Did I say hot one? That was an understatement.
The NPS Lions Seaford Half Marathon may be roughly one third the distance and slightly less broiled than the Two Oceans but it proved no less gruelling in some respects.
This was my second outing on this beautiful downland course. \as in Cape Town behind beauty lurks a fearsome beast. Last year I’d trailed in Moyleman’s impressive wake, carving a route through traffic congestion over the first four relentlessly uphill miles. This had seen several wheels falling off around mile 5 and a desperate struggle home. I had no intentions of a repeat this year. If anything today was warmer, what breeze there was so slight as to be impossible to discern a direction. The forecast was for twenty five degrees and, as we gathered just before nine a.m. on the seafront (that same strip of concrete and scattered shingle that the Mighty Plodder and I trod on our earliest foray into running) the heat was well and truly on.
So many familiar faces flocked to the start. The Jog Shop Joggers well represented by Stevio, Oirish Micheal, Moyleman, Jill, Remmy and Sue (with husband Tom in tow) corralled by the Mighty Plodder himself (on photo duty only alas). Then there was Rog with his wingmen from the Habakkuk Harriers, nicely turned out in their team colours. And behind them Matt and a bunch of gym fanatics from LA Fitness in East Grinstead, chattering nervously, doing that little pre-race shuffle we’ve all done so many times.
I slipped deliberately to the back of the pack, making a conscious effort to slow down, letting the masses flow around me like a rock protruding from a stream. I soaked up the ambiance, enjoying the cheery waves and cries of encouragement from the well populated esplanade. Half a mile in we’d crossed the main road and head for the inland hills, climbing steadily through leafy lanes and alongside fields flush with crops. Bottlenecks accrued at each style but I worried not a jot, happy to take part in the orderly queue.
My race plan – start slow, get slower – turned out just fine. I paused to take snapshots, sumptuous backdrops provided by the South Downs Way, Alfriston and the Cuckmere Valley. I paid careful attention at the water stations, sipping in a most unusually refined manner, exchanging good-natured banter with the marshals and fellow runners. Around mile 7 I noticed one or two stragglers, offering them words of encouragement as I wondered in what other sport do competitors continually and genuinely wish each other well.
By now we’d zigzagged through the picture-postcard village and taken up the Cuckmere riverside trail. Having put in the hard yards over the first four or five miles then negotiated the steep drop into Alfriston I’d been looking forward to a nice flat section along the river. Recent rains and a proliferation of domestic beast traffic had conspired to churn up the path, forcing us to skip across dry mud-ruts and the occasional puddle of slime. The heavy slip-slap of a couple of hundred runners ahead of me had the desired effect, the ruts eventually pounded down and I finally got my easy ride. Stinging nettles stood as high as an elephant’s eye, providing plenty of nature’s hurry-up at ankle and knee level.
Across the bridge at the mile 8 marker I felt comfortable. I chewed down a precautionary espresso gel but in all honesty I felt good, chugging along at what seemed like a very comfortable pace. The sun beamed down as hard as it could and I chuckled at the inferior effect when compared to its ferocity in the southern hemisphere. For sure I had a sweat on – who didn’t? – but the heat simply didn’t soak up the oxygen as it had down there.
Pride, as we all know, usually precedes a fall. Just as I was nestling into my new-found smugness a stealth-root curled out from the river bank and took out my right toe in a head-on hit that would have warmed Laurence Dallaglio’s heart. I hit the deck like a fallen redwood, a cry of surprise and alarm escaping my lips. As I lay in the dirt, a fresh cloud of dust settling around my prostrate form, the bloke in front half-turned.
‘Alright mate?’
‘Yep, yes thanks’. The only discernable damage, a few scrapes and scratches aside, was to my dignity. The fall seemed to produce a spurt of adrenaline and I soon overtook my concern co-competitor, eating up the next two miles at a rate of knots.
We reached the main road again, this time at the Golden Galleon pub. I ignored the hostelry (it was still a good hour short of opening time) and braced myself for the next mile. Just around the next bend sat a marshal, beaming broadly and pointing to his home-made sign.
‘It’s All Up Hill From Here’.
Gee, thanks.
Quite a few opted to walk the first of a series of brutish inclines. I passed them with my old man’s shuffle, head down, arms pumping. A sharp left turn took us onto the concrete track leading straight up to the top of the cliffs and Seaford Head golf course. Just about everyone walked here, but I still felt good so chugged onward. At the crest of the hill loomed a large figure, silhouetted against the blazing sun like a spaghetti western villain. There was no mistaking that outline.
