July

[Sweder]

Always first draw fresh breath after outbursts of vanity and complacency.
[SIZE="1"]Franz Kafka[/SIZE]

Sunday 1st July – Rock-N-Roll Fartlek

May was a month of recovery; June one of base-building.
July, therefore, should be about stepping things up. Trouble is, my main goal for this second half of the year, the Jog Shop Jog, is no longer on my radar. I’ve lost my focus and am in real danger of letting things slip.

Those great Liverpool defenders-turned-BBC Pundits Hansen and Lawrenson talk about ‘getting the cigars out’ to describe an easy afternoon’s work at the back. I’ve been getting the cigars out lately. Oh there’s no harm in that, especially in the aftermath of a testing period of running where my comfort zone was a distant memory and every outing seemed like a step into the unknown. It’s just that it feels like time to crank up the effort a tad.

July offers opportunities. There’s less travel on the horizon, more likelihood of settling into a routine of running and gym work. Despite a brave effort in June the beer belly remains. But then, I will drink beer, so it’s a fair cop. My long run Sundays have faded over the past few weeks; my Cape Town comrades set off for a slog around Bewl lake this morning, some 14 plus miles over a tricky course. And me? A gentle scurry up to Blackcap after a heavy downpour, fresh breeze pushing the clouds into the west to leave the afternoon bathed in pleasant sunshine.

I tried something new today, a bit of i-pod Fartlek. Never tried it? Get a good mix of hard-n-fast and easy-going tunes on a playlist and hit ‘shuffle’ – then simply run according to the pace of the music. Started off with the Propellerheads' Matrix theme, a good steady beat, not too demanding. On the outward climbs I pounded along to Girlschool, Motorhead and Tom Petty, sticking strictly to the new rules. I reached the turn in good time, slightly stressed, red in the face and sucking wind. The briefest pause before loping back down the face of the Cap, then launched into a manic hurtling charge as Motorhead kicked in with R.A.M.O.N.E.S., a tribute to New York’s finest, a one-hundred-miles-per-hour, balls-out thrash. I responded in kind, feet flying over devilish clumps of thick grass, skipping over hidden hollows and almost rolling an ankle into a treacherous bear-pit of a ditch lurking beneath cleverly matted foliage.

Pink Floyd’s Great Gig In The Sky provided much-needed respite across the top of Wicker Man Hill before Status Quo chipped in with Mystery Song on the climb back up to the Stables. I hammered up that slope, elbows pumping, cheeks blowing like an old-fashioned copper chasing a stripey-topped villain up a cobbled street. Blimey, this rock-n-roll Fartlek kicks bottom and no mistake; we're out of the comfort zone now sure enough; this is hard bloody graft.

I rolled back into Lewes courtesy of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers’ Under The Bridge, a wonderfully poignant song and, more importantly, one of exceedingly gentle tempo. Home in under 44 minutes, a reasonable enough effort for the five hilly miles but well short of the unofficial target discussed with Moylsey recently. He reckons I should be aiming to at least hit if not break 40 minutes. He’s right of course; if I can run a half in (unofficially) sub 1:40 this should be well within my compass. We’ll see what July brings.

[stillwaddler]

You could probably patent it, or at least get a running "how to do it" book out of it, sell pre-recorded cd's for different paces and goals, endless opportunities

I will be trying your method v.soon Sweder

[El Gordo]

You could probably patent it, or at least get a running "how to do it" book out of it, sell pre-recorded cd's for different paces and goals, endless opportunities

I will be trying your method v.soon Sweder

OK, I'm being difficult, but wouldn't it be better to have a fixed playlist of hard-easy-hard-easy rather than a shuffle? If you get a sequence of hards or easys, it's not really a Fartlek...

Good idea though.

[Sweder]

OK, I'm being difficult, but wouldn't it be better to have a fixed playlist of hard-easy-hard-easy rather than a shuffle? If you get a sequence of hards or easys, it's not really a Fartlek...

