February 2017

[OutAlongTheRiver]

I'm glad that my light-hearted suggestion of running to Bevy park run turned into a full on mad escapade for Saturday morning. 30k is furthest I have ever gone - even with break for coffee at the pub after park run. And to get up and do twittens next day represents a definite improvement on my Almeria form. Only loss - my glasses, left on top of trig point on Black Cap ... wondering if they will still be there. But maybe its serendipity - a gift to the running gods, since I am having eye test on Friday and feel certain I will need new ones.

[Sweder]

I hope to get up to BC this week; tomorrow, if there's enough light once I'm back from Paris.
I'll keep an eye out for them.

[Sweder]

I did, and they were gone, sadly. Saddened, I wrote a short poem for Rob's glasses:

Off my ass & onto my chassis
To assess the location of
Rob Read's glasses
Made several passes but Alas
For the masses
Ix Nay on poor OATR's glasses

   

My day-job has been secured for another season. 

I chugged around my long Blackcap circuit - Stables/ Blackcap/ Woodland trail/ Chalk Pits - 9 kms, or so, in 1:15. My average HR was 127, a tad over the desired 125, but hey. I barely looked at the watch, going by breathing rate. If I found myself breathing hard I slowed down. This still meant a fair bit of uphill walking, but that's OK. Perhaps my ideal MAF 180 rate is 127. Who knows? George Sheehan, and all that.

MLCMMan recently made an interesting, if inconvenient, point about calorific intake. I might have cut the carbs but I've been eating like a king for the past fortnight. It's quite possible I've over-fuelled, hence the lack of substantial weight-loss. My biggest problem seems to be crafty bowls of late night salted nuts. These are packed with calories, are remarkably tasty and there's always a second bowl to be had. 

So, the next phase in my battle with middle aged spread is to take on the late night snacking. 
This means trying to restrict intake past the evening meal to a glass of red or a cup of chai. And that's it.
This should work quite well with my early to bed/ no devices policy. The only problem is, I'm turning my cosy corner of suburbia into North fucking Korea. I have other phases to go to; that rowing machine remains untarnished by honest sweat. As Spring warms the air, so I shall slip out for some gentle strokes* on the patio.

*absolutely no need for alarm, dear neighbours. 

Tomorrow night is Rooks at home night, so bang goes the early night. I'll have to work hard to avoid downing a (naked) Rooks burger, pints of Harveys or one of their impossibly tasty pies. Bugger.

[Sweder]

Doris Day

The day arrived and so did Doris. She was right outside the back door, and she wasn't happy. 
The reason for her complaint was lost in her howling rage. She bent trees, smashed into bushes and hurled rain at the windows with enough force to pitt the glass. Just as I thought about telling her to do one, OATR arrived on my doorstep. Bedraggled, glasses rendered opaque, grinning from ear to ear. 'Shall we?' 'Let's'

We did. I strapped on the HR watch, as much out of habit as anything else. This was no time for MAF. Doris was so fierce that any attempt to walk was met by a firm thrust backwards, so it was plod on, no matter the heart rate. We sashayed up the old Moyleman start, sploshing through puddles and sliding on mud, bouncing across flint, finding shelter amongst the ravaged shrubs. Up past the stables we lost our windbreak. It was a challenge to stay upright. Every now and then a gust would throw my lifted foot into my standing ankle in a crude attempt to trip me up.

OATR accelerated up the steep climb to the trig point, turning to snap my arrival with the less-than-impressed hounds. The plummet towards Mount Harry was exhilarating, aided by a firm shove in the back from Doris, who was far from spent. We thundered home via the sheltered woods and exposed tops of the chalk pits, managing to exchange sentences every now and then. 

Once home and warmed by coffee, eggs, bacon and avocado, we set about amending Instructions to Runners (2017 edit) for the Moyleman. We're just over two weeks out from race day. Numbers will be posted this week, pretty much everything is in place. It's an exciting yet slightly nerve-racking time for the Moyleman team. Plenty to do, yet the one determining factor we can't do much about is the weather. Doris will be long gone, but who knows what mischievous weather sprites the 12th of March will bring?

         

8.8 kms in 1:03:08
Average pace 7:10 mpk
856 calories burned
1380 Kcals (MiCoach)
Average HR: 120 bpm (nonsense as I left it on for 20 mins after we got back)

Feb total so far: 113.2 kms (Jan was 70.8)

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Nice one, Sweder. It brings to mind a comment by EG some time back:

It rained all morning, just like it rained all weekend, yet today’s seemed less hostile. I was reminded this week that running is about mental fitness as well as the physical sort. When the old head is right, even the rain has a smiley face.

Clearly you two have your 'old heads' nicely 'right' ... good work!