‘Sweder!!!’
‘Laaard!!!’
The Mighty Plodder (for it was he) stood, camera poised, in the middle of the road.
‘Chris has just gone through’ he beamed. ‘He looks f*cked.’
‘So am I!’
Just past the plodder Captain Tom paced up and down retrieving plastic cups from the hedgerows, filling in time until Sue came through.
‘Looking good’ he lied as I smouldered by.
High-stepping through the thick grass alongside the fourteenth fairway I spied a familiar vest in the distance. Red with black hoops, Brighton & Hove AC – but it wasn’t Moyleman . . . it was Jill! How bizarre – we’d met up at this very point in last year’s race and run home together.
‘Déjà vu or what?’ she grinned as I pulled along side.
We chugged across the cliff tops together, gazing out over an English Channel doing its best impression of a mill pond. Seaford and the Newhaven Ferry Terminal beyond stretched out before and below us. What a sight for sore eyes (and legs)! I never tire of this view whether running or golfing; it’s simply fabulous, a panoramic feast that all should see at least once before they die.
Aware that Jill is a seasoned hill runner I decided to test my newly-strengthened quads with a hurtle down the steep drop to the beach. I opened my stride, leaning forward, committed to the descent; wow! Dancing across a series of streaky trails I banished all thoughts of turned ankles and savage cliff plunges, giving it the gun all the way to the bottom. The last half mile along the prom, past the ludicrously priced, tastefully decorated new beach huts, seemed at least twice that distance, but eventually the finish appeared. Just before the line I stopped, doffing an imaginary cap to Jill as she crossed.
2 hours 9 minutes. Blimey – a PB on this course by some 6 minutes or so! Funny old game, this. I greeted my comrades at the final water station and waved in the direction of the ocean.
‘I’m going in chaps.’
Moyleman came with me – he’d had a tough one, his calf playing up over the last few miles. Poseidon’s ice-bath awaited and, bizarre cramp-like sensations aside, it was pure heaven. I wallowed in the surf, praying that the small group of concerned children wouldn’t try to roll me back in, letting the breakers pound my legs with surf and churning pebbles. I really cannot recommend this therapy too highly. Within a half hour I felt fully recovered. Of course by then I’d wrapped a paw around my first pint of Extra Cold . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Ah yes, the * from SHM.
According to Jill some chap rode the course on a pushbike with a GPS yesterday and measured the course at 14.1 miles. I've heard of discrepancies with offroad courses before but this seems extraordinary. Some GPS watches can't handle extreme undulation and this may be the case here. I'll try to find someone with a 305 or equivalent who ran today for further analysis.
Mapping the route on Sanoodi doesn't seem to help.
The route is inconclusive (poor quality of arial maps = guesswork) but suggests 13.8 miles. Here's the link. It's worth a look for the elevation alone.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well done, old chap. Sounds like another tough one.
I sympathise regarding the fall. The same thing happened to me on Thursday night when plodding the bumpy track through Bracknell Forest with no less a celeb than the great Niguel. Apart from the dignity-bruise, I did actually sustain a painful stubbed toe though it didn't manifest till the next morning, and has kept me off the roads for 2 or 3 days. The only exercise since was a walk to the pub on Friday night for the England-Brazil game, and a few hours of grass-cutting and coot-trapping in the garden today. Man, I thought runners were accustomed to some of the worst smells known to the planet, but you should sample the inside of an RSPCA van. Anyway, I can see that this is a story to expand on at a better time.
Good race. Nice report. Thanks.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Icy salt water bath or no a trip to the gym this lunchtime was always going to be a test. Lets just say that my 2k row, 4k cycle and 20 minutes of various exercises were performed with a little less gusto than usual. Still, it's all in the bank and I more than 'paid' for my two pints of Black Nectar after yesterday's race.
Sensors indicate no ill effects in my hitherto knacked calf so it may be time to add some squats to my routine. This will push my travel/gym/shower session perilously close to the hour mark; I may have to jog there and back in future
One (or two) more things today.
I was tickled at the sound of Graham 'Thing From Tring' Poll whining on breakfast radio about his being 'hounded out of the game' by amongst others one Jose Morinho. The Special One allegedly used some rather spicy imagery when confronting Poll after a recent match. Details are sketchy, but the BBC's Gary Richardson hinted that it 'has something to do with Mr Poll and Sir Alex (Lord Ferg) Ferguson' and if repeated on air would end the hapless reporter's career in a heartbeat. The mind positively boggles.
