Is This The Way To Almeria?

[Sweder]

Signed up for the 2019 edition, my ... 12th? 13th, perhaps. 
Ah well. I've signed up on the basis that if I do so I'll HAVE to get off this couch and actually run a bit, otherwise I will be dodging the road-sweepers and missing the Sunday lunch starter. 

Hamstring trouble at ParkRun #97 meant two weeks with no running, during which I opened and closed events in Rotterdam and Panama. Back-to-back shows at the end of a long year was not the best prep for a half marathon campaign. I'm knackered.

And yet ... relaxed about things. I'm back running, twice a week (last week) in the damp hills, ParkRun on Saturday (formally cancelled by the organiser on health & safety grounds after a deluge; a few of us did it anyway). That would have been #98. I reckon with that rogue run I've bagged at least four that didn't count (no barcode on the day being the anomally for the previous three). 

I joined ParkRun in March 2008, well over 10 years ago. 
I wonder if my ton will be one of the slowest, chronologically, in ParkRun history? A dubious honour which I rather like the sound of.
Chatting with OATR the other day, we figured most taking that long would either have passed the milestone, passed away or given running up as a bad job. Research required. There are just over 50,000 in the '100 Club' out of a total of 2.9 million individuals who have/ do run ParkRuns. There are 3,300 in the +250 Club and a measly 26 have completed more than 500 since the first run around Bushy Park back in 2004. 

Brian Courage, a fellow Moyleman trustee (and a fine runner) is also on 97, though over less time. It would be nice to complete our centuries together, albeit that I'll come home a good 5 minutes after Brian on the day. 

I returned to the Twittens yesterday after quite a few weeks. It was tough, but not so nasty as to convince me to ditch them altogether in favour of longer hills and softer ground. This was followed by the small matter of Lewes v Manchester United Women at the Dripping Pan. A crowd of 1958 crammed into the old place to witness one of the bravest performances I've seen in years. 

United, apparently given a budget of 5 million over three seasons, are full-time; they train five days per week, eating, resting and having massages in between training sessions with their phalanx of coaches, led by former England international Casey Stoney. Our lot have day jobs and train three evenings a week. It's a long, dull story; teams in the FA Women's Championship are supposed to have 8 hours 'contact' - training/ match time - per week. United, forged in Satan's furnace over the summer, should by rights be in the Women's Super League, with City, Arsenal, Chelsea et al, but because the FA needed them to join in yet did not want to be seen to slide them in at the top, we have this swaggering cuckoo in our division.  

Here's a link to the match day Progcast, our paperless, interactive, free-to-download match programme
https://wp.me/pa4SLB-hG
   

Our illustrious guests ran out 2-0 winners, though we held them at zeros well past half-time, a feat the partisan crowd celebrated loudly during the interval. United thumped Millwall 8-0 last week, and Villa 12-0, at Villa earlier in the season. I was hugely proud of our players for putting on such an impressive, defiant display, and of our club for hosting such. a large crowd. Down to Earth with a bump this week, we're away to Millwall on a wet Wednesday night for a dead Conti Cup rubber. Football, bloody hell.

Back to running, there's no training plan for me (cue the groans), just a general commitment to get our 3-5 times per week and chuck in a couple of 10 - 12 milers in January. That should see me right for Almeria, where the news from Antonio is they've tweaked the course. Again. Nice to know there should be some chaos on the day.

I'll pop in here now and then with an update. 
Toodle pip.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Good work, Sweder. Are you writing it all down? Your book should be at about a squillion words by now.

[Charliecat5]

I'm running a 10 mile plus run most weekends.  It isn't quick, and it often isn't pretty... but when you're ready...

[Seafront Plodder]

Has there ever been a year when they haven't tweaked the course in Almeria?

[OutAlongTheRiver]

I need to start doing weekday runs ... still not yet successfully kicked into that. Trains/weather/groin/work (not necessarily in that order) have been the obstacles. If you can get the miles in during the week then good stuff indeed!

[Bierzo Baggie]

Good that you've got that Almeria target Sweder...half marathons are tough! 

Love the whole park run set-up ...can only see positives in it. Have only done 2 or 3 of them though. 

