I sense a stirring of forumites this weekend; whisps of activity, an audible steeling of resolve. Perhaps the impending arrival of Autumn with her runner-friendly conditions has something to do with it.
For me, September has been all about work and ended in illness. My customary end-of-summer cold has slipped easily into a mild chest infection which lingers as I write. The product of childhood bronchitis, my feeble chest has cost me, in consecutive years, marathons in Dublin and New York and, this year, any chance of the Jog Shop Jog.
In the spirit of Andy and BB, who have renewed their running vows this week, I shall ease back into things, starting next week.
This weekend is all about R&R -
Rest & Reccuperation as opposed to Rack & Ruin.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Bad luck buddy - you'll get no teasing from this quarter. Sometimes the dice just fall that way. All we can do is dust ourselves down and carry on. It's not been a bad year for most of us, so I guess a bit of bad luck is overdue.
Next year will be better...
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
"Renewed running vows" ...I like that.
Like you I prefer cold, rainy conditions for running (or at least I do after this summer!)
Changing the subject completely, why are you called "Sweder" ? Are you of Viking descent? or a school dinner trauma perhaps? Just curious....
Hello BB. 'Sweder' is a name I sort of picked up along the way, like experience or grey hair. It started out when I worked a show in Moscow in 1984. The crew were mostly of Cockney stock. Apparently, in parts of the East End, your head (my surname is Head) is known affectionately as your Swede (or Gourd). Hence I became known as 'Swede' or 'Sweder'. It stuck, and has remained with me ever since.
During my hashing experience in Hong Kong this year I was asked which Hash had annointed me 'Sweder' and why. I guess it's as good a hash name as any, and a darned sight better than some - just ask my friend Any Dick'll Do in the Wanchai Hash - so I'm sticking with that, too.
SP and I sauntered out for a pre-winter training plod along the misty Seaford seafront this evening. A gentle 2 miles at +10 minute pace, just to reaquaint the joints and muscles with the act of moving slightly faster than a slow trudge. The rain abated for the 20 or so minutes we spent idly chatting our way up and down the prom, and we accepted this as the good omen it most obviously was.
The first few steps on a long road.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Having failed to follow up on the gentle 2 mile plod of Wednesday I decided to chug up the hill to Black Cap with the hounds. No stopwatch, no timers, just an easy 4 to 5 miles at the gentlest of paces.
It felt good. I started cooking up thoughts of pushing the pace, of getting up here 3 to 4 times a week, of getting fitter, stronger, faster than I've ever been before . . .
. . . and then I thought; no. This Autumn I'm going to ease into my running, let the miles creep up on me, keep the stopwatch tucked away for a month or so, and just get the old legs ticking over for a few weeks.
Hearty congratulations to Nigel who ate up the 26.2 at Abingdon today.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
No-watch running is a great way of rekindling motivation and appetite, I found last year. I'm sort of doing that now. Well, I am still using a watch, but I look at it only when I finish. I find it useful as a way of keeping records of when and how far I've been, but the time is of no interest to me at present. Just as well....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I've endured a few days of excuse building and prevarication, but I finally ran out of reasons not to get out this morning, so out I went. I once again elected to take the road of the Ludite, leaving my ‘phone, DAB Radio et al behind. I’m learning to love the timeless run.
A crisp, sunny day bade me welcome on the downs just after 8 am. The hounds were excited; sadly the only females likely to be so at the sight of me thumping down stairs in my shorts and 2004 FLM vest. As on Sunday I vowed to plod easily toward Black Cap, to see how far I’d get before fatigue demanded an about-turn. A gentle westerly breeze brushed against us as we ascended towards the riding stables. I was delighted at the mushy state of the terrain. Heavy rain all last night had ensured a mixture of chalk gravy and sludge along much of the route. I sploshed in the manner of a gleeful 5-year-old through the filthy puddles, splattering my legs and those hounds dumb enough to stay close.
As we crested the ridge past the stables the hitherto welcome zephyr gathered strength. Relaxed and comfortable I slowed my already pedestrian pace, tilting a little further into the breeze.
The lack of radio output revealed my increasingly laboured breathing. My legs felt good; I felt certain the 2.5 mile climb would be completed, albeit in a leisurely manner. Yet the awful, ragged rasping as my lungs fought for air suggested otherwise. I took a walk-break at the entrance to the last field, wondering if this is what I usually sound like at this stage, the disturbing noises drowned out by the Planet Rock soundtrack.
We reached the Cap unscathed, despite Gypsy’s attempts to goad the imposing cattle into a bit of canine/ bovine bullfight action. On the return she once again offered out the rust-coloured grazers. To her surprise and alarm one of the younger cows accepted, bellowing joyfully as she charged for the startled lurcher. A brief chase ensued, but even dumb cattle know when the game is up.