That shows a major difference between us; you're a logical kinda guy, where as I just plug in and go

You're right of course . . . but I love not knowing what's coming next. It can be a real beast/ blast if you hit a hot number just as you reach the base of a tasty hill. My shuffle system seems to mix things up pretty well; I rarely get three out-and-out thrashes in a row. And my recovery songs tend to be longer tracks. Then there are tracks like Stairway To Heaven which is a fartlek session all in one song

Another way to do it is via Planet Rock. The occasional DJ warble or advert provides guaranteed recovery minutes irrespective of the tempo of the music. I'll give that a whirl tomorrow. Hmm . . . I've probably been doing precisely that over recent weeks without thinking about it.

[El Gordo]

Ain't never been accused of being logical before....

I agree about the pleasing unpredictability of the shuffle (or the radio come to that), but I think I may stick with the pre-programmed idea if it's a serious, dedicated fartlek session. I think the shuffle is good if you're just having a bit of fun. And you seem to have more fun while running than most of us...

[Sweder]

Ain't never been accused of being logical before...

[Appalling link alert] Speaking of 'logical', did you have the misfortune to catch Roger Hodgson at the Concert for Diana yesterday? I've rarely felt such pain for another person than when the wrinkled old man tried to reach the high notes at the end of The Logical Song. Please tell me who I am . . . who I am . . . who I aaaaaaaaauuuuuurrrrrgh . . .

It was truly horrible [/Appalling link alert]

[El Gordo]

No, I went to the pub instead to experience the new smoke-free world. It was strange, but pleasant. The two pubs I called into were pretty empty of the regulars, but there seemed to be a load of new people I'd not seen before. May have been coincidence, or may have been a glimpse of the future, with the smoke-sensitive returning to pubs.

Sorry, I've taken the subject away from the Diana concert.

And why am I apologising for that?

[Sweder]

And why am I apologising for that?

Don't - the televised version at least was absolute rubbish.
Whoever produced the broadcast should be flogged. I'm not going into one about it here. Suffice to say it was shocking.

I'm looking forward to smoke-free pubs, although after last week it'll be a while before I'm back in the beer saddle. A little abstinance goes a long way - hopefully. Hopped into the gym this lunchtime and went for the 2k row at level 10 in 8 minutes 20. Not sure if that's good, bad or otherwise, but now I've had a go at level 10 I can't go back. Please thank Russ from the heart of my bottom would you?

[Sweder]

A right old rock 'n' roll fest this morning.
After a fairly hefty gym session yesterday - full-bore 2K row and 8K warm-down on the static bike - I opted for an easy stroll with the muts. Took the DAB for some ultimate shuffle and boy was I ever rewarded. Track du jour nominations came thick and fast - Sympaythy For The Devil (on the anniversary of Brian Jones's untimely demise), The Song Remains The Same . . . but as in Highlander, there can be only one. And, with today being the anniversary of that day in 1969 when a certain Jim Morrison left Earth for a higher plain, there was only ever going to be one winner; LA Woman. I was into the last mile when that nefarious base line started crawling up my spine. As the cymbals and drums pulled in alongside I marvelled at how easily my running stride fell in with the beat. This is another song that contains a fartlek session within it. Recovery as Mr Mojo started rising, balls-out hammer as the tempo reached a volcanic crescendo, Morrison screaming and whooping like the drug-crazed madman he undoubtedly was.

Mr Mojo Risin'* is an anagram of . . . Jim Morrison.
Crazy as a shithouse rat.
Ego the size of a planet with leather pants to match.
A genius; flawed, twisted but a hot-darned rock 'n' roll genius.
Sadly missed.

Five hilly, windy, rain-lashed miles in around fifty minutes.
Heaven

[SIZE="1"]* with thanks to Andy - see below[/SIZE]

[El Gordo]

Mr Mojo Rising is an anagram of . . . Jim Morrison.

