February

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

...some Blink 182 (underrated IMHO)...

Hmm, the only B182 I have is the light-weight "First Date", which is a bit of nonsensical fun. Ever on the search for more eclecticism, please do recommend something, Sweder (or anyone)...?

[Sweder]

Ever on the search for more eclecticism, please do recommend something

Another Girl, Another Planet
I Miss You
Always
Down

All 'hits' of sorts. There's a lot of fun in their sound (Planet, Always).
Do try Highway Star whilst running . . . the drum & bass line will hijack your running rythym

[glaconman]

Sweder;

It's just dawned on me what a massive challenge you're up against. And how much hard work you're putting in to try and make the grade. Massive repect to you. I'm really faltering to get going again, but this is just the kind of story that might get me out there and onto those magnificant hills.

[Sweder]

It's just dawned on me what a massive challenge you're up against.

You're right . . . but in the end I decided to give up on Anna's Isaac Newton post
Seriously, a daunting few weeks lie ahead and I really do appreciate the encouragement. Having just tonight watched (and thoroughly enjoyed) Walk The Line I may turn to The Man In Black for some inspiration.

Tomorrow offers a return to the Jog Shop Jog route.
I took a look at the elevation and decided to try to match it up against next week's Stinger and the TOM.
They're all in slightly different formats but they bear comparison:


Jog Shop Jog (20 Miles)


Steyning Stinger (26.2 miles)



Two Oceans Marathon (34.8 miles)

And it burns, burns, burns
The ring of fire
The ring of fire

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

But hang on a minute Sweder - all those charts show sections of downhill... that can't be right, surely

[Sweder]

I got home at lunchtime, face pale, legs plastered with drying mud, hunched in the doorway trying to find my laces on my heavily camoflaged boots.
Mrs S looked up from her paper.
‘Are you OK love?’
I stole a line from Marcellus Wallace in Pulp Fiction:
‘Naw; I’m pretty f*ckin’ far from OK.’

Mr Wallace goes on to inform the gentleman who has just (foolishly) brutalised him that he’s going to ‘call a couple of hard, pipe-hittin' n*ggas to go to work . . . with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch’. Those same solid, weapon-wielding individuals must’ve paid a visit to the Jog Shop Jog course today and got medieval on my ass. I can’t believe being whacked in the legs with lead pipes could actually feel any worse than that, that . . . there’s no other word for it Nigel; brutal hammering.

Sam ‘the Legend’ Lambourne, his legs and push-bike coated in thick, cloying slime, said it was ‘as tough a winter track as I've seen.’ By the time I limped home I’d left every ounce of effort out in the hills, my torso frozen and pink, fingers numb, face crusted in salt. Conditions underfoot were appalling; flooded fields, homicidally slippery slopes, man-swallowing mud-holes, all set to the soundtrack of a howling wind which seemed to take evil pleasure in appearing in our faces at every turn.

After a swig of water and half a gel at the second stage on the Snake the wheels came off. Remember Dick Dastardly in Whacky Races? At fifteen miles there was a ‘Ping! Boing! Spre-doing! Clunk!’ and my gearbox, in the shape of my stamina, leg-strength and lung-power, lay scattered behind me on the hillside. I could almost hear Muttley laughing in the bushes.

We'd met above the marina at nine, congratulations offered to Paul the Goat on his 1:21 Sussex Beacon PB. Scottie was off skiing with his family, otherwise he’d have got the same for his commendable 1:26, and my companions generously acknowledged my cheeky PB in the same race.

Six miles in and the North Face was its usual intransigent self, the approaching drop almost impassable. The Yellow Brick Road offered a constant headwind yet the three amigos (Chris and Gary with me, Paul the Goat and Prawn having crested the horizon a while back) ploughed gamely on, keeping a fair pace and enjoying one of very few sure-footed stages. We plunged down the perilous first drop of the Big W, but as we reached the first turn Chris suggested carrying on all the way into the village. The turn itself and early stages of the return climb were a swamp – there was no good to be done there. We agreed, following the path all the way to the bottom of the valley and along the main road into Kingston Village.

Ten minutes later I pointed out the Juggs pub and the adjacent field, home to the mighty Kingston Kestrels, the junior football team where I had the pleasure of coaching and managing a fabulous crop of players for six years. Undoubtedly my finest time in sport, watching untainted youth play from the heart, bearing no relation to the over-hyped, petulant nonsense that plagues the professional game. The climb out of Kingston was long and arduous, the chalk-flint track taking a heavy toll on our legs as we clambered up the 150 metre ascent. I felt an imaginary bungee chord tugging at my back as I hauled myself up the slippery track. My house is less than a mile from Kingston; I could almost smell the hot tea and toast. At the top we scampered westward towards Woodingdean, happy to be running free on soft turf once more. Half a mile later we hung a left into the Castle Hill Nature Reserve, the drop down into the valley running with rainwater and slicked in wet mud. We ran as if on hot coals, one bad step away from disaster, down into the valley leading to the foothills of the Snake.

