. We turned north, dropping down to run alongside the river and back to the car park.

   
I have no idea how my arms got so incredibly long

A mere 8.1 miles, but with that early slippery ascent and the considerable undulations of the Sisters I felt like I'd earned a cuppa. A cracking run and top company. Here's to a better running week and a return to some serious mileage next Sunday.

On, on!

[Sweder]

As I still can't post more than one photo per post via iPad (???) here's one of Tom and Rob heading along the road towards Birling Gap

   

[Antonio247]

It must be great to go for a run in such beautiful scenery, on such a lovely day and with good friends, S.

[Sweder]

Three outings this week, including some stiff 300 metre hill reps. Time has been limited but getting out, even if its only for half an hour, is important, especially if I can work as hard as I did on Thursday. There's no quicker way to exhaust lungs or muscles than repeatedly flogging yourself up a steep slope.

Lovely short shift this morning with Louise. Light snow added a fairy-tale backdrop for our lope around Landport Bottom. Lewes lay below, her misty shroud shimmering in the weak sunshine. Tomorrow I'll head out with the JSJ crew, aiming for 17 miles in what may prove to be challenging conditions. Can't wait.

[Sweder]

Ah, there it is. That 'tough' run, the run that says 'there's plenty of work to do'.
Bone-chilled, under heavy grey skies, I joined the JSJ 8am group above the Marina. Not many in the pack this week, the balance tipped firmly in favour of the quick and the dead fit. A cruel north wind whipped our flesh as we huddled before the off.

I was already cross with myself. In my haste to leave on time I'd left my Garmin on the sideboard and failed to secure a proper energy gel. Three miles in my mood was further soured by another schoolboy error: starting too quickly. With the wind at our backs we'd eased into the east, covering the undulations to Saltdean a good few minutes faster than usual. Adi declared an 18 miler, cutting out the North Face and YBR, adding on a few miles at the end by extending the reservoir section post-Snake. I signed up, slightly worried at the calibre of runner in this group, yet keen to stretch my mileage after last week's step-back.

Eschewing the usual Jog Shop 20 route meant we had to scale Kingston Ridge via the south face. I'd run this way once before, in the near-dark, on one of my pre-Connemara walk-run sessions. I'd forgotten how challenging this section was. Almost a mile of steep ascent on exposed, frozen ground, arms pumping, head down, short strides making apparently little headway into the icy headwind. Bleak. My fellow runners struggled, a crumb of comfort as I forced myself on. By the time we reached the summit my gloved hands were frozen, my iPhone had packed up in protest and my belly ached for sustenance. I pulled out the half banana from my shorts pocket. It seemed wholly inadequate.

   

An hour later we stood, frozen and gasping, at the top of the Snake. Adi confirmed my suspicions.
'2 hours fifteen - that's quick'
Too rich for my blood. My legs cried out for the short route home. Turn right here and it's a relatively easy two mile drop through the park. Turn left and face another hour of torment. These are the moments where campaigns stand or fall, the kind of challenge one faces at the business end of a marathon. Self-doubt, pain, a yearning for it all to end.

I took a swig of water and grinned. There really was no choice to be made. Six miles later, legs screaming, I flogged myself home along the cliff tops, The Quicks colourful specs on the horizon. As I pulled up by the Marina steps my mind howled 'stretch!'. After a token effort the drive home was excrutiating. The apres shower was long, hot and wonderfully indecent.

18.6 miles. Tough.

[Sweder]

The 'new' ascent shall henceforth be referred to as Heartbreak Ridge.
Certaintly sums up how I felt pulling myself up the bloody thing yesterday.

[The Beast of Bevendean]

Ah, the first fine careless rupture!

[Sweder]

Ah, the first fine careless rupture!

Oh, to be in England
Now that Winter's (still) here

Rupture is as good a word as any for my post-run condition. That session tore the legs off me. I feel remarkably chipper today, not to mention upright, which I could not have foreseen yesterday afternoon.

[marathondan]

Tremendous long effort Sweder. As you say, these are the runs that separate the men from the boys (ditto ladies / girls).