Did I know that? Rings a faint bell, but thanks for reminding me.

Pedantic note: anagram is of Mr Mojo Risin'

[Sweder]

A tired old flog up the usual track this morning. Four hours battling a force nine gale a-top the Seaford cliffs chasing an errant white ball yesterday left me feeling drained. I seriously contemplated skipping the run this morning; it was only the Remsters' chilling post on the JSJ forum that forced me into the hills. There's no way I can put my feet up 'till Sunday with the prospect of taking on the business end of the Seven Sisters in a few days without reaquainting the pins with a few humps and hollows.

Alice Cooper served up a breakfast coctail to raise my spirits and my tempo. Strong sunshine warmed my wind-burned face as I plodded, steadfast, heavy-legged, along lush green trails. My top track was ZZ Top's La Grange - a fine intro and a useful cadence for tackling Wicker Man Hill with less-than-willing limbs.

Towards the end Cooper spun out an eight-minute CCR cover of Heard It Through The Grape Vine. As the solos faded and the clock ticked round to nine a.m. the best breakfast DJ in the business offered his deadpan observation.
'That song's been covered by any number of bands. I might include it on my next album' - a thoughtful pause -
'that is if someone hits me in the head with a hammer and I lose all sense of perspective.'
Classic Cooper for a work-a-day outing. Still, five in the bank and now it will be feet up 'till Sunday.
I'll need all the energy I can muster dealing with that rollercoaster circuit.

[Sweder]

Sitting here on the eve of an assault on the business end of the Seven Sisters I'm pondering the wisdom of taking on the heady mix of champagne, Harvey's, red wine and yet more champagne last night. We attended a fund-raiser at SP's son's school, graced by the presence of the fabulous Drifters (well, one of the originals and a couple of new 'Drift-ettes', looking alarmingly like West Indian pace bowlers but who sang like angels).

Not much more can be related other than to say a good time was had by all. Mrs S was spotted shuffling about the house this morning muttering 'never again'. Well, we've all been there, eh?

Here's some shots from the night.
LtoR: 'Ill Devo' (Capn Tom, Sweder & SP); an original Drifter shows his class.
I'm off for some plain pasta and an early bath.

[Seafront Plodder]

Just done some more research on The Drifters. They started out in 1954, so all the original members would be around 104 by now.

Nevertheless the guy in the pic was the lead singer most of the way through the 70's.

Picture the scene...a hot and crowded (but smokeless) dinner dance evening. The dancefloor is heaving and this guy with the smooth, velvet voice glides through the throng with a radio mike, melting women as he goes whilst soulfully singing all the Drifter's hits: Under The Boardwalk, Kissin In The Back Row, Saturday Night at the Movies, Hello Happiness, Up On The Roof, Save The Last Dance For Me...etc etc.

All the while his two backing singers professionally provide all the doo-waps and slick dance moves.

A magical evening with a shed load of money raised for a local children's charity. ....even if we did regret it a tad the next morning.

[Sweder]

Nirvana.
No, not that mop-haired bunch of thrash-metalheads from Seattle.
The state of euphoria following a moment of unsurpassed wonder, or as my on-line dictionary defines it (after reference to a state of Buddhist attainment) a place or state characterized by freedom from or oblivion to pain, worry, and the external world. Yep, that just about covers it.

We met at Birling gap, a popular South Coast tourist gathering place, four intrepid souls seeking solace in the hills. Jill, The Remster, Nigel (not that one) and Sweder, well met after a long gap. It's been over a year since we four ran together, this reunion long overdue.