Great update on the footie too. So glad to see that the Lewes ladies are above the vile Villa in the league table 

[The Beast of Bevendean]

Well done; I look forward to accompanying you on your century run. OATR and I were discussing this on the way back from Bevvers the other day. It is possible, for example, to join the marathon 100 club in a little over two years, by running one every weekend. There's enough marathons these days to do that. But at what price to one's relationships, loved ones, sanity? 100 parkuns is a fine achievement, and not to be criticised.

[Antonio247]

I'm sure you'll be fit enough for Almería, S. Best of luck with your training and park runs!

Looking forward to meeting you and all the team soon in Almería.

[Sweder]

Plans have changed a bit. Hamstrings twanged and now my 100th ParkRun is likely to be on New Year's Day.
Happily Tom will one there. 99 will most likely be at Bevendean, again with Tom and Rob.

I feel my relationship with running has changed, perhaps permanently. I've drifted so far off the regular running track, it's become a recreational distraction rather than a key part of life. One reason for this is my physical decay. Knees, hamstrings, feet are all suffering to some degree. Yes, perhaps more exercise is the answer. My gut feeling is it's not.

My body seems to be depreciating rather like a second hand sports car left out in all weathers. My left knee is in need of attention (the right is about the same since surgery). Hamstrings are pinging at a regular rate. I'm sure this is a result of flabby arse syndrome (FAS) and might be put right by more sensible cold weather attire and some actual non-running exercise; squats, burpees and such.

Energy levels are way off too. Ironically, this is partly down to lack of running. I knows this because when I run my mood brightens as do these ailments, to some degree. Overall life is as hectic as ever. My self-diagnosis is, something's gotta give. Too much going on, a full workload and a packed social schedule leave little room for proper rest.

Almeria looms large on the horizon, just 5 short weekends away. Not enough time to improve or reach a sub-2 hour standard (my initial hope for 2019) but enough time to strengthen some sinews and bolster resolve. My aim will be to finish in reasonable shape so I can enjoy the spoils of victory with yet another impressively large contingent from these shores. To do that I'll need to get a couple of +10 milers under my straining belt. Our planned team-day vacation in mid-January might help.

One thing is certain. Running, or a derivative of running, will remain on the agenda.
For, as it says somewhere on this site, running is the answer. On, on.

[Antonio247]

If you don't mind going at my pace, S., we can do it together. My aim is to start at a soft pace and if I feel well to go faster in the last kilometres.


Saludos desde Almería.

[Sweder]

YES Antonio, this is my strategy, exactly. It is the taking part that's important, not the winning.

Training has been incredibly gentle. That's not to say I haven't done any, just that I've restricted myself to a couple of easy outings per week. With recurring hamstring niggles and not enough time to make a major difference I see no point in busting a gasket just to knock a minute or two off the run. I prefer to finish, finish well and be fit and ready for the festivities to follow.

I did bag my 100th ParkRun on New Year's Day, a feat that took 10 years, 9 months and 3 days to complete. My 101st was perhaps more notable. I was still a-bed 30 minutes before the start and a couple of miles short at kick-off. I threw myself out of the car and into the race, running at, for me just now, an extraordinary pace in an attempt to 'catch up' with the rest. This reminded me of my favourite ever half marathon, the 2007 Brighton Half, where Moyleman and I did a six mile warm-up along the cliff-tops before crossing the start line 20 minutes late. Read all about it, and the LODA, here

   

Of course this plan failed miserably. The Winter course at Peacehaven starts with a rather banal square, or mini-loop, to negate the slippery off-road climb usually encountered on the first lap. I'd forgotten about this in my haste to catch up. As I spied Tom, marshalling post rib-crack (our Chief of Marshals fell off a sea wall after delivering a NYD Seaford Run safety briefing), resplendent in tweed, I noticed he was jabbing, wide-eyed, at his watch. The penny dropped.
'Ah, no' - huff puff - 'not done the square yet!'
He nodded sagely.

So, as I closed in on what should have been the finish line, I had to signal to the confused Park Run finish line team that I had to pass by to complete the required yardage. Not sure my semaphore was up to snuff but they seemed to grasp my meaning. I ended up netting 5.03 kms so pretty much on the money for once.

What's next?
I have a week of relative calm, which will include some running, hopefully an 'extended' outing to Blackcap tomorrow morning. Then I'm traveling for a week before starting my Almeria taper. It's all going rather well, lack of running aside.

On, on.

