Marvellous pictures, Sweder. I managed to get above the fog briefly here at Newlands Corner on my drive into work this morning - but it was the only time all week.
Crickey O'Reilly it's bloomin' cold out there today!
Funny, the first frost-free day for a while yet the wind had a truly nasty edge, slicing through my windcheater and running top at will.
Five heavy-legged miles, but at least with a smile on my face. No struggles to get out there this morning; it was up-an-attem right from the off, a get-it-out-of-the-way kind of morning.
Ideally I'd like to get out every other day over the next two weeks. It'll be a challenge, but one worth meeting.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Another achingly chilly morning. The lycra-clad group flocking above the Marina at nine numbered around twenty souls, an impressive turn-out on a day where excuses lay deep and crisp and even.
I loped out to Saltdean with Chris, Steve and Gary, chatting about races in the New Year. Chris suggested the Steyning Stinger as a good TOM warm-up. Crouching at the front end of March this full off-road marathon offers a stern test. My previous form suggests a four and a half to five hour ordeal at an even pace, definitely a good yardstick for the Big One. I'll enter on Boxing Day.
At the three mile break point we gathered to let the more measured runners arrive. As we did an attractive young lady approached me with a big smile.
'I met a friend of yours in Benidorm recently' she grinned.
'He saw my Brighton vest and announced that a friend of his runs the hills in Brighton and regularly ran up the Snake.'
'Antonio!' I cried. This was the very lady to whom my AlmerÃan friend referred in his tale of the Benidorm Half. As fables go it's not terribly seasonal but it is a nice story, a connection across the oceans that warmed me on this icy morning.
Our band of five (a new chap - at least I'd not met him before but I think his name is Josh - joining our regular hilltop marauders) set off up the Tye to take on the Famous Residences once more. Bullied by the ploughed field last week I whimped out of a repeat, cowardly suggesting a festive foray via the paved route, still a challenging incline but without the strength-sapping mud. To my surprise (and great joy) my comrades agreed - all except Steve who, returning from a fair layoff due to injury, quite fancied hammering up the Snake. We just laughed and promised him a New Year's Eve visit to the Serpent.
Perhaps it was a taste of things to come but I felt bloated, my running far from easy. Gary and I dropped back as the others accelerated down the hill into Rottingdean, Gary enthusing about his plans for Paris.
A couple of hours in the hills, somewhere close to eleven miles banked.
There's a Boxing Day run at Hove Park but I'll not be there, rather I plan an early morning trip to Blackcap before joining the mayhem on the M23 and M25 as we make our annual pilgrimage to my Mother's house in Kingston.
One final, self indulgent note. I'd just like to thank Paul Scholes for the sublime early Christmas present he delivered for me via MotD. I'd heard the commentator on Five Live singing about the strike, but to see it was to believe it. I suspect that had Zidane or Ronaldinho scored such a wonder goal we'd still be hearing next Christmas. Sadly the Merseyside Mafia on the Beeb failed to even mention it in their post-match summary. Nice one Scholesey.
Merry Christmas to all RCers.
May 2007 bring you everything your hearts desire.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Managed to haul myself up Blackcap this morning, yesterday's overindulgence worn not so much like a badge of honour, more like a flabby lifebelt. Still, it's five miles in the bank, all be they dreadfully slow, cold and uncomfortable miles. A cruel wind sliced through my ill-advised singlet and I could feel my hands and arms taking on that strange tingle as warm blood clashed with freezing skin.
Staggering across the hostile hills I pondered the challenges this time of year delivers.
The assault on one's digestion mounted by all manner of rich and indulgent intake creates problems for the runner. There's the bloating effect of cramming a month's worth of puddings and cakes into a single afternoon, then the anaesthetic qualities of the steady flow of alcohol, from morning Mimosas through the reds and whites of luncheon to the port and long drinks of an evening’s sofa-dwelling. I hope I don't upset those of a sensitive disposition when I refer to the havoc wreaked on my distraught biorhythms. No, not my world-renowned plodding cadence; it'd be hard to lose something that ingrained and sedentary. No, I speak of one's ablutions, ones movements - I’m all over the bloody place. My poor digestive tract is busier than Jose Mourinhos’ bile factory. This all has a debilitating effect on my running, and I’ll be only too pleased to return to routine dining and the joys of pre-programmed visits to the smallest room in the house, abetted by the latest gift from my brother Jim.
