Having battled back from South Wales through appallingly foul weather I knew what to expect this morning. I ducked out of the B&H ParkRun, enjoying a cozy cuppa with Mrs S before reluctantly saddling up the hounds for a hilltop scour.
It may well be that the past few days touring with a selection of fine rock bands has taken its toll; let's not be too quick to judge or cast unwarranted aspursions. All I'm saying is if I'd put that amount of effort in on a windless day I'd've expected a PB, not a paltry 48+ minutes. I've never run in such strong cross-winds. Remaining upright was a real struggle; it felt as if my RC shirt would be torn from my torso at any moment. Tears were ripped from my eyes as I leant into the teeth of the storm. I was deafened by the constant roar tearing in from the coast, first my left ear then my right taking a fearsome pounding. This from a man who spent last night watching the impossibly loud Motorhead from stage left. Mercifully the rain stayed away, or more likely never had chance to reach the ground. Ferocious, brutal, all of the above; and yet a pleasure to be out there, testing myself against the elements, in spite of the resulting John Terry hair 'style'.
To those taking on the Brighton 10K tomorrow, I salute you.
If the wind is anything like as strong as today you're in for a wild, wild ride.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(14-11-2009, 12:42 PM)Sweder Wrote: To those taking on the Brighton 10K tomorrow, I salute you.
If the wind is anything like as strong as today you're in for a wild, wild ride.
With such high winds about, this could be one of those rare occasions when... how can I put this... a bit of excess integral ballast could be an advantage.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
(14-11-2009, 12:42 PM)Sweder Wrote: To those taking on the Brighton 10K tomorrow, I salute you.
If the wind is anything like as strong as today you're in for a wild, wild ride.
With such high winds about, this could be one of those rare occasions when... how can I put this... a bit of excess integral ballast could be an advantage.
So long as that "ballast" doesn't act as a sail and take you colourfully and dramatically over the cliffs, your screams disturbing the more lithe opponents (around whom the wind merely whips) and pushing them on manically to PBs at your expense.
Sorry I can't be there - seems like it could be quite a dramatic day.
Happily the race takes place at sea level. I don't think our ole cliffs could take that kind of punishment Rumours of abandonment are vastly exaggerated; the forecast is for winds to drop to hurricane force.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Managed to crawl from the wreckage just in time to see the denoument of the Great Race part deaux.
I'll leave it to those who actually bothered to run to tell the tale. Suffice to say both men are hale and hearty and none too displeased, though why SP felt the need to flash his pierced Moobs at the end is beyond the ken of man ... Congrats also to Tom Roper who I almost missed, such was his progress. And hello to Stevio and Steepler who I presume were running with others less gifted than themselves as they appeared towards the back of the pack. Turned out to be showery, a bit blustery but nothing like the flesh-ripping tumult of Saturday.
A very pleasant hour in Al Fresco with Messrs Roper and Gordo before jumping into my own personalised tour bus and heading for the wilds of Wiltshire to rejoin the tour. More from there later; for now, a couple of snapshots from last night. I feel like the luckiest man on the planet.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
One of the finest hangover cures known to man; a seven kilometre slog along the banks of the Clyde through the heart of Glasgow in sheeting rain.
Fetid grey clouds, like zombies' breath, trudged across a brackish swollen river that looked for all the world like the fabled Styx, the stench of rotting fish mingling with the brewery's yeasty expulsions to add another dimension to my pain. I certainly felt like paying Charon for my passage; anything to avoid aggravating the pounding in my frontal lobes. Dark cobbles plastered with rotting leaves offered a slippery slope for my sweaty redemption.
Last night was the stuff of dreams ... and nightmares.
First up O'Neil's with the Irish Army, screaming in unison, Guinness sploshing onto the grubby wood flooring, as Robbie Keane fired yet another chance into row Z. The howls of disbelief were drowned by a blood-curdling roar as The Hand Of Frog set up the clincher. It had to be Gallas, one of the least-likable of Wengers' progeny, who got to bound about like an electrified mongoose, strutting the length of the pitch to celebrate Mr Henri's adroit intervention. I felt sick for the Paddies, yet one can't help but feel they had the match in the bag if only they could have netted the damned ball. Such is football. As one ruddy-faced man unfortunately wrapped in a skin-tight green and orange jersey remarked 'Och, Tis only a game. Life goes on!' before reaching for a fresh pint.