[Sweder]

Only Fools and Guard Pigs

I'm in Mexico this week. Not the smog-bound megalopolis that is Mexico City, or the perpetual nocturnal thump of Cancun, but the hitherto unexplored (by me, anyway) southern reaches of the Baja peninsula.

My hotel is parked on a beach around fifteen minutes from the city. It's filled to the brim with American nationals who need to bellow every utterance into the back of the skull of their closest neighbour. There was no sign of this lot when I slunk out of the lobby, aided by vicious jet-lag, at the crack of Thursday's dawn. The ocean, dimly lit by light leaking into the eastern sky, crashed in on the small beach, roaming around the rocks before sucking a layer of skin off the the sand. 

I shuffled along the steep camber, peering into the gloom beyond the building. Craggy rocks rose from the shore-line like the arched spine of the Humpbacks that patrol the Sea of Cortez at this time of year. I scrambled up the escarpment, loose rock spilling beneath my feet, hands chaffed by the rough surface. Huffing and puffing, I heaved my already sweating carcass up onto a cactus-lined trail. This climbed towards what a distant roar told me must be the highway. I set off at a steady pace, waiting for my lungs to recover

After a couple of twists I spied a cab-less trailer, apparently abandoned on the left side of the path. As I approached, a light-brown blur shot out from the shadows. The blur had a gaping maw at the front end, from which a blood-curdling howl delivered an unambiguous invitation to fuck off. Even as my heart lodged in my throat the blur froze, an unseen rope running taught with an inaudible twang. Thank Christ for that! I uttered some meaningless Spanish words that might've been 'hello, hello old chap, just passing through, I'll be on my way' as I skirted the animal's well-worn circle. The dog, apparently well-fed, strained with all it's might to test the leash. It held, and I scuttled off up the slope feeling mightily relieved.

Two minutes later I was staring at a chain-locked gate topped with razor wire. A dead end. There were no obvious paths out and the surrounding bush, now lightly glazed in daylight, housed scores of large, spiny cacti. I had to go back. I started calling early. The hound appeared, snarling, not in the least bit surprised to see me.

'Ah, senior, you have been forced to return, no? Now, where we're we?'
Where we were, it turns out, was the dog howling for my blood and me scuttling by, offering prayers to the God of Ropes and Tethers. 

As the hell-hound's cries drifted away I looked about. Across a couple of creases in the landscape I spied a runner, chugging up a similar slope but on the other side of a rusty chainlink fence. Aha. I'd cut inland a little early. No matter, I'll simply traverse these two 'dips' in the hillside and ... bugger. The 'dips' turned out to be ravines, heavily camouflaged with more dense cacti and all manner of inhospitable flora, including a thing that looked uncannily like one of H R Giger's alien eggs, with added spikes. Dropping down into one fold I searched for a path. Sort of one, just over there ... 
I put my hand down to steady myself and withdrew a paw full of needles. 
'Yeeeooooowwww!' 

More mis-steps and I was wrapped in what I must assume were remarkably sticky spiders' webs. Christ. What kind of dumbass does this in an unknown land? Snakes, anyone? I glanced down. Hmm. A snake had not produced the impressive pile of excreta that lay before me. If it had it would have needed an aperture akin to a beer can to pass that. I didn't want to meet that snake. But what, pray, had left this? I couldn't worry about that now. I set off across another crevasse before finally joining the trail. This was more like it! A proper trail, coated in a thin layer of wind-swept sand over semi-hard mud. It must be a bike track, I thought, hoping I was out too early to be hunted down by a pack of rabid BMXers. 

It turned out this was quite the find. The trail was perfect; winding through the desert scrub, rolling up and down at regular intervals to offer just the right amount of elevation. There were cross-trails that I ignored until one obviously led towards the ocean. Sure enough, I was disgorged onto a beach where the footing became increasingly soft, inducing a slow-mo effect on my forward motion. I clambered back up, rejoined the bike track and, keeping the hotel in sight, navigated home. 4.8 kms and a decent amount of elevation, an ideal pre-breakfast work-out. I rewarded myself with a cool, salty dip, the rumbustious surf about as hospitable as Cujo. 

