(24-09-2009, 11:24 AM)tomroper Wrote: Foxton, gosh. My year at school had our post-A levels party in Foxton village hall. Thwarted in love, I rode my BSA Bantam into a hedge. If I had left it there, perhaps it might have been of use to you, thirty-six years later?
BSA bantams ... my mind drifts back to the halcyon days of 1034 (Surbiton) Squadron ATC where W/O 'Wiggy' Wiggins would have us strip Bantams and rebuild them for fun. the chain-smoking old curmudgeon with his three-day whiskers, 'hands-on' approach and stale rum-infused breath would certainly struggle to pass a CRB check these days ...
Yep. Have to say considered hopping a few fences to see if I could liberate a push-bike but (happily) thought better of it. Besides, there weren't too many fences to hop ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Must have taken you around an hour and a half. Sadly though it doesn't count as cross training as it wasn't planned.
I've only done this the once. Catching the last train out of Brighton hoping to alight at Shoreham, I was rudely awoken by the guard banging on the door at the end of the line.....Littlehampton. Luckily a tanker driver took pity on my outstretched thumb and spared me the 15 mile walk home. Mind you I was about 20 at the time and it was after a work's Christmas do.
This is the very reason why my last two homes have been situated in towns at the last stop of the line (Ware in Herts, and Seaford)
Both our episodes though Sweder pale into insignificance against the antics of an old work colleague. Catching a train north out of Brighton he'd hoped to hop off at Three Bridges, only to awake on the top deck of a bus in Trafalgar Square.
Sunday morning. I haven't run a step since the last time I joined the Jog Shop Joggers. Deliciously clear skies, a rising sun, the shyest of breezes whispering out of the east and a healthy collection of eager runners set the scene for perfect running theatre. Talk of distances and routes filled the gently warming air, the players casually stretching and making last-minute adjustments to water-belts, sunglasses and an ecclectic assortment of headgear. My own schedule was pre-ordained, set to minimum as I embarked on yet another disjointed comeback.
With more long-haul travel on the immediate horizon I'm fully aware that I'll be back here in four weeks or so going through the same process, yet it's important to 'get one in' whilst I can, to remind the legs and lungs that I'm not done with them just yet. November promises opportunities galore for mid-week and weekend outings. Who knows? I might even get back to ParkRun one of these Saturdays.
Today was all about getting round so I set off at an easy pace, mindful of my last breathless start on this 12 kilometre Wire course. I managed to chug along with an agreeable quartet of newbies, chatting about their aspirations - all aiming for an inaugural outing at the 2010 Brighton Marathon - dispersing modest drops of wisdom visa vis running these beautiful hills. My approach to oncoming inclines is to embrace them, to welcome their rise from the landscape with a grin, to adjust my stride, get my head down and plod on until they join the less notable miles behind me. Repeat until finished. It's a recipe that's stood me in good stead for some years. I no longer fear hills but see them as allies on my journey, great breaker-uppers of flat monotony, to be eagerly anticipated and enjoyed. The reaction of my new companions was typical when faced with such indoctrinatory psychobabble, yet in the weeks to come they'll see the True Wisdom and learn to love the hills.
I'm pleased with my effort, an hour and fifteen minutes of honest if unremarkable toil. In the yoyo world that is Swederville I'll be joining SP and a cluster of fellow society golfers tomorrow evening for an official tour of Lewes's Harvey's Brewery followed by a (late) evening in the Spice Merchant. The Great Man has postponed our Summer Matchplay final, due to be played pre-brewery tour, citing 'pressures of work'. An all too familiar scenario here at Chez Sweder I'm afraid.
Below: 3 miles in, Saltdean
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Good to see you keeping your hand in. Excellent attitude to hills, though I'm afraid I'm probably more on the side of your companions today. I should try to learn to love them; it must be a useful trick.
Enjoy your brewery trip. In some ways I'm deeply envious, but OTOH, I'm enjoying the positive mindset that seems to have emerged from my temporary teetotalism. I nearly typed "teetotalitarianism" there, but I'm not that prescriptive. Indeed just the opposite. In the interests of fraternal good vibes, I insist that you ensure SP absorbs as much of Harvey's finest as he can manage.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Yeah, great that, despite your protestations (real as I'm sure they are) you're still able to knock out "an hour and fifteen minutes of honest if unremarkable toil" once in a while. I think we can expect great (and inspiring) things on the running front once your diary clears a bit.