[Sweder]

Moyleman: Part Two

21.07 kms
2:28:54
Ave pace: 7:04 mpk
Calories burned: 2023
AHR: 143 bpm
Elevation: 498 metres

   

Up with the lads for a bitterly cold, wind-lashed half marathon in the Moyleman hills. 
We needed to reconnoitre the second half of the route, to assess access, trail conditions, all that jazz. After last Saturday's ugly slog I felt sure I'd do better. OATR is running the section on the day, so this was to be a good workout for him, schooling those muscles in the rise fall and rise again of this, the generally accepted tougher of the two halves. 

We drove out to Southease YHA and set off up Itford Hill. The start of this section is a five mile climb. After a while, we were caught and passed by a couple of runners, a supremely fit young woman, lean golden legs shining down from scant, tight shorts, and a gent of similar age to ourselves, more conservatively preserved against the elements. We would play tag with these two all the way up Firle Beacon to Bo Peep farm. The Lady was in training for the Steyning Stinger, a course to rival the Moyleman as a test of endurance and hill-craft. A good friend of hers will take on the Moyleman in two weeks. Today they were following the South Downs Way from Housedean Farm to Eastbourne. 

I noted her running style was remarkably efficient, feet barely moving off the soft turf, legs giving the impression of someone gently warming up. This reminded me of Steve Scott and some of the Jog Shop Joggers, and of Chris McDougall's descriptions of the Tarahumara in Born to Run. Their running style looks effortless, as if they could run all day like that. They probably can. 

   

We three, OATR, in fine form, bouncing along like Tigger, CharlieCat, getting back into running after a brief dalliance with the ski slopes of Europe, and I, turned north to drop down the hard road from Bo Peep to the Old Coach Road. At that turning CC5 offered us a nibble on his fat balls. Sorry, on his Fat Balls, a bespoke concoction attributed to Naomi Ayres, featuring chia seeds, dried cranberries, honey and 'other stuff'. They were delicious. 

The Old Coach Road has undergone a transformation of sorts. In years past this has been peppered with bomb craters filled with brackish rainwater. Those holes are still there in places, but the worst section, just after Honeysuckle Cottage, through the woods, has been all but levelled. OATR set a cracking pace and I dropped off. I've decided, somewhat late in life, that it pays to know your optimum pace and stick to it. I'd ditched MAF for this one - you can't really run uphill for the first miles at under 125 bpm, it's antisocial - but I wanted to get round and still feel vaguely human. The lads kindly waited for me at the turns.

Through Farmer Pyle's underpass (by prior arrangement; this is NOT a public thoroughfare), across a Somme-like ploughed field, skating across monstrous tyre tracks, trying not to snap an ankle, towards Glynde village. Sad news to bring you, here. The Trevor Arms, a delightful flint-walled public house. renowned for a fine, varied menu of local ales, parked plumb in the heart of this gorgeous Sussex village, has closed. I don't know why. We stopped to peer through the windows. Posters proclaimed refurbishment, but these were dated 2016 and there were no signs of recent activity. On through the village, left into the lane, up through the access gate (nobly guarded by a brave Blackbird) and onto the foothills of Mount Caburn. 

   

MAF or not, I'd decided a while back to walk Caburn. You can heckle all you like; I know my 'strong stride' pace is a match for my 'desperate chug' pace. This was borne out as I kept the gap between myself and OATR (chugging) honest all the way up. CC5, who had picked up a blister shortly after Bo Peep, was right behind me. He wasn't enjoying himself, a look of confusion writ across his furrowed brow. One thing leads to another. The blister had forced him to change his cadence, which in turn was messing with his muscles. The man was not happy. Up, up, up we went, all the way to the summit, where we regrouped. Then down the long drop into the valley, across to the edge of the golf course, up, up once more before the final, glorious plummet into town.

   

We ran along Cliffe High Street, past cold-eyed shoppers and curious children, up the passage to Harveys Yard, where we hit the gates as one.
'Beer sets you free' I muttered. They knew what I meant. In two weeks 275 runners will pour through these gates, another 25 having completed the first Half as lead-off relay runners, as we pour their pints, serve pizzas and dish out mementos. It's quite possibly my favourite day of the year. I can't wait.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

You got me drooling. You really have, and I don't mean for the Fat Balls...

[Sweder]

Well, Twittens was an unmitigated joy this morning. At least nothing snapped off.
Managed to worm my way to the Brighton Half finish line in time to see the heroic finish of one Mr Tom Roper, captured here in full finishing sprint and later, with his hard-earned medallion and silver cape. Bravo!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Bravo indeed! Well done, Mr. R. And I love the way you get both a finisher's medal and a super-hero cape!