December 2010

[Sweder]

We come form the land of the ice and snow
With the midnight sun where the hot springs blow

Not much sign of hot springs in these parts. Bitter winds lash the Dam's canals, driving soft snow into ruddy faces swathed in thickly coiled scarves. Improbably long-limbed locals pedal resolutely through the icy streets, headphones for earmuffs, hands in pockets, perfectly balanced on their squeaky, creaky sit-up-and-begs.

I'm currently stranded in Amsterdam with little prospect of an exit before Sunday. I shall console myself in the fleshpots and opium dens of this nefarious citadel ... or at least slip out for a snow-bound jog followed by a cheese toasty and a Bockbier.

Where ever you may be I hope you and your loved ones are safe and warm.

[marathondan]

We come form the land of the ice and snow
With the midnight sun where the hot springs blow

Aaaaaaaaargh-ah!

[Sweder]

Breaking News: some running to Report!

Not only that but a 'down your way' with fellow RCer Cloggie. We'd planned to run through the Amsterdam Bos, a wild parkland outside the city, but the arrival of thick snow and freezing temperatures (and Cloggie's charity half marathon not two weeks away) and the subsequent unsure footing meant a last minute change of location. In hindsight I'm not sure a twilight run along the banks of Amstel with a windchill of minus fourteen was an altogether wise choice. I climbed out of the car only to be cleaved into two through my padded, well-wrapped torso by a murderous, hacking wind. As Cloggie pulled on a variety of warm-looking accessories and locked the car I hopped and jumped about clapping my hands, sending spouts of smokey breath into the freezing air as I stated the bleedin' obvious: 'holy crap - this is cold!'

It was a tad on the chily side. The wind whipped up off the dark, rippling water, smacking us across our exposed faces as we lumbered off into gloom, leaving the well-lit, warm and teasingly inviting Klein Kalfje behind us. We chatted about training and runs past and future, especially Cloggie's apirations for a sub two half. She'd completed the course a year before, clocking a respectable debut in 2:06. Judging by the ease with which she ran-talked now I could see she'd improved. We stuck to the road flanked by large, beautifully appointed Dutch dwellings adorned with generous gardens and brightly-lit windows, linked by great open tracts of land where the wicked wind lurked, ready to leap out and batter the unwary passer-by.

Despite an honest yet comfortable pace and several layers of clinging lycra the cold continued to nag and niggle until some 25 minutes in we reached a brightly-lit main street and a bridge crossing the river. Cloggie paused to see if we fancied extending the run or sticking to the planned 10k. I opted for the latter, aware that I'd barely so much as jogged since Rio two weeks before when I'd danced along the sands of Ipanema in somewhat warmer climes. We crossed the Amstel, dropping down to the far bank to head back towards the city. The wind screamed off the open fields, blasting my exposed right ear until I felt sure it would snap clean off. We must've subconsciously upped the pace because talking become a little more difficult. Or maybe it was the frozen skin of my face pulling my mouth tighter than an wilting actress's botox'd forehead.

The light bled from the sky as one by one stars winked into view above us, tiny frosted jewels sparkling in the darkness. Reaching the point where the river ducks under the motorway we wheeled right up the access ramp and took the pedestrain lane across the bridge. Below and far off to our left the Klein Kalfje shone, looking for all the world like an incandescent paddle-steamer stranded on the murky Mississippi shore.

At last we rumbled up to the car, steam pluming from our backs in the bitter night. 10.33 kilometres in 63 minutes. Had we gone round again at the same rate we'd have equalled Cloggie's half marathon time from last December. In truth we'd been jogging easily most of the way so I've no doubt she'll crack two hours with something to spare.

Twenty minutes later, crumpled lycra skin shed in the corner of the bathroom, piping hot water stinging my pallid, corpse-like skin, I marvelled as my flesh changed from morgue-slab white to lobster pink. Had I not an appointment with Cloggie and Ali B at Lieve, a much vaunted baroque Belgian eatery in the Heerengracht, I might be there even now.

[Antonio247]

It must be really tough to run in such a cold weather!

Congratulations, S. and C.


Saludos desde Almería

[suzieq]

Sounds like a typical day running here in the winter! Although our weather is 'dry' as compared to you guys - feels warmer I think. And Sweder, if it was -25, I bet you would've still gone out...


Suzie

[Sweder]

And Sweder, if it was -25, I bet you would've still gone out...
Suzie

Yeah, might have ... not sure Cloggie would have come out with me though!

Sadly not much done since. I've been letting my body rest for a couple of weeks, an alien concept in my world but I'm assured it'll help in the long run. Trouble is I'm loathed to get out there now as I'm enjoying being a sofa sloth!

[Sweder]

Feeling guilty at recent slothful behaviour I nipped out for a morning dash across the Downs. 'Nip' was the word. A vicious arctic wind swept out of the north, bending heavily frosted foliage and freezing pink flesh without mercy. I'd rolled on a few lycra layers but I could still feel my soul chilling as I set off across the frozen mud.

http://yfrog.com/h49wcsj http://yfrog.com/gyftacj

Planet Rock provided my soundtrack, and what a wonderful mix it was! Blue Oyster Cult (Don't Fear the Reaper), Hawkwind (Silver Machine), Clapton (I shot the Sherriff), Lou Reed (Walk On The Wild Side) and a (wonder)full fifteen minutes of Pink Floyd's Shine On You Crazy Diamond. Pure heaven.

No idea of time or distance as my Garmin was criminally undercharged. Probably around 5k or so.
No matter. It felt good to get out there again. Thank you conscience.

[Sweder]

I stepped out into bright winter sunshine, strapped on my Garmin and sucked in a lungful of iced oxygen. The first arctic blast scythed through my lycra layers, shrinking more than capillaries as it dissected my spine and charged on through my back to whip away across the ghost-white town.