Breeze at our backs it would have been easy to kick for home, but I decided against. For one I’m concerned that too much too soon will result in injury or fatigue; I’d like to close the gaps between these comeback runs. I told myself to run as if I’d planned two circuits, and it pretty much worked; I consciously conserved energy, resisting the temptation to employ the helpful breeze and declining landscape to increase my speed.
Andy wrote recently about comeback sessions and the importance of stringing a few (close) together to shrug off lethargy and rekindle enthusiasm. To plagiarise Kevin Maher in today’s times, I came, I saw, I concurred.
Distance covered: 5 miles
Duration: I have no idea
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Another 5 hilly miles safely deposited in the company of Rick Wakeman on his Saturday morning Planet Rock show. Whatever your views on Wakeman as a musician - I'm abivalent about his back-catalogue of prog-rock - he's a shockingly poor Rock Jock.
Happily another beautiful morning on the Sussex Downs made up for the incoherent ramblings of the hirsuit has-been, together with the occasional classic track. An easy-paced lope, running all the way to the 2.4 mile summit for the first time since my return to the hills; another 5 miles safely tucked away.
As the Brighton 10K is pretty much perfectly flat and on concrete, I'll treat myself to a plod around the route tomorrow morning, making landmark notes for my RC group tour next month.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Managed to drag my weary bones down to Brighton this morning for a gentle plod along the 10K route. There's something timeless, even magical about seaside towns out of season. Saturday nights' revellers emerged from hotels and guest houses, bleary-eyed and a little unsteady on their feet, peering suspiciously at the joggers and cyclists weaving through their zombie-style meanderings.
The smell of deep fat frying from the donut stall at the Palace pier gave me incentive to speed up in my first mile. A smart westerly breeze offset the warm sun as I plodded past the decrepit, sinking wreck of the West pier. The Meeting Point - Sunday morning papers-coffee-and-breakfast al fresco - bustled with cool couples, shades and crombies a-go-go.
Unsure of the turning point for the 10K I looped to eastward, in hindsight about half a mile too soon, but in terms of fatigue and following yesterdays' 5 miles, about right for me today. Breeze at my back my pace increased and I felt almost like a runner again, passing any number of ample, lycra-clad bottoms. Back past the remaining open pier I hit the gas just a tad. The legs responded, albeit reluctantly, and I arrived at the car breathless and exhilarated.
I drove home slowly, following a route that my usual Sunday companions would have taken earlier, in the vain hope I might spot a familiar face or two on their run for home, 16 or 18 hilly miles tucked away. The route took me within a stones' throw of the head of the Snake, and I felt a twing of regret, like passing the home of an old lover.
It can't be long before I'm back in her coils again.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sometimes you head out the door for a run and nothing in particular happens.
You run, it goes well, it’s enjoyable . . . it’s all standard fare.
And sometimes, everything happens.
Everything? Pretty much . . .
October 27th 2005 is expected to be the warmest such day in almost 100 years. Warm air currents are sweeping up from the North African coast, looping over southern France before bathing our green and pleasant land in unseasonable hotness. I greeted this news in the only way I know – time for a run.
I ummed and arred about this for a while. I was late for work anyway . . . perhaps I should leave it and get on with the mountain of things demanding attention. But no . . . that’s prevarication and I vowed to ditch such anti-running behaviour this month. Next question: take the hounds or not? A collection of expectant eyes and wagging tails as I descended the stairs answered that one. Hounds it is.
We set off at a modest pace, chugging up the incline behind the house and into the sheep field that leads to the South Downs Way. I embraced the novelty of an easterly breeze helping me on the outward/ upward leg of my run.
Radar tuned for sheep I loped towards the dewpond where Willow took her customary muddy dip. I plodded on, spotting a flock of potential knitwear to my right, and focused on coaxing Gypsy and Tess to stay with me. At this point I realised Willow had not rejoined the pack, and I turned to see her jet black form speeding across the field towards the houses, entirely the wrong direction. I cursed: Willow is still pretty green around the gills directions-wise, and the thought of having to scour the neighbourhood only to pull her off the remains of a neighbours’ beloved pet demanded action. I turned and set off back down the slope.
No more than 10 yards in I realised my schoolboy error.
I turned to see a dirty white woolly cloud sweeping across the hillside closely followed by a golden brown shape and a slightly smaller white one. I bellowed for all I was worth, and finally the delinquent hounds gave up their quarry and returned to their puce-faced ‘master’. We followed in Williows’ tracks for a while, but eventually the options became too varied. I decided to return home, secure the sheep-chasers and go in search of the missing Spaniel.