Following my earlier plod I dragged the family up to Kingston for the ritual feast of festive fun that is Boxing Day at Ma’s. The brothers Head made a pact some years ago that instead of spending vast sums on each other at this time of year (and ending up with something mildly charming to bury at the back of our livingroom shelves) we’d limit ourselves to gifts of a value of a tenner (or less).
This year I left it all rather late (this year???) and settled meekly for a pair of large scented candles (although they did display wonderful psychedelic patterns). Jim did far better, somehow finding the ultimate bathroom accessory – the Potty Putter, consisting of a small slice of ‘green’, a miniature golf putter, a ball, a cup and a 'Do Not Disturb!' sign, all designed to be used whilst assuming the contemplative position. Genius.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I have to share my great joy at the arrival of a new DAB radio in my life.
Not just any DAB radio; rather THE Planet Rock/ PURE Evoke 1XT Marshall edition, created in the image of the mighty Marshall amp used by all respected rock musicians. Complete with auto tuned ‘Planet Rock’ button and a volume control that – yes – goes all the way to eleven, it’s every head-bangers’ wet dream – and it’s mine.
Even now I’m trawling the ‘net to locate the accompanying stereo speaker – also decked out a la Marshall and powered by the astonishing Marshall 3 inch co-axial speaker. It rocks.
Tales from Christmas part II – Stuffed
On Christmas morning, as is traditional here at Head Towers, a variety of guests arrived to partake of large glasses charged with Bucks Fizz. Somehow the addition of orange juice makes the draining of large amounts of fizzy wine acceptable from a very early hour. I’d just bade farewell to the Gorringe family as they teetered off to check on their kitchen situation and the in-laws had arrived. Mrs S and her Mum were making headway in the kitchen, preparing vegetables whilst the ridiculously large free range turkey slowly tanned in the gas-fired solarium of our oven. Pleasantries had barely been exchanged in the living room when a loud shriek erupted from the kitchen, followed by ‘OH MY GOD!!! MUM!!! YOU DIDN’T!!!’
Mum, it turns out, most certainly did.
On Christmas Eve Mrs S’s Mother, a resident of Lewes and frequent visitor to Head Towers, popped in to ‘help out’. Mrs S had been busy all afternoon, preparing and cooking her nut loaf for the big day – Mrs S is a vegetarian of some twenty years standing – and had sunk, tired and emotional, into her sofa clutching a large glass of Cloudy Bay. The rigours of grinding a variety of nuts, part cooking mushrooms and carefully layering them into a baking tin had taken a heavy toll.
Gorse (repeatable son-in-law nickname) elected to stuff the turkey, a job that I didn’t fancy and Mrs S, as a non-eater of dead flesh, rightly refused. Sadly neither of us took the trouble to point out the precise location of the seasonal stuffing, and so the dear lady took the small but perfectly formed, cooked and ready to eat veggie roast, scooped it out by the handful and slowly, deliberately, rammed it up the large birds’ jacksie, finishing off with a large apple just to make certain there was no chance of a last minute escape.
It took several seconds, during which a large and distant bell tolled and a wicked wind whipped around the house, for this to sink in, then several painful minutes for me to stop laughing, tears falling like rain to splash on the freshly briwaxed parquet.
Gawd bless us everyone.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The penultimate lope of 2006, and what a wretched affair it turned out to be.
Once more I defied gravity, carting my generous bulk up the frozen hills on the cusp of dusk. Having mislaid my sextant I managed to time the run so that the last vestige of daylight winked out of the grey, misty skies just as I arrived at the turn. Completing the homeward leg in the near-dark was both exciting and terrifying (and very possibly stupid). Happily my feet seemed to know the way, riding the occasional flint rock or exposed tree root with ease. The hounds chased dim white tails attached to darting shadows, proving that their eyesight was yet another attribute superior to my own.