Deep freeze wasn't the only challenge this morning. Temperatures knocking on the door of minus seven teamed up with a soul-chilling wind and the heaviest frost of the season to coat the roads and pavements in polished glass. The lethal layer slithered off the road and up the well-trod downland path, making my initial ascent a highly comical fusion of drunken stagger and anxious mince.

Happily the downs proper offered relatively untrammelled safety. Here the frost formed a thin crust across crunchy, yielding snow, the perfect plodders' pavlova on which to run. Willow, my doubty Cocker Spaniel, scampered along, ears flapping, thrilled to be free of the wet snow ice-balls that usually attach themselves to her feathers. I slugged out the hard yards, climbing the slopes to the stables against an unrelenting wall of invisible ice, the cruel north-westerly wind banking hard off the ridge to slap my face as it screamed towards the sleepy Lewes valley.

We managed 5.6 kilometres in all. I reached the foot of Mount Harry only to skate horribly on slick marble as I wrestled with the gate. It was pure Buster Keaton and quite enough to dissuade me from going any further. Visions of spending Christmas day in casualty saw me head homeward down the slippery, wind-assisted slopes, sunshine drying the wind-tugged tears on my cheeks as I picked up the pace.

My post-run shower thawed me out, blanched skin turning lobster-pink as steam filled the bathroom, adding a misty fur to the window view. I could have stayed in there for hours but for my duties, together with number one son, as Christmas lucheon Masterchef.

Season’s greetings one and all. Safe travels and, if you get the chance to get out into this winter wonderland, be careful out there.

[Sweder]

Shamed out of hibernation by a gently insistent Ladyrunner I strapped on my offies for a plunge through the post Christmas slush. Cold and damp certainly, yet infinitely better than joining the soul-sucking lines outside Brighton's monolithic outlet stores. At Hollingbury a shoal of gleeful Parking Sharks patrolled cars abandoned along the grass verge, issuing tickets like confetti and recording their deeds on digital cameras as the unsuspecting owners crammed themselves into the Next Circle of Hell. Hurry! Hurry! Get 40% off AND a thirty quid parking fine! Welcome to Brighton & Hove, twinned with Salem.

A rather unsportingly svelte Jules greeted me with a cheerful grin. We set off up the slippery slopes where snow melted like a Boxing Day crowd at the MCG, leaving pavements coated in sheet ice and a drizzle of off-white Slush-puppy. Making forward progress proved a test of endurance, balance and an ability to ignore the cries of slowly drowning toes as iced mush seeped through my shoes. We circumnavigated the Stanmer Park Cresta Run, dancing along the edge of the polished glass pathway, seeking the reassuring crunch of un-fettered snow.

Leaving the park we crossed white fields to meet the stony climb out of Falmer before turning west onto the South Downs Way. Whilst running was a challenge cycling was all but impossible. We met a man rolling gingerly down the hill towards us, feet thrust out as stabilisers, face frozen in a tight smile. A hundred metres further on we met his companion, a woman with utter misery writ large on her ruddy cheeks, barely moving forward, images of log fires, duvets and steaming mugs of cocoa doubtless filling her head as her will to live ebbed down through her frozen feet and into the mud-spattered slush.

Ditchling Beacon loomed before us, northern slopes spiked with naked trees, east face draped in white. We ploughed on, my legs complaining bitterly at this painful departure from sofa-bound sloth. I ignored them, concentrating on posture and stance. Legs bent, back straight, feet beneath my body ... I bet the Tarahumara never encountered anything quite as debilitating as Sussex slush. I needed a piece of music to help shorten and steady my stride so I dug out the staccato violin chorus of Elbow’s One Day Like This from the depths of my chilled noggin. Perfect.

Ladyrunner’s in good form having kept up a steady regimen of run/ walk race/walk training throughout the winter. We chatted about Almeria and I confessed I’d be happy to chug ‘round in two hours. Jules laughed. ‘No, really, a PB attempt would end in tears. My hamstrings would snap if I tried to give it some welly.’ For once this was not deflective nonsense. Running has taken a back seat (eh?) of late. Almeria 2011 for me is as much about Cabo de Gata on the Monday as it is the race itself. As if to back-up my assertion at around 12 kilometres, just as we dropped off the southern slopes of the Beacon, ‘rested freshness’ yielded to lack-of-training fatigue. My legs tightened, calves especially vociferous in their complaint. I knuckled down, trailing in LR’s relentless wake. Within five hundred metres the snow had all but disappeared, leaving smeared ice-trails peppered with sharp-edged flint boulders, nature’s IEDs. Our increased pace made the section like a bizarre, inverted game of Guitar Hero; avoid the yellow/ brown protrusions so as to keep going. Land on one and it’s Game Over, man. We reached concrete and asphalt without mishap, jogging in the last half-mile.

17.89 hard-as-you-like kilometres banked in 2 hours 3 minutes. Hot coffee and a fat slab of chocolate Yule log helped to fire the internal heaters. A variety of cats paraded before me, offering warm fur with which to thaw my frozen fingers in exchange for neck rubs and endless Bond-villain stroking. All in all a fitting way to round off my running year.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Well done Sweder, another good effort in appalling conditions again. Interesting too that you mention Ladyrunner's run/walk regime - I've been seriously considering adopting this myself in an effort to get through the coming year without any major lapses (it might also be the only way I can complete the Point to Pinnacle in November). Must dig out my old Jeff Galloway book!

[Antonio247]

You both seem to be quite fit, S. It must be very tough to do so many kilometres in such cold conditions with snow. Congratulations!

¡Feliz año nuevo! Happy new year!

Saludos desde Almería