And thanks to UEFA for pointing out that the Cheerful Scouse Nation - 'We're Not English - We're Scouse!' - is actually a band of wanton thugs intent on European domination through foul and violent means. I've said as much all along, and its no use that nice Mr Parry having a pop at the Greeks for being useless. It won't hide the fact that some Liverpool Redskin 'supporters' stole Big Cup final tickets from the hands of children proudly sporting short back and sides and 'GERRARD' across their shirts. Yuck.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A lumpy lope around my local track this morning. Much though my quads have improved after recent analysis and a surfeit of Vitamin B Complex they still feel like raw hamburger.
Once again the track du jour changed hands several times.
I took Alice Cooper, Planet Rock’s morning DJ, along for the ride. He pumped out an eclectic mix that had my mind bopping around from subject to subject. First up the Eagle’s Hotel California conjured memories of the Almahilla Plummet, one of the buildings we passed on our helter skelter descent, all white walls and desert palms, reminiscent of the album cover. Then Steppenwolf’s anthemic Born To Be Wild crashed through my head, helping me to up the anti on the return leg. This looked like a TdJ banker until barely half a klick from home the thrum-thrum-thrum-thrum of ELO’s Mr Blue Sky fell perfectly into step with my by now reasonable cadence. I bounced merrily all the way to my doorstep, amazed by the synchronicity of music and footfall – the opening sequence a perfect match for my end-of-run pace.
Five leisurely miles tucked away.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Slipped out for an early shuffle to the Cap with the hounds. Grey skies, wind barrelling out of the west, once again PR clamped to my lug ’oles. More eccentricity from the wonderfully dry Cooperman.
Past the stables and halfway up the eastern face of Wicker Man Hill Tess (the whippet) yelped, dived forward and picked up an object from the middle of the flattened grass trail. At first I thought it was the corpse of a rare bird. As she turned to show me I recoiled, stopped in my tracks. It was a rabbit’s head, freshly severed just below the jaw-line, the ragged tear of flesh and fur suggesting a natural predator.
Charlie was everywhere – in the gorse bushes, amongst the tall grass, behind the tree roots. The stench of malaria, madness and rabbit droppings pervaded the downland slopes; Kurtz wasn’t far away. I was certain that he had gone totally insane . . .
The Horror . . . The Horror . . .
I’m not sure what dear old Beatrix Potter would have made of all this. By all accounts Rene Zelwegger’s turn in the recent bunny-centric storyteller biopic is a corker. As a life-long fan of the Tales of Benjamin and all those narrow scrapes with Mr McGregor I’ll have to catch this movie soon.
I relieved Tess of her ill-gotten gain, flicking the decapitated noggin into bushes.
Ideally Alice would have spun The Doors’ The End as USAAF strafed Blackcap with napalm. In the end I settled on a track du jour that’s both a great tune and a terrible gag. It’s the Eagles number about fast and loose lovers in a Scottish nuclear shipyard: Life In The Fas' Lane.
Sorry
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Rounded the working week off with a lunchtime gym sesh.
10 minutes rowing (2k)
3 x apparatus sessions
2 x balancy-ball thingies
10 minutes cycling (4k)
I didn't want to go - there's more than enough reasons on my desk to ignore lunchtime altogether - but I'm glad I did.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A muggy five miles through the hills before breakfast. Sweat poured from my corpulence faster than a world leader scampering out of Hielegendamm. At least I'm honoring my private pledge to tackle excess flab; it seems the G8 are less ingenuous. Nice to see Sir Bob throwing a few expletives into his press conference yesterday. I have to say I find Geldof a good deal less risible than his goggle-faced podium pal. Bono talks like he's singing a ballad - quirky rhymes where straight talking and readily understandable language are essential. Give me Geldof's finger-jabbing, bullshit-piercing rudeness any day.
Despite the close conditions I fair flew across the ground this morning. Perhaps it was the unusual feeling of running on a Saturday, or even that I'd not really planned to run at all today. No matter - I hammered out one of my best local plods for some time, arriving home in a steaming puddle of perspiration in a shade under 44 minutes.
Track du jour? Steeley Dan, My Old School.
Haven't heard that in ages
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
After my racy five yesterday what I needed was a broiling hill race trailing in Moyleman's lusty wake. Just as well coz that's what I got.
We hooked up with 'Soft' Alan (I did ask; it's a long story, and quite a good one, but not for me to relate). Al is embarking on a Berlin Marathon campaign and probably hadn't banked on chasing two semi-fit loons into scorched Sussex hills. We took off up a series of woodland trails, scaling Devil's Dyke to cross the A27. 'Scaling Devil's Dyke' sounds horribly like an attempted assault on Pat Butcher but the Dyke is in fact a popular local landmark frequented by runners, cyclist and horse-people, home to a couple of well-known golf courses, several fine hostelries and a windmill.