Yes, admirable to see you taking on these routes despite not having the time to get out regularly. If I had your kind of working life I would genuinely struggle. I dunno, maybe you need to run more than most. You've got energy that's for sure.
As for hills I'm with you all the way. I always enjoyed climbing big hills on a bike and now I'm learning to love running up them. It really focuses the mind as you find your pace and rhythm. And it's the quickest way to get fit. Which fits in with the less-is-more philosophy.
Admirable Sweder, it really is. Even given the best efforts of your right hand man to derail your training, I feel bigger things are in the offing for you yet.
Or maybe Harveys is the secret to this extraordinary energy and resilience?
Finally took your advice and became a member
I do wish I could embrace the hills like you do, but than again.... ever heard of fear of the unknown? Trying out a 7 (Dutch) hills run half November. Wish me luck
You'll find all human life is here - and possibly some Extra Terrestrial too.
So many good diarists to follow for inspiration and advice; Glaconman, El Gordo, MLCman, Marathondan, Antonio ...
One of my favorites is Bierzo Baggie - he runs proper hills in Ponferrada, Spain.
Browse around, check out some of the old posts and learn to love those hills.
As MLCman says they're a form of speedwork and will help your times on the flat.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Like the British Summer my September running's enjoying a late flurry.
Awakened after a long and boozy day with Mayfield Golfing Society, a day that started with a few hurriedly-checked e-mails, continued through the final (yes, we played it at last) of the MGS Summer Match play, nose-dived from the heady cliff-top course to the bowels of the Harvey's Brewery for the much heralded tour and positively pancaked in the hallowed halls of the Spice Merchant, I took to the sun baked hills. It was in truth an ugly, sweaty wobble but I felt all the better for it.
Yesterdays' golf was as exciting as golf gets - admittedly if one is taking part - with never more than two shots between us until the coup de grace on the Par 5 16th. Mano Y Mano we struck our meaty drives, brutalised golf balls resting within ten feet of one another on the fairways' edge. With a decent advantage - 2 up with 3 to play - I elected to take a 5 wood off a tricky downhill lie, playing safely to the middle of the fairway. In need of a win SP smote his shot mightily, bludgeoning his projectile high into the heavens and, alas, into the grip of a slight yet determined crosswind. The tiny white pill floated off course to plummet like a gun-shot partridge into the impossibly thick flaura crouching beneath a steadily molting treeline. Alas it failed to emerge despite the best and most ernest efforts of both players and our consorts, Captain Tom and Wee Ray. Determined to claim the hole - and therefore the match - on merit I deployed my trusty Baffy once more, this time to putt the 90 yards down the bumpy, winding slope to leave the ball ten feet from a possible birdie and a certain win. The great man emerged from the rustling deciduousness, his handshake as warm and genuine as his grin, to concede the match.
Thereafter it was very much a case of commence au festivale, restorative pints of Best, first in the LGC clubhouse then at the John Harvey Tavern opposite the brewery (founded 1790). The tour intervened, offering a unique insight to the world of my beverage Mecca. Our guide, a lifelong practitioner of the most noble and appreciated art of brewing, was quick to stick the knife into local villains Greene King at every opportunity. Once a similarly independent producer of fine beer the owners, sniffing gold in them there hops and letting early successes go to their heads, went a bit Faustian, selling their real ale souls for a world-dominating corporate ideology before snapping up hundreds of pubs, forcing their mass-produced, now sadly inferior product through the pumps and down the gullets of a gasping, choiceless public. Famously they tried this in Lewes, where their regional flagship the Lewes Arms was selling two pints of Harvey's to every one of the house brew. Miffed at this perceived inequality and the resultant dent in their profits the Greede King Barons banned the sale of Harvey's in this popular establishment, whereupon they learned something that so many others have throughout history; Lewesians are not a people with whom to trifle, especially when it comes to ale. Thus began the infamous Lewes Arms Controversy; Six months of boycott and ill-temper culminating in ugly national press coverage. In April 2007 Harvey's returned to the Lewes Arms, and I'm proud to be able to say I was there.