And so to this morning. Forewarned is fore-armed, eh? I set off on a similar route, this time cutting inland a little later, avoiding the false trail and my four-legged fiend. I found what appeared to be the main drag, heading south west, roughly in parallel with the shore. I put some effort in and got going, mind drifting to other things as a couple of easy kilometres rolled by. The track took a long, sweeping turn to the left, oceanwards, I figured. I passed several out-buildings, all in various states of disrepair, before what appeared to be two horse corrals appeared, one closer, to the right, the other further down the track, to the left. They each had a small, solid-looking object tied to the outside of the railing. These things had legs, but they weren't canine. They looked like barrels ...

As I peered into the gloom I heard a familiar sound behind me. A dog, clearly incensed that some Gringo had slipped past him as he snoozed under one of the old shacks. I grinned, slowing down, and turned towards the din. There he was, a medium-sized bundle of muscle and teeth, head as big as his chest, hurtling down the slope, baying for blood. I rolled my eyes and waited for the telling snap of a restrain. I waited, but came there none. There was no rope. This dog was on the loose, and he was doing about 25 miles per hour, mouth wide open, straight at me.

I froze. Instantly, I realised I wasn't going to get away. I might make ten yards before a bear-trap flayed one of my calves. Bloody hell!
I turned to face the monster, now no more than 20 yards away. Still coming full-tilt.
 
'Hola! Amigo! Como estas? Hombre!' There was no way this was going to work. I was going to get mauled. 
'Hombre, est bueno, est bueeeenooooo ...'

He (I'm guessing) stopped, front legs digging into the sand as he pulled up, not twenty feet away. He wasn't best pleased, but appeared less certain. 
The barking continued, just as loud and angry. But instead of carrying on, he circled, showing me his impressively muscular flank.
I continued to babble, one arm extended, hand open. He held his ground, but appeared to be listening. His black eyes twinkled in the pale sunlight, muscles rippling as he paced. 

I started to walk backwards, slowly. He growled and shaped to come forward, teeth on show. I stopped. We talked, a parliament of the unimpressed and the shit scared. Me mumbling Spanish-sounding words at a soft, low volume, he growling and licking his chops, pacing left and right, as if undecided on what to do. I glanced left. There, not five yards away, was a medium sized, jet-black pig. It grunted softly, head moving as if to follow the conversation. I blinked, looked again. It was definitely a pig. It had on a collar and was tethered to the enclosure by a rope.

I looked back to the dog, who seemed to nod. 
'Yeah, that's right, amigo. We got Peeegs. Hahahahaha.'

I turned slowly to my right. Uh-huh. A little further down the trail, on the left side, another tethered pig. Off in the distance, just beneath the pounding surf, the banjo riff from Deliverance drifted up on the salty breeze.
I needed to get out of here. Now.

'Adios, amigos, hasta la visita!' 

I started moon-walking away from the dog. He did another circle, barked, then set off back up the trail, a slow swagger towards the shade of his shed. I walked faster, turning away from him as he had from me. Walking, we're walking ...

A snort. Horses on both sides were looking on, vaguely aware of this pantomime. The pigs remained impassive, each rooting around in the shade. I sped up. The dog was gone, and so, dear reader, was I. Away, around another long bend and hell bent, hell bent for leather, up and down a couple of humps and off towards the ocean. My shirt was soaked, my breathing returned to something approaching normal. Then the ground turned to quicksand and I was suddenly on some large elliptical trainer, treading water with increasingly long strides. Man, this is one tough start to the day! I heaved myself along the side of a series of dunes until I found a gulch, a hard-topped track emerging from the brush, leading up and onto the bike trail. 

I rode the trail back to 'my' beach and the sanctuary of the hotel. I sat, sweating, gasping, on the steps. Pool attendants setting out sun-beds eyed me suspiciously. I leered, an attempted friendly smile, and continued to suck air. 

Not the outing I'd hoped for, perhaps, but another 5k in the Bank of Almeria.
On, on ...

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Wow, high drama indeed. Glad you escaped relatively unscathed, but it does make the hotel's gym treadmill look a reasonable option... best of luck for Almeria. Hope the cactus punctures heal.

[Antonio247]

I'm so glad you survived the fierce dog, S. Running sometimes is a dangerous sport.

Have a good time! Looking forward to seeing you soon.


Saludos desde Almería.

[Sweder]

Wow, high drama indeed. Glad you escaped relatively unscathed, but it does make the hotel's gym treadmill look a reasonable option... best of luck for Almeria. Hope the cactus punctures heal.

A treadmill is never a reasonable option. I’ll be back out there mañana. 
I just won’t go so far along that trail. Hopefully.