The start was as hard as you could wish; out of the car park and straight into the ascent of the first Sister. The trail was unrelenting; steep climb, perilous drop; steep climb, perilous drop . . . you get the picture; rollercoaster running at its finest. If I had a complaint it was that my lungs were somewhere back on the Seaford road, yet to enjoy their first full intake of fresh sea air. Whilst I appreciate that the Seven Sisters marathon hits this section at mile twenty, and therefore offers a brutal hammering to racers reaching the toughest stage, I'd still rather have tucked a few miles away before starting out. The sun beamed down, burning our backs out of a clear blue sky, my shirt laden with sweat in no time. At the top of the forth Sister I paused to slurp some fluid and take it all in. Below and to our left the English Channel danced in to shake hands with the bepebbled shore. Ahead the cliff tops undulated westward; in the far distance the outcrop of Newhaven and on the smokey, smudged horizon Littlehampton.

On-on (what a Hash route this would make!) across Sisters five and six. Seven loomed over us, by far the tallest. Beyond lay respite, Cookmere Haven, the glorious valley with cool breezes drifting up off the lazy waters of the Ooze. My lungs had settled and I skipped up the rough-cut downland steps, Nigel alongside, Jill just behind. At the top I turned, looking for Remmy. Alas, the Hill Muncher had succomed to a repeat of his calf injury, limping painfully up the slopes. Rem was done for; he'd walk-run the rest but dismissed my gallant (ahem) offer to hang back with him, much to my dismay.

We three survivors chugged north along the eastern edge of the valley. The promised breeze arrived, washing gently over my fevered brow. My legs felt great - this would be my longest outing for several weeks - and I caught up with Jill as we reached the main road and crossed to enter the Seven Sisters Country Park and an entirely different world.

Parkland trails lead us deep into dense forest, delicious shadows cast by deciduous giants, the pathways soft underfoot. We clambered around tree roots and scampered up steep climbs, happy as children to be out of the sun. Electing to take the purple run - the entire park is criss-crossed with a variety of cycling and running trails of varying degrees of length and difficulty - we stormed off up a long steady ascent. I felt fabulous, loads of fuel in the tank, so I pushed hard, accelerating away, arms pumping. The climb continued for about a kilometre, at which point the trails merged, my options disappearing into dense foliage. Jill arrived and indicated the way. Again I though how wonderful it would be to lead a Hash run through here - so many false trails! So much cursing of the hares! - I leapt after her with a whoop and a committed cry of 'On on!'

At last we emerged from our shady course, crossing the road at East Dene and taking the church land route through the village, back to the road to Birling Gap. Nigel flew past me, taking full advantage of the downward slopes to finish strongly. Jill and I chugged in together as we had at the Seaford Half last month, very hot and very, very happy.

Nigel: 'What d'you think?'
Sweder: 'Bloody fantastic!!! I have to come back; really, a wonderful run!'
And it is. Wonderful.
Cliff-top challenge, river valley paths, woodland trails and a gentle downhill road run to finish. I'd like to do a mile or two beforehand so as to be able to enjoy the start a little more but otherwise it's as beautiful a run as I've done - and I include the best bits of the Two Oceans in that.

The icing on the cake though was Remmy's famous cafe.
The man himself limped in not too long after us, obviously in pain but still managing a knowing smile. I thanked him for inviting me, truly grateful for the introduction.
'Now for the cafe!' he grinned, steering me towards a dilapidated shack near the cliff edge. The decor matched his claims; gaffer tape sealed ancient gashes in desolate leather? plastic? upholstery, the (definitely plastic) table-tops worn from decades of tea-mug rubbing.
'D'you do breakfasts?' I enquired of the scrawny youth behind the till.
'Only what's in the 'fridge'.
Nuff said.

A corking run, a must for an RC outing (once we’ve done Lewes and Brighton perhaps) and a dead cert for a repeat.
Around 9 miles in 1:25.

[El Gordo]

Well done on the run Sweder -- it does sound like a fantastic route. My story is less good. 9 miles over here too, but my 9 miles were 9 terrible miles. I had tired legs after the last two days, and I was hot and dehydrated. But never mind. It's a big hole I'm crawling out of, and it aint gonna be easy. But it will be done.

