March Or Die

[Sweder]

I've never seen such a blend of ecstacy and agony on the faces of so many runners.
What a day.

   
Photo: James McCauley

[Sweder]

There will be plenty written here later on what took place yesterday
For now, join us in looking back, for a few moments, on what was a rather special day

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Rather!

[Sweder]

How good are our photographers?
THIS good. James McCauley's photostream from Moyleman 2016
Password at prompt is 'Lewes'

http://mccauleyphotos.photoshelter.com/gallery/Moyleman-2016/G0000YJ8BK8VxYoU

Twittenista James refuses to accept payment for his work, calling it a labour of love and a privilege to be 'out on the Downs with such happy people'. We salute you, sir.

[Bierzo Baggie]

Job well done ...congratulations!
Just been checking out the photos, who's the bloke in the beret? He looks like a Basque.

[Sweder]

In response to the question (?) in the thread title, I seem lately to have opted for 'Die'. 

Apres Moyleman has seen a running wasteland. Bereft of endeavour, without a drop of running mojo, the post-event blues have taken on an ominously darkened hue. My chest infection has morphed into general physical decay. The highs of Twitten running, Bevy Parkrun and evening jaunts in the hills are as dust floating in the Shanghai smog. I'm in a rare old funk. 

As ever, this place provides solace from the daily dross. MLCMan, CC5 and BB have kept the home fires burning, providing a beacon of light for those of us lurking in the gloom. My plans to take to the banks of the Yangtze, to knock out a music-fuelled solo Parkrun, have been holed below the water line by our hosts. My primary duty today, aside from dealing with a tsunami of overnight e-mails from the west, is to conduct a breakdown planning meeting. The show closes tomorrow afternoon, triggering a flurry of orgasnised chaos as we look to evacuate the building in a fraction of the time it took to build the thing. A meeting of key players - organiser, logistics (me), contractors, venue and health & safety manager, to review and adjust the operational timeline, is essential. Having put forward three possible times for this meeting, agreed by all other parties, the venue have countered with a 1pm start time, slap bang in my scheduled running slot and wholly inconvenient to everyone else. Bah. Welcome to China.

Keep up the good work, everyone. I'll be back with you next week, albeit somewhat out of shape.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Not to worry Sweder, soon enough you'll leave old China behind and be back running the hills with your hounds before you know it. And CC5 will probably want to have a beer with you as well. That should keep you going, old son. Cheers, buddy.

[Sweder]

Back in the saddle, and it's all a bit painful.
Sunday saw a return to the Twittens. Just the four of us, CC5, Tom Roper and young Felix. I'd landed the previous evening, the clocks had gone forward (scything another hour off my limited sleep ration) and Ground Coffee was closed until 11. I was, in truth, somewhat discombobulated. 

40 minutes later I was also breathless, bug-eyed and bent double. CC5 had had the good grace to take on a pre-Twittens session in the mud, slowing him down just enough for me to think I might keep up. Ha ha ha. Nice one. There was talk of a diversion on the penultimate Twitten, skipping the last drop in order to run along the high street to hit Cafe Nero. I'm not much for that. I'd come out to run the Twittens, and run them I would. So I waved away this scandalous chatter and stumbled off down the last lane. CC5 joined me, catching me just before I had to run up Station Street (again) to reach the coffee outlet.

Yesterday I'd read MLCMMan excellent piece about running tempo and maintaining a manageable pace to extend your long run. I'd have to deploy these tactics simply to complete a medium circuit. My plans to run that evening went south as quickly as the weather and I ended up on the sofa feeling large and blubbery, munching solemnly on the remnants of Easter's bounty as England's youth fell to the industrious Netherlands.

   

This morning I rose with intent. The sun was up in a clear blue sky, so I harnessed the hounds, strapped on my new Adidas offies and set off on a steady, steady plod. Across the sheep field to the Moyleman start, along the top of the Chalk Pits, up through the slippery woodland trail, ducking more branches than usual after Katie's tantrum, on up Mount Harry to Blackcap and home via the stables, Sweder's Hill and another set of woods. The mud was in that perfect chocolate fondant state; crisp crust shielding a perfectly gooey centre. My boots, suitably filthy, acquitted themselves extremely well. I must remember to tighten them up properly, it makes a big difference.

   

It wasn't quite MLCMMan's perfect long run outing. For a start my route was anything but flat. The equation also works best when the subject is reasonably fit. My recent Shanghai debauch combined sporadic eating with heavy bouts of Guinness consumption (we drank the hotel bar dry a couple of times). An iron core was never my strongest attribute but I'm fairly sure it's now AWOL. I wobbled, I struggled, now, a few hours later, I'm feeling it in my quads, shins and calfs. Happily I have a stash of Signature Brew Roadie All-Night IPA to aid recovery.

   

Parkrun Saturday, Twittens Sunday. Softly, softly, catchee monkey.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Ah yes, core strength. Vitally important, but like stretching, something too often ignored. I am however happy to report that I am currently reading Ed Caesar's very fine book Two Hours in which he points out that the elite Kenyan marathoners don't generally do weights and don't stretch much, either. And their core strength is absolutely fine*.

So there's hope.

Maybe.

Not that there's much else by way of comparison between elite Kenyan marathoners and (ahem) the likes of us.



*He also points out that they run anything up to 250km per week, which may well have the spin off benefit of not requiring additional core strength work. Pah!