I got a call from Rog yesterday to inform me that his entry for TOM had been accepted and to find out if I'd 'ramped up' my training yet. I assured him the only ramping up had occurred around my middle.
Sunday's run, a visit to The Snake at a shade over 13 miles, will be a tester.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Running through wet porridge in a high velocity wind-tunnel.
That was how I spent the last morning of this most excellent running year, battling against a maelstrom amongst the battered Sussex hills, cold, mud-splattered, interminably happy. The Serpent played her Joker, her scales slick with slime, a head-long tempest driving us back or in the case of Paul the Goat, over the edge. This is my time of year, when the elements join forces with the topography to test my will to run. Thundering across the backbone of the downs above Saltdean I railed at the Spielberg skies.
‘Is that all you’ve got? Bring it on!’
Gary glanced across at me, worried at my sudden outburst.
During the moments of calm as we loped in the lee of a hillock or tree we chatted about strategies for Cape Town. The race, like many, can be separated into two halves; a fairly orthodox marathon, 26.2 miles of mild undulation in beautiful surroundings, followed by a brutal nine mile hill race. I’ve entered the Steyning Stinger, a full off-road marathon with four nasty peaks along the way in early March, which I expect will show just how woefully short my training is. Another event set to lay my preparations bare is the ‘Double Snake’, simply a two-times loops of today’s thirteen mile circuit. The challenge is to find a training route to mimic the demands of the TOM, to whit, a long run with a demanding finish over several miles. Makes your heart skip with joy, don' it?
Movies entered the conversation, words stolen from the whip of the wind as we skipped around craters overflowing with nature's soup. I had the privilege to enjoy Guillermo del Toro’s supreme piece of work Pan’s Labyrinth last night and was full of praise for the man and his creation. Del Toro has made a Faustian pact with Hollywood – one heavily bank-rolled blockbuster for you, one self-indulgent masterpiece for me. After Cronos he embraced the mainstream with Mimic, a well-crafted story about the antidote to a pandemic that takes on a life of it’s own via large insects capable of impersonating humans. OK, so not quite the mainstream . . . next (in 2001) came El Espinazo del Diablo (The Devil’s Backbone) where the Director returns to his muse, the Spanish Civil War. Back under the reigns for Blade II and Hellboy, and now El Laberinto del Fauno, a fantastic, wonderful, heart-rending fairy-tale for grown-ups. Rarely has a film filled my heart with wonder only to replace it with aching sorrow. If you like your fantasy beautifully crafted and loaded with pathos this one’s for you.
Gary shares my passion for films and we talked about Del Toro and other successful foreign language Directors as the miles blew past. Thirteen of them in all, and to be honest despite the best efforts of the weather a comfortable and enjoyable last outing of the year.
Happy New Year to y’all.
As part of my rigorous training schedule I’ve invited Mr and Mrs SP over to welcome 2007. Curry and beer are prominent on the menu, and the Great Plodder has threatened us with his ‘beat the intro’ cd. Huzzah!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well done on a good year, Sweder, and good luck for the one to come -- you sound like you're up for the challenges ahead.
As I hinted to you previously, I'm out of the TOM for this year. No point in fooling myself, or anyone else, any more. We still have Cape Town high on our "to do" list though, so perhaps I should regard you guys as the advance reconnaisance party for me in 2008. We'll be right behind you for your effort though - that's for sure.
Anyone who listens to Mark Kermode must have had Pan's Labrynth on their 'must see' list for a couple of months now. It's been on mine, though we live nowhere a decent cinema that shows films outside the mainstream, so I'm having to bide my time. Glad you enjoyed it.
And finally, thanks for all your entries through 2006. This forum wouldn't be the same without your breathless and frequently surreal contributions. You also manage to shame some of us out of our inactivity, so thanks for that too. I'll repay some of the debt in Guinness in Almeria.
Talking of which, we should make a decision about hotels...
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Nice stories there, matey.