[Sweder]

Decided to map out today's run on Sanoodi. The elevation graph (below) shows an anomoly - according to the software the ups and downs along the coast are tiny whereas the ascent through the park is pretty stiff. I double checked this on MapMyRun with similar misleading results. Oh, and it was only a tad over 8 miles, not the 9 I'd previously claimed (based on the Remsters' original invite Guv!). Course, the 'missing' mileage might have been lost along with the actual elevation along the cliff tops.



Trust me those cliffs were a lot bloody higher than 50 to 100 feet above sea level! :mad:

[El Gordo]

Not sure how Sanoodi works but with GPS, altitude is notoriously unreliable.

The early marketing messages for the Garmin Forerunner 305 was that it could 'do' altitude. In fact, it's worse than useless with altitude, as they eventually admitted.

Good old Ordnance Survey is the reliable reference.

[Sweder]

A run barely worthy of the name this morning.
Conditions were perfect. Last night's rain was still seeping into the ground, the sun risen behind an intricate web of high cloud, gentle breeze collecting cool vapours from the dew-laden grass. Yet I could barely lift one foot in front of the other, my body battered from . . . well, I'm not sure really. Sunday's run was exhilarating; yesterday's gym session started well but tapered off a bit. Who knows? Old age? General crapness?

There's something in the air just now. Too many people I know are struggling for this to be coincidence. Perhaps with me it's been a tough few weeks and my body's catching up with events. Mrs S is off colour, not sleeping well; Pheebs is similarly afflicted. Only Jake seems chipper, and that's mostly because he's heading for the Greek Islands in a few days, holiday job - running a restaurant on Lesbos with his best mate - already secured, passport renewed, airline tickets in pocket, a string of pals lined up to visit. It's his last hurrah before knuckling down to complete his second year of college. I'm green with envy.

Envy and, it seems, no small amount of moss. The old legs just wouldn’t spin in customary fashion today. No amount of cajoling from my mate Alice could get the fire lit, so I resigned my self to a heavy, painful plod. Cooper even played Glad All Over by the Dave Clark Five to try and lift my spirits. With typical recalcitrance I opted for Alive by Pearl Jam as my track du jour.

Five miles, fifty minutes.
Next.

[Sweder]

Knocked out a stodgy four-miler around the edge of Murcar Golf club at six this morning. Lush greens of grass and gorse under slate-grey skies, mercifully, impossibly holding on to their heavy payload. The golf course, a slayer of reputations and shredder of handicaps, lay quiet, awaiting its first unwary victims. Hell-mouth bunkers nestled on the edges of beautifully kept fairways, some so deep as to need fixed ladders to allow poor unfortunate souls to retrieve their wee ball from the sandy bowels.

A couple of sturdy steeds stood steadfastly chewing grass, watching this large perspiring biped chug toward them, their heads perfectly synchronised as they turned to watch me pass . . . o h s o s l o w l y . Rabbits scurried to and fro, my heavy tread giving them fair warning. White cotton-tails dived into thick heather as a menacing gang of rooks peeled off one by one for a mini-glide, settling back in formation a few yards further along the telephone wire. Their raucous caw-cawing sounded awfully like mockery; I did my best to ignore them.

I puffed and sweated my way along the cinder service track, last night's perfect Kedgeree nestling alongside the remnants of a fine sticky toffee pudding and a couple of pints of Guinness. Heading back towards my hotel I spied a UFO, lights burning in an oddly bright-yet-soft way against the billowing cloud. As I watched the craft ascended through the blanket into the heavens. Moments later the heavy whump whump whump of 'copter blades passed overhead, the laden craft bearing its human cargo to the strange offshore worlds of steel and oil.

A functional outing, wholly required after serious indulgence a few hours before.
Back home tonight to plan a longer, more genuous Sunday run.

[Ana]

Nice green, nice horses. It seems they have also seen an UFO running!