The sun was up early for a Sunday (as it had been last week at the Seaford half). Hot though it undoubtedly was - my sodden vest and shorts bore testament to that - I must be getting used to it, chugging along comfortably, sharing the banter with Moyley. Al worked hard behind, maintaining a solid pace as we climbed the inexorable face of the South Downs for mile after sun-baked mile. We paused at the summit, snapping a couple of shots back down into the Dyke valley, before selecting a route back into Brighton. This proved less straight forward and we ended up taking a mile detour into the village of Poyning (which I duly noted has a rather fine looking pub called the Royal Oak - I shall return!). This in turn lead us along a series of country roads which, this being Sunday, proved well populated with vehicles. The absence of footpaths or a verge worthy of the name resulted in a rather hairy mile or so as the fume-belchers swerved around us. Not clever, and not to be repeated.
Mercifully we detoured out of Saddlescomb into Saddlescomb farm and up across the downs once more. A kindly breeze swept up from the distant sea, cooling our sweat-coated bodies. Finally we returned to the London Road, jogging easily towards Withdean and the Moyleman Lair. Le Soft announced 10.56 miles in 1:50 (he'd joined and left us along the route so I'm banking eleven. Given the elevations scaled I am entirely comfortable with this). Sanoodi route map.
Moyleman offered use of his shower and I nearly bit his arm off. Despite the leisurely pace my legs were leaden. The good news is no sign of recent calf trouble so I'm about ready (drops to a whisper) [SIZE="1"]to accept that it's completely healed.[/SIZE]
Some shots from the run below.
I'm off to mow the lawn and cart ridiculous amounts of garden waste to the dump before knocking out my signature Sunday roast. An hour or so buried in the sofa watching the cricket with my arms wrapped around a bottle of Old Peculiar may well feature.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yes we do compost for home use but Mrs S went postal with the snips and we wound up with two builders' bags of excess. Plus finally got around to removing Phoebe's 300-year-old carpet (I was going to donate this to medical science but took it to the muni instead). We have a maximum of 12 permits to visit our local amenity in any one year - owning a vehicle larger than a tricycle triggers all sorts of bureaucratic mayhem around here - so I took advantage, consolidating for maximum permit value.
Bet you're glad you asked now.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
45 minutes in the gym yesterday – a tired session after Sunday’s Moyleman-inspired hill fest. Barely managed to row out 2 k’s in my 10 minute slot, though I did push out a pb on the bike at the end, hitting 4.12 k’s in the same period. I’ve added a third round of flopping about on the beachball too – I can actually feel the stirrings of some kind of primitive muscle deep inside the cavern of blubber I call a middle. Encouragement is required here.
Another three-quarter hour session this morning, my preferred form of exercise this time. I thundered up Blackcap under a smudged-ink sky, the air heavy with the threat of approaching storms. Buttercups shone in that way they only do in such conditions, the sun’s eerie half-light straining to break through the gloom. Grassheads bobbed and waved, thick and healthy, tall as your waist, reminiscent of the final scene in Gladiator when the much-maligned Mr Crowe went to meet his family, rough hand brushing through the dense grass.
Less comforting was the slab of dire rubbish dished up by my normally reliable breakfast DJ. Alice had it in for me; Genesis (Phil Collins as opposed to the personally preferable Gabriel), some half-arsed previously unheard of (wonder why?) bunch of doped up hippies and buckets of MOR chum. By the time Floyd’s The Wall popped up I was in no mood for gratitude, accepting that perhaps this least favourite PF number may have to be my track du jour.
Half a mile from home I started to flag. The run to this point had been dogged at best, a dig-in-and-get-on-with-it job. And then the sun broke through, the town and cliffs beyond bathed in a heavenly light. The 9am news bulletin (I’d set off a little later than planned having risen to set up a defrag on my pc before the run) ended and the morning jock on PR, Rob Bernie, took the mic.
‘Mornin. This’ll wake you up.’
All hell broke loose.
Track du jour: Motorhead: Bomber - a three-minute masterpiece!
I reached home before it finished, flashing through the sheep field, bounding off the downs like a man possessed. And, yes, grinning like a . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:I can actually feel the stirrings of some kind of primitive muscle deep inside the cavern of blubber I call a middle. Encouragement is required here.
You wouldn't be abbing a lend of us would you, Sweder?
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