Life went on for me. I crossed Sauchiehall street - how many times can you mis-spell that name? - in search of happier climes and bumped into my Welsh counterpart, Girlschool tour tech Paul Tidy. He was weaving his way home having tucked away a skinful of 'Dark & Strormies' - a rum and ginger beer concoction that I am assured 'hits the spot'. After all of ten seconds I pursuaded him to come with me for more drink. Grinning wolfishly he spun on his heel and marched back into the nearest bar. This happened to be Nice & Sleazy, residence for the evening to Motorhead's crew. Oh dear.
Some hours later I awoke to the distant sound of a telephone ringing. It turned out to be mine, and it was only on the couch next to the bed, but there was some kind of opressive fog in the room dulling my senses. Then the penny dropped, albeit with a muted thud. The fog was internal, and every fibre of my being screamed for a painless release from hangover hell.
Now some 45 minutes later I feel like a new man. Well, less like a dead one at any rate. Food next, thence to the Apollo to complete the installation of several tons of ear-crushing electronics.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I heard a ruby-murray at The Karma Sutra on Sauchiehall Street is worth it if it's still in business. Full marks for meeting it head-on squire. Diving into a swimming pool is another great option. Although probably not The Clyde.
Gasp! - a run. Not particularly impressive, yet quite an achievement in the middle of a vast amount of motorway travel and late night ear-pummelling.
I sat at my desk this morning, gazing out at high white clouds scudding across a seductively blue sky. The sun had his hat on, birds fluttered playfully in the garden and all was right with this perfect November world. I resolved to get my boots on and get out there, making my declaration public via twitter. No sooner had I reached for a running vest than the largest, darkest, most intimidating black cloud hove into view. Entering stage right it proceeded to blot out the sky, looking ominously like an Imperial Battle Cruiser from Star Wars as it filled the window. Even as I cursed my luck the bomb bay doors opened to unleash a bitter torrent of spiteful grey-black rain, slicing through the chilled air to lance into the already-sodden earth. With the saddest, heaviest sigh I let my vest drop to the floor, alarmed at how easily I'd been deterred from a run. Is this what I've come to? Two weeks on tour and I'm ready to jack it in at the first sign of bad weather? Tsk tsk, this really won’t do.
Ashamed I scurried through the house in search of leggings and my ancient Nike sweatshirt. Fuck it; I'm going out anyway. I hauled on my leggings like a petulant teenager given an early curfew, angry at myself for getting so soft. As my head popped through the neck of my RC vest a chink of light showed at the southern edge of the malevolent shroud. I pulled on the sweatshirt and the encouraging sliver became a yawning chasm as the sun fought back. Violent winds drove the Storm-bringer inland, drawing back the great dark curtain to reveal a beautiful day once more. I felt vindicated, rewarded for my about-turn.
Out on the downs I squelched through deep troughs of filthy mud. Brackish water pooled in horse-hoof grooves, splashing up to speckle my leggings and soak my shoes as I fought up the early slopes. I tried to alter my gait to encompass the Pose style introduced over in Glaconman's diary. I found this rather challenging, seeing as most of my route is either up or downhill; that, and I tend to run like Quasimodo fleeing the Parisian mob. What I ended up doing was shortening my stride whilst making a conscious effort to restrict my knee movement on the forward stride. To the casual dog-walking observer I must’ve looked hysterical, like Max Wall on acid perhaps, but I continued. Reaching Blackcap just as breathless as usual I decided this was a bad day to try to judge any immediate benefits. For one thing I was almost certainly doing it wrong; for another I was running into a force 6 headwind and was therefore always going to struggle. At least I hoped it was a headwind. Some scornful part of me suggested it might be a side-wind and I was just labouring under the weight of recent excess. I spat, relieved to see the frothy ejectum fly sideways before being whipped behind me: headwind. Good-oh.
The return leg proved a good deal easier, that familiar, welcome shove in the back helping me cover the ground in short order. I continued to maintain an upright stance, although on the downhill this felt like I was trying to snap my own spine and was far from comfortable. My knees seemed to want to push out beyond my wobbling torso and eventually I just let them do their thing, finally running free.
So, my own jury's out on Pose running, if indeed it ever sat. I'll need to take my Ministry of Silly Runs for a spin on the A27 flat-track next week. For now it's been a very welcome outing, a shade under two Farsakhs in the bank, comforting to know I can still cover that without stopping or coughing up my sop in wine.
Rumours of abandonment are vastly exaggerated; the forecast is for winds to drop to hurricane force.
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