Muttering oaths about first instincts and paying the penalty for skiving I bounded through the clumps of grass covering the path homeward, displaying the honed skills of a slalom champion to avoid all manner of nasty obstacles. Rounding the bend into my road I began to draw plans for my search. On past the car, into the driveway and . . . there, perched on the flat paving stone that marks the end of our garden wall, sat perfectly still like a hairy black statuette, was Willow, a picture of innocence.
I reassessed my options. The dog was found, and I had covered barely 2 miles – not half my intended distance. Undeterred by events I elected to return to the Downs and get at least another 2 miles in. The dogs were keen to go again, so throwing understandable caution to the pleasantly warm wind we set of anew. This time we managed to pass the sheep without incident, and I relaxed into a gentle pace, happy that somehow my fortunes had changed. I was right. We passed the stables and I spied two thoroughbreds strolling back through the field alongside the flint/ mud track to Black Cap. I recognised the lead rider – a chap I often see out exercising the racehorses as I chug by – and before I could raise my hand he offered me a perfect Shearer. This is the first time anyone from the Equine world has offered such a greeting, and I responded with a big grin and a cheery wave.
At the foot of the steep ascent to the cap, about 2 miles out from home, I stopped for a breather and decided to turn about. It was past 10 am by this point, the sun was fully awake and beaming with enthusiasm, and I had no water on board. A gentle plod back, the hounds impeccable (as ever on the homeward journey) and my perfect soundtrack courtesy of Planet Rock – Tom Petty, Running Down A Dream.
6 miles in the bin, an hour and a half of running/ head-scratching/ mucking about, stress levels back below critical, and a bunch of happy, tired hounds. Life is good.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Another potter up to Black Cap, again with the luxury of an easterly wind to help the ascent. The contrast with Thursday could not have been more stark, the warm breeze sweeping us up the slope into mist-shrouded hills. Visibility, usually better than 50 miles from the summit, restricted to that number of metres in places.
This is my kind of weather; not too hot, damp under foot, visitors to the Downs few and far between. Again untimed, somewhere in the region of 45 minutes or so, this had the feel of miles banked.
A possible 8 miler tomorrow morning along the clifftops at Brighton.
Things are building nicely.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Rejoined my Brighton Sunday running group for a cliff top plod this morning. Blue skies, watery sunshine and a healthy force 5 to 6 easterly to slow our outward lope.
Mindful of yesterdays' 5 hilly miles I opted for a) the lesser of two runs offered and b) a leisurely pace. The latter was assured thanks to the buffeting headwind. An enjoyable 80 minutes, the return journey west all the more so for the helping breeze. My legs complained a little as we neared the finish at Brighton Marina, so I treated them to 10 minutes stretching before heading home.
12k safely banked, rounding off a productive week in a return to autumnal running. I’m off to Bilbao on Friday for one week, and the road runners will be coming. It’ll take a fair bit of self discipline to get out on the three or four occasions required to build on this steady start.
I took a few shots with my phone-cam; they’re pretty ropey, but provided I can upload them they’ll give some idea of this section of the Sunday run, the preamble to much anticipated off-road adventures.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Looks good, Sweder. Running by the sea is just grand. I think of running between Tel Aviv and Jaffa in 2003; Cuba in 2004; the Brighton 10K of course.
Bilbao is a great city. Don't dare leave the place without visiting the Guggenheim. Fantastic building. And do go for a wander around the narrow streets and alleyways in the old town. You'll find loads of excellent tapas bars where you'll be made to feel welcome. We were there just about this time of year back in 2003. Indeed, Bilbao will be forever burnt into my memory as it was in a hotel room there that I watched England win the Rugby World Cup. My trip to the Guggenheim came immediately afterwards, and I sort of floated around the place in an alcoholic dream. I can't recall if you were with us then, but if not, you can read about the trip here:
which may give you some ideas. You don't say why you're there, or what your itinerary is, but if you have the chance to travel through the region a bit, you'll find the Basque country to be a fascinating place.
Warning: this is the heart of Rioja country. Yum yum.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Rioja & Rolla. Sounds just my sort of thing.
As ever the spectre of work looms large in my plans, although I will certainly be visiting the Guggenheim - there's a GM cocktail reception invitation with my name on it. I'll be working 14 hour days, but there will be plenty of opportunities for plodding. Or drinking, or Tapas-testing . . .
. . . blast.
Running by the sea.
Yes, it's quite the thing in any weather - either postcard tranquility or raging white horses dancing into shore, it's all good. I'd forgotten one of the benefits of such plods - driving home licking the sea-salt off my face and hands. Lovely!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