Which brings us back, not quite Quentin-style, to where it all went a bit Pete Tong.
Moyleman and Gary pulled away as I ran out of gas and I let them go, remembering some sound advice on Ultra running; sometimes you have to stop and press ‘reset’. So I did. I strolled along, slurping on a hammer gel, swigging water and letting my breathing calm down. Recovered, I set off at a modest pace, lumbering up the soggy serpent's back, unperturbed by the sight of my companions shrinking into the wind-blown distance. Sometimes you have to hold your hands up. We’re all guilty of running outside our comfort zone from time to time; I'd simply pushed too hard to keep up with better runners and the conditions had found me out.

Once I’d rationalised the situation I relaxed. The last five miles were hardly an example of quality distance running; it hurt like hell but I got home, albeit in a sluggish 3 Hours 40. It’s hard to be too disappointed after well over 1500 feet of ascent through foul terrain, and I’m not. What I will do now is schedule a mini-taper for the week ahead (before Steyning) – a couple of gentle hilltop plods and no Friday night road session – in the hope that a little rest will go a long way.

The hot aprés-run shower was almost indecent.
I stayed under that steaming, stinging rain until the hot water ran out, hands against the tiled wall, staring at the filth running off my legs to swirl around the plughole, taking most of my aches and pains with it.

20+ miles, 3 Hours 40

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

There's not much I can say, other than, here you go, you've clearly earned a few of these...

[Ana]

You're right . . . but in the end I decided to give up on Anna's Isaac Newton post

Do not forget that you are a hillside loper.

Isaac only knows about theory, has no idea about praxis or hills.
As he is only a physicist, he doesn’t master Language neither. What he wanted to say is that running so much will be incredible. You will do it with closed eyes.

[Sweder]

A tentative return to the local hills this morning.
In deference to my screaming legs I’ve given myself a further 24 hours rest after Sunday’s hammering, and it seems to have paid dividends. After shaking off the usual post-long run rust my legs reluctantly responded, warm blood eventually bringing stiff limbs to life. A stern test into a strong (40 mph) westerly wind needed more effort than I’d hoped, but overall five miles in forty eight minutes is par for this particular course so I have to be content.

For the first time in a long time doubt has pitched its tent on the outskirts of my training camp. A rather unpleasant can of wriggling worms was opened on Sunday; the little blighters have been gnawing away at my confidence ever since. It was good to spin the legs today and although there are still some residual aches and pains I’m about ready to don my rose-coloured spectacles again.

If the result of Sunday is that I take it easy on the Stinger this weekend that’s no bad thing. Moyleman told me that he peaked in the Stinger last year – his Paris run was therefore very much ‘after the Lord Mayor’s Show’, leaving him drained and disappointed. So, the Stinger’s still on, but it’ll be a case of running at my own easy pace with the lure of a full English breakfast, prepared by the boys of Steyning Grammar School, to keep me going.

After all, it's just another stepping stone on the long road to Cape Town.

[Seafront Plodder]

There is little doubt that Sweder is in for one helluva good kicking this morning; duly administered by those mud-caked hills to all those daft enough to enter the Steyning Stinger off-road marathon.

This will be compounded by the fact that it has been pissing down here for most of the early morning.

Tough ain't the word. Good luck my friend.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

There is little doubt that Sweder is in for one helluva good kicking this morning; duly administered by those mud-caked hills to all those daft enough to enter the Steyning Stinger off-road marathon.

This will be compounded by the fact that it has been pissing down here for most of the early morning.

Tough ain't the word. Good luck my friend.

Yes, to us mere mortals, the idea of running a marathon as part of your training is bad enough, but to have to do such a tough one in foul conditions beggars belief.

I only hope the conditions are to your liking, Sweder.

May the running gods be with you, my friend!

[El Gordo]

Indeed.

Maybe we have heard the last from Sweder....

[Seafront Plodder]

Well The Mud-Plugger has survived. Terrific time by all accounts but I'm sure he'll fill us all in when he thaws out.

[Sweder]

Sweder Lives!
Actually a cracking run in possibly the foulest and toughest conditions I've yet faced.
Happy to be home and about to crawl into a very hot shower.

Unofficial time: 4:26
Grin: extremely wide
Guinness: you betcha!

[El Gordo]

Hurrah! El Loco survives.