Last night I was intrigued - and slightly concerned - to learn that the most fundamental element in producing one of the finest pints in the land is also the most fragile - the perpetuation and protection of the hallowed yeast. In 1957 the yeast at Harvey's succumbed to an evil parasite, thus ending production and sparking a wave of regional panic. A A Jenner, then Master Brewer and the man responsible for the post-war introduction of two of my personal favorites, Old Ale and Best Bitter, set off in search of a new batch. Jenner, a known and respected industry professional, contacted every known Brewer throughout the land, most of whom agreed to him visiting to sample their yeast. He packed his bags and set off on a round-Britain journey, his early efforts yielding scant reward. He came to John Smiths brewery in Tadcaster - this was pre-Courage John Smiths you understand - whereupon he finally found yeast of a suitable and agreeable constitution. Overjoyed he packaged up a sample and despatched it on the late train to Brighton terminus where it was met by the Harvey's dray and conveyed with all speed to the brewery. That very same overnight batch of yeast, nurtured and reconstituted over the decades, still sires the fermentation of the fine beers of Harvey's to this day.
Our history and science lessons concluded we entered the tasting room, where joy, as one might expect, was unconfined. Ian, our guide, a most enthusiastic and knowledgeable fellow, introduced us the various offerings from the Harvey's stable. To my shame I've only every tried three; Best Bitter, Old Ale (winter brew only - starts next week!) and Armada. It turns out there's a wide range; those three cask 'regulars' are joined by the lighter, less intoxicating Hadlow Pale Ale. Then there's the seasonal offerings; Kiss, Olympia, Porter, Knots of May, Copperwheat, Tom Paine, Southdown Harvest, Bonfire Boy, and the mighty, knee-wobbling Christmas Ale.
From there our now (very) merry band jigged along to the Gardeners' Arms, a wonderfully small yet handsomely stocked hostelry along the cobbled high street. More beer, including Lytham Royal (a fine guest ale) then on to the Spice Merchant for rafts of excellent Indian fare, a little table wine and the gentle, ribbing banter of softly inebriated golfers.
Much of last night wobbled uncomfortably around my middle as I plodded across the downs. The sun beat down with particular relish to hasten the expulsion of excess fluids from brow and belly. I felt rather like an old-fashioned prop forward finding himself with ball in hand and space in which to run. Once off the mark he moves slowly, deliberately, gathering speed until even the most committed tackle would surely fail to stop him. This was me on the homeward leg, thundering downhill, a grubby, sweaty, unstoppable force hurtling inexorably towards the trembling town like the climax to some apocalyptic B-movie.
50:04 for my old stomping route (I know, I wasn't going to time it ... oh well).
I'm pleased as punch though; two runs in three days, no discernable injuries and the prospect of more to come this week and next. Happy days.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder is, as usual, far too modest when describing his total annihilation of me in yesterday’s golf. Despite the handicapping system giving me a 10 shot advantage, he slowly wore me down with a combination of straight drives off the tee and monster putting.
I can remember only one hole where he had a nightmare, taking 4 shots to exit a bunker (a feat I managed to copy a while later). Otherwise he played magnificently, deserved his win and this loser is glad to have made it to the final where the better man won.
Our Hon Sec Phil also has to be congratulated and has proven that he can indeed organise a piss up in a brewery. As a poncy lager-drinking softie, the array of real ales on offer obviously got the better of me and I’m still trying to piece together the events of the latter part of last night.
El G will be delighted to learn that I cannot find the shoes I wore last night – assume they’re around the house somewhere but….
Sweder - great post, with the usual chaotic cavalcade of trippy, impressionistic glimpses of life on Planet Sweder. This place would be much the poorer without these logged adventures.
SP - you're a very sporting loser. I'll resist the temptation to observe that these qualities might come in useful at Crawley and Brighton. Seriously, I'm touched by your magnanimity, and glad you had a good evening in Lewes. Would have loved to have made the Harveys trip, but so be it. Tragically, beer and curry are off my menu at present, which will make them all the more glorious when they do reappear. I won't predict when that might be....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
As a poncy lager-drinking softie, the array of real ales on offer obviously got the better of me and I’m still trying to piece together the events of the latter part of last night. 
Seriously, I'm touched by your magnanimity, and glad you had a good evening in Lewes. Would have loved to have made the Harveys trip, but so be it. Tragically, beer and curry are off my menu at present, which will make them all the more glorious when they do reappear. I won't predict when that might be....