March 2012

[Sweder]

Quick update. I've been pretty run down all week, off my food (!!!) and exceedingly tired. It's probably just a lack of ale.

First run for over a week (4 miles) this morning as illness/ fatigue subsides. No major worries other than a bit of a shock to the system after eight days of relative sloth. My 'plan' for Brighton is pretty much shot - crucial long run missed last Sunday and a likely shorter-than-planned run this weekend - but as I was reminded by someone only this morning, marathons are about 'crossing the start and finish lines, nothing else'. A tad fundamental you might say but it's hard to argue against.

Reading MLCman's post this morning I wonder if I could have forced myself into a few sessions this week. Deep down I know rest was the right way to go. A week plucked out of the middle of my schedule is far from ideal but it's a lot further from catastrophic. I'll work my way back into it, see how Sunday unfolds and take it from there.

[marathondan]

You are possibly in a position to cut down your taper a bit. Consider this downtime a bit of advance taper, taper credit, if you will. You could probably push your last long run a week closer to race day. Good to hear you're back out there.

[The Beast of Bevendean]

I've lost nearly two weeks out of training. But March is another month, and probably the crucial one. There's still time to get some miles into the legs.

[stillwaddler]

Don't worry Sweder, you'll get round Brighton no trouble. Much better to rest now and play later. Worried about your lack of ale 'though, hope you are starting to put that right.

[Sweder]

The good news is I did get out yesterday and, despite not covering the ground I'd hoped to, at least in part normal service was resumed. One reason for not joining the Jog Shop crew at 8am in Brighton lay snoring next to me. Poor Mrs S endured noisy dialogue with Hughie and Ralph via the big white telephone throughout the night. I dutifully stood by, offering encouragement and blasts of Dettox in equal measure. Our daughter, recipient this morning of her Provisional Driving License (cue sharp intake of breath and frantic stashing of car keys), was out on the tiles. A late-night text informed us she was staying 'at Daniel's'. Who the fuck, we pondered, is Daniel? Turns out lazy texting had omitted 'le' from the end of the name. Whilst a slight relief when revealed the morning after it did nothing to assuage the palpable sense of dread that pervaded our already discombobulated slumber.

The six ay em alarm call came and went. I did rise, ghost-like, at around seven-thirty and for a fleeting moment imagined I could still get there. A bit of semi-blind shuffling in the kitchen put that delusion to rest and I settled on a local blast with the hounds, a Round The Horn Ditchling Slingshot Special, ten miles of thrills and hills. On opening the back door I was greeted by four horsemen ready for business. Howling wind drove iced barbs of stinging rain into my face. A heavy, 'Midwich Cuckoo' mist clung grimly to the downs, reducing visibility to the length of an average Paul Scholes pass. A heavy sigh and resigned shrug later I set off, wind mercifully at my back for the opening five miles.



I tuned in to the excellent Sportsweek where the doyen of sports inquisitors Gary Richardson grilled a stream of high-ranking sports executives about impending managerial appointments. Patrick Collins, scribe for the otherwise dire Daily Mail, played his part as Richardson's measured foil. Much of the focus was on the FA's 'king-maker' progress following Fabio's brusque, if barely intelligible farewell. The FA Rep, Alex Horne, did a grand job of insisting there is more than one candidate and that, despite the clamour for a home-grown leader, they were not all necessarily English. You could almost hear Richardson and Collins giggling like school children being told there really is such a thing as Father Christmas. The highlight of this exchange was the interjection by the shy and retiring, aptly-named, still-wearing-his-bloodied-headband former England skipper Terry Butcher.
'We want English!' roared the mighty midfield warrior.
'That's not a strategy, it's a chant' was Collins' gently proferred riposte.

I'm not as sold as some on the Get Redknapp mantra. I remember the last time a real fans' favourite landed the job. Hope and expectation rose like fuel prices as the New Messiah, replete with his trademark Lion's Mane, took to the throne. These days the name 'Kevin Keegan' induces a plethora of tics and twitches. The clamour in the popular press to install the recently-acquitted Redknapp forthwith smacks of piranha calling for wounded cattle to be driven across a foaming river. I have no doubt any number of 'Arry Ate My Amster' stories lie in grubby manila folders on the cluttered desks of snout-nosed hacks. The feeding frenzy will be bloody and sad.

At the risk of poking any number of angry bears I'd like to see the Special One given the task. Admittedly Capello failed in the fundamental task of communication. Mourinho speaks English with a good deal more aplomb than Redknapp, knows many of the more troublesome English players, manages millionaires in his sleep and above all enjoys the steel-eyed success rate of the meanest hired gun in the West. OK so he might not bleed England, he might not even like Chicken Tikka Masala and, most detrimental to my cunning plan, has ruled himself out. And yet, here he is, in London, trawling the high-class Estate Agents, making eyes at the Premier League, luring chairmen with his swarthy good looks and his winner's smile.

As ever, I digress. I ran, slow and steady, feeling my limbs respond to gentle demand. The wind hacked and slashed, first at my back then, as I rounded the Beacon, into my face, stinging my flesh. I cared not. It felt good to be back, slipping and sliding over slithery mud and treacherous flint, feet relishing the soft embrace of doused downland grass. This was Stinger country. It occurred to me that the fabled off-road marathon might even be on right now and I smiled. All Steyning Stingers should be run in a maelstrom. It's the only way.

10.8 miles in around 100 minutes, finishing at race pace (though that hardly mattered). The hot shower was every bit as rude and glorious as I'd hoped.

[Bierzo Baggie]

Another lovely portrait of the South Downs. Is there another Stinger on the Skyline then? (good name for a book that ...)

[Sweder]

Some day. I ran the half last year but its not the same. The half doesn't break you into small pieces like the full-on Stinger

[Sweder]

I knocked out a fair five miler this morning under sunny spring skies. Vest and shorts to the fore in mild conditons, the ground pleasantly sticky from recent rain, grass spongy, yielding. I took it easy for the most part until, on entering the top of Landport Bottom a mile from home Tom Petty popped up in my earphones, that 'ch-ch' followed by a familar jangle of electric lead guitar and the insistant, petulant hammering drum beat of American Girl. My legs responded, trying to match the rhythm, morphing into an eyeballs-out, lung-busting sprint. A week of frustration flowed through my veins as I sprinted for the far gate. It became a race to get across the field before the song ended, one I was sure to win, except ... except American Girl is so horrendously short. I gasped for air, arms pumping, head thrown back in a Chariots-of-Fire, I-feel-his-pleasure moment, pounding the turf for all I was worth. I hit the gatepost right on the final note, my desperation bursting into a flare of triumph. I glanced at the Garmin, shocked to see I'd finished a hair under six minute per mile pace before metaphorically straightening my tie and jogging in the last few hundred muddy yards.

A good effort and a sign that all is not yet lost on the road to Brighton.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

A good effort and a sign that all is not yet lost on the road to Brighton.

Doubtless you'll get round OK on the day. Just don't kill yourself trying for that PB, OK? You have nothing left to prove around these here parts.

[stillwaddler]

Blimey under 6 minute miling - respect.

As for the Special One for England Manager - oohhh yes please:-) 'Though I have rather hankered after him following Fergie, we could do with some decent eye candy in Manchester.

[Sweder]

She had a snake for a pet
And an amulet
And she was breeding a dwarf
But she wasn't done yet

Camerillo Brillo, Frank Zappa

Don't worry, the title is literal, not metaphorical.
Looking ahead, something I fail to do with alarming regularity, I realised yesterday that I would not be able to run on Sunday, the day set aside for my long runs. There's a logic in that based on raceday usually falling on a Sunday. Some part of my over-active hypothalamus tells me that long runs in midweek are just wrong. Faced with the unavoidable loss of the weekend I immediately re-scheduled my Thursday, setting myself achievable tasks to allow me to get out (on what was a lovely sunny day here) sometime around 3pm. That would give me a good 150 minutes of daylight in which to knock out a reasonably long run.

Ah, the best laid plans ... when I finally tossed down my quill the Enemy had reached 3:45. Somewhat flustered I grabbed my gear, including laden waterbottle, energy shot, a chewy Soreen bar (testing these) and my DAB radio. With the sun still beaming and a barely discernible zephyr offering nought but encouragement I opted for shorts and singlet. I had no clear route in mind, just an idea that I'd set off through Lewes, cross the A27 and start running up the Big W. After that it would depend on how I felt.

Well, I felt pretty good. I guess my sloth-inspired mini-taper had infused my legs with a little more bounce. That, coupled with lush downland, a fresh breeze and a collection of most agreeable danced tunes from Planet Rock set me off in high spirits. Even the ugly moon-rock bear trap of the W couldn't dampen my mood. I was greeted at the top by a motley crew of Exmoor ponies. I'd seen some last year up near BlackCap, all Justin Bieber fringes, soft brown eyes and aloof indifference to all apart from the rugged flora beneath their steadily munching muzzles.

I took off westward, chasing the softly sinking sun across the shadows. I'd thought about dropping down at the cattle grid to pick up the Snake but a combination of gamboling new-born lambs and heaps of fine classic rock distracted me. When I next paid attention I'd reached Castle Hill Nature Reserve, having just covered mile 10 of the Jog Shop 20. That gave me an idea; perhaps I should run a section of the course? So I did. Down into Death Valley, along and up Old Snakey, past Moyleman's Rest, back down behind the Snake to the reservoir and along the tarmac road into Rottingdean. I felt pretty darned good, moving at a decent clip most of the way, singing along with any number of fine songs from the likes of Metallica, ACDC, Frank Zappa and Rush.



It was as I hammered down that hard-top road into Rottingdean that I first noticed a distinctly purple tinge to the backdrop. The clouds beyond Brighton had formed into a Venetian Blind, the reddening sun playing peek-a-boo as it slid towards the ocean. Rather quickly. Ah. As I said I'd not mapped this out at all. If I turned around right now and took the most direct route home I had a good hour's running ahead of me. This would a tad close ... I upped the pace, running down into Rottingdean , trying to think of the best (shortest) route home. A turning on my left looked familiar. Chris and I had run this on our Double Snake training run before Cape Town. If I remembered correctly this would take me up to the top of the YBR where I could pick up the W and drop down into Kingston Village ... I took decisive action, chugging up the steadily rising trail. More familiar landmarks passed and I relaxed, safe in the certain knowledge that I was on the right track. I glanced over my left shoulder. The clouds glowered back at me, moody and purple, like a disapproving bruise spreading across the darkening sky.



This track was rather like rail fares announced by Yazz; the only way was up, baby. I could make out the reservoir off to my left so I knew I was headed in the right direction. As the light leaked out of the sky I hit a hard-top road, a sure sign I was near the YBR. I squinted ahead, the last vestige of a reflection revealing the wet surfaces of lurking rain-filled potholes. A twisted ankle – or worse – at this juncture would be disastrous. I’d give no thought to distance and refused to look now. My initial thoughts had been I’d cover around 15 miles but, as warmth ineviably followed daylight I couldn‘t give a toss. Getting home in one piece before the blood froze in my veins was all that mattered.

That ‘barely discernible zephyr’ had risen to a rather conspicuous breeze verging on a rudely obtrusive wind. It was not warm. Far below and away in the distance lay Lewes, all winking lights and grey on black shadows. All I had to do now was navigate down a steep, slippery concrete track. In the dark. I took my time, especially over the yawning cattle grid, trying to remember if there were any wire fences along this route. There weren’t, but it had been a while. Finally, with legs tightening and core temperature close to that of a frozen fish finger I hit the Rodmell road. My trials weren’t quite over. This is a country lane in the true sense, devoid of pavement or street lamps. I ran on the right, heading into traffic, hopping up onto the soggy verge at the first sign of headlights.

At long last I reached home. The trouble with living on top of a hill is, well, apart from the Blackcap run every outing ends with a steep climb. This one hurt. My legs were shattered, both from the quicker-than-expected hill climbs and the intrusive cold.

16.84 miles in 2:48 (run time).
The Soreen bar was a big hit, though perhaps too chewy to make a genuinely useful race companion. Once again my Ginger and Lemongrass Cordial infusion added a spark to my in-flight refreshment. I’m sure the energy shot played a part but as so often with these it's difficult to pinpoint quite when that kicked in. Some valuable lessons learned then, most importantly about route planning and time management. I’m off to play with Minisubs and ROVs for the weekend. Pip pip!

[Bierzo Baggie]

Sounds fun ... and those are 3 nice big climbs you put in there.

[Sweder]

Congratulations to Lewes Ladies FC, winners of the South East Conference League with three games to spare. Our manager Jacqui Agnew heard the news whilst having a cup of tea. Crystal Palace beat close rivals Enfield 2-1 to hand the championship to the Rookettes ahead of the shceduled title decider at The Pan this Sunday. The girls face Brighton & Hove Albion WFC in the County Cup final Thursday night. If they win that Eastbourne Town FC (Ryman League Cup) stand between them and an unprecedented Treble. Some season.

The seniors got back to winning ways, bagging 6 points in two matches this week. So the playoffs are once more on the cards. To celebrate the club have launched Rook Pies, delivered US-sports style to your seat. I shall road-test one this Saturday as we welcome high-flyers Lowestoft. The Lewes Beer Fesitival takes place in the Rook Inn immediately after the match. My position on the wagon is looking increasingly precarious ...


Match day poster for this Saturday (St Patrick's Day)

As for running, as expected this weekend was a wash-out. I consol myself with the knowledge that walking ten kilometres a day on the hardest floors known to man for three consecutive days has helped develop my road-worthiness. I'm back up there tonight, finishing on Friday (late). Sunday it is then, and a planned 17-miler.

[Sweder]

Three outings this week, a lightweight 'return-to-running' 3.5 miler, a standard Blackcap 5 and a delightfully bright and breezy 19 miler yesterday, taking in the sights around the Jog Shop 20 course. I gave the W a miss. I'm not sure at this stage in my disfunctional preparation that a series of vertical ascents halfway around the circuit would have helped much. I did manage to finish well, running in the last wind-assisted cliff top mile at sub eight minute pace. Apart from some (expected) slight stiffness all feels well today.

This week offers more sunny morning opportunities. I'll bag another long run on Sunday, maybe another 19, a Snake run with 5 or 6 flat seafront miles tagged on the end. Then it's a week of light jogs followed by 6 days with my feet up in Adalucia.

My temperance continues with one or two minor deviations to report. A beer with the Plodder before 150 minutes of pure Blues mastery in the company of Mr Joe Bonamassa and a brace of Firkin Foxes last night. I may falter once more this coming Sunday when Lewes Ladies receive the league trophy before their home match with Cambridge. Here's the current league table. Nice goal difference I'm sure you'll agree.

[marathondan]

Three outings this week, a lightweight 'return-to-running' 3.5 miler, a standard Blackcap 5 and a delightfully bright and breezy 19 miler yesterday, taking in the sights around the Jog Shop 20 course.

...

I'll bag another long run on Sunday, maybe another 19, a Snake run with 5 or 6 flat seafront miles tagged on the end.

Reports of your demise seem exaggerated. Sounds like you're in better shape than you may think. I still have my money on a sub 4 in Brighton.

[Sweder]

Save your dosh Dan. That 19 miler took 3 hours 11 minutes to complete not counting drinks/ photo stops.
Which reminds me, I really should publish one or two photos from Sunday. It was fabulous running conditons.

[Sweder]

A leg-spinning 2.5 miles across sun-baked downland this morning. It started out a little slowly, feeding warm blood through stiff joints after Sunday's odyssey but ending rather better with a mile and a half at sub seven minute miling. Hips and knees a bit cranky - I have to agree with Dan the going is 'good to firm' even in my lush hills - but otherwise I'm happy. Planning an other 5 on Friday, something between 15 and 19 on Sunday before the real taper begins.

Beer wise I've not been tempted to stray after Sunday's reward, though my weight remains a constant 90 kilos, + or - an ounce or two.

[marathondan]

but ending rather better with a mile and a half at sub seven minute miling.

That's pretty fast for a big lad - speaking as one to another. I may be a couple of kgs heavier than you now, actually.

Again, I put it to the jury that this man is in good shape for a marathon.

[Sweder]

An exceedingly pleasant five miler this morning. I confess to feeling in tip-top shape, lack of sleep aside. I fair raced home at well under 8 minute mile pace but then, pace is not the issue, it's distance isn't it? 26.2 on hard roads and pavements will always find out charlatans like me. It's like I've been tapering for a few weeks (which I suppose I have really). I feel sluggish and 'cold' when I go out only to find form on the run, finishing well. Sunday will be my last long run, somewhere around the 16, 17, 18 mile mark. I'd like to have done 20 plus but at this late stage I feel there's more to be gained from rest than from pushing too hard.

I do have a strategy for Brighton; it involves the Mrs standing just beyond the finish line with a cool pint of Harveys held aloft. If I can hold that image above the waves of pain and fatigue I'll be OK.

Off out for a ruby with Moylebird, Tina (Chris's gal) and Rog-Air for a Cape Town/ Paris/ Moyleman reunion. The tears, not the beers, will almost certainly flow, though I expect them to be drowned out by the sound of raucous laughter as the tales rude and glorious take centre stage.