. . . to be jolly.
The bad news is I've not managed a plod since arriving in Amsterdam.
The good news is, thanks to my increased girth, I've received several offers to play 'Santa'.
Ho ho bloomin' ho.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:. . . to be jolly.
The bad news is I've not managed a plod since arriving in Amsterdam.
The good news is, thanks to my increased girth, I've received several offers to play 'Santa'.
Ho ho bloomin' ho.
December? Tis the season to be focused, unfortunately. Springtime intentions must be decided on around now if you want to have a good crack at a marathon.
And let's face it, there are few things better on a frosty Christmas morning than a decent double-digit plod.
Which reminds me. I will now go out and post my letter to the JDRF, accepting the Boston place. Now. This minute....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Andy Wrote:And let's face it, there are few things better on a frosty Christmas morning than a decent double-digit plod.
Quite right mate.
I hope you'll be able to join us for a Yuletide amble in the Sussex hills one Sunday morning. The JSJ FLM newbies will be moving up from 8 to 15 leisurely miles during December.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Quite right mate.
I hope you'll be able to join us for a Yuletide amble in the Sussex hills one Sunday morning. The JSJ FLM newbies will be moving up from 8 to 15 leisurely miles during December.
I'm not in 15 territory yet, old chap, and probably won't be till January. Even then, I think I might be a bit of a nuisance for your legendary lopers -- unless you have any 4:45-ish marathoners in the group. Otherwise I'll just be holding people back. I'll be interested in the proposed distances for January though, and can make a decision then. It would be good to have a stiff pre-Almeria workout IF training has gone well up till then. December would be tempting trouble, unfortunately.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
That's the great thing about JSJ Sundays - we have runners of all abilities and speeds, some brand new, wrappers still clinging to their shiny shoes, others old and grizzled, stained with mud that endless scouring just won't shift - and their trainers are pretty grotty too
I guarantee there'll be a few five hour plus merchants mixed in with sub 3 (we have a couple) and the rest of us journeyfolk meandering in between.
We also run a variety of distances. By end of December we'll have people doing an easy 11, some on a 13 (Snake) and a few pushing on to 15 - 17 taking on some of the stiffer parts of the JSJ route. But as you say, let's not stagger before we can crawl. Get a couple of steady weeks tucked away and see how you go. Just at the moment running for a bus seems like a challenge
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
As I type, around 200 idiots are slogging over the wind-lashed Sussex countryside in the Mince Pie 10. A 10 mile off-road slog-fest taking in some of the most slippery and steepest terrain the organisers could find - and The Great Sweder is amongst them.
Also as I type, the hail is hammering on the window and I'm in severe danger of losing a few fence panels.
The run (I can't really call it a race as those who finish it without breaking an ankle or suffering from hypothermia will be winners) started at 11am from a sports centre just 6 miles from Chez SP. My dogwalk took me in that direction so I went along to witness these brave souls at the start.
I carefully positioned myself some 50 yards up from the start line, but Sweder could not have heard my last-second shouted instructions to run to the right of the passing pack so I could capture him in all his glory. So instead, you'll have to make do with this pic of him pretending to limber up in the freezing wind.
Good luck mate. If you take over this thread we'll know you survived...
Aye, good luck Sweder. Making me feel a bit wimpish now as I'd just decided to defer my 'long run' (which actually won't be any longer than 7 miles on the flat) until tomorrow.
I can't feel too sorry for him though. Even though it sounds nightmarish, we all know that he thrives on this sort of masochistic ordeal. As he will no doubt shortly remind us....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Funny that this race should feature the word 'mince' in the title. Around four miles in a portion of the three hundred starters were offering a fair impression of Larry Grayson teetering off to measure an inside leg as they negotiated slimy, treacherous terrain. Our Spartan forebears would've been less than impressed.
A week of self-flagellation in the bars of Amsterdam was always going to add to my burden. As often happens after a week off the plod I started well, feeling full of vim and vigour as the thunderheads gathered before the off. Seeing SP at the start was a bonus, the Mighty Plodder gazing wistfully over the throng of runners affixing race numbers, buttoning down windcheaters and pulling on gloves. I remarked on my burgeoning passion for these local races and the Old Boy confessed, for the first time in quite a while, to missing the thrill of the race. Where there's life, there's hope.
Conditions underfoot were frightful. After a mile or so on slippery hard standing, where my brand spanking Brooks Cascadias had me sliding around like a drunkard on ice, we hit mud. Serious, incontinent mud, more slurry really. It slurped across brick-strewn paths and infiltrated what little grass was left above the mire, splashing up from the feet in front to turn my modest black leggings into Lycra Tony look-a-likes. Aware that I'd find the going particularly tough today I hung back, letting the hares have at it, chatting easily with one or two familiar faces from Brighton & Hove. Remmy was here too, but he'd taken station at the front of the pack as is his spritely wont; I'd not see him till the finish.
Our course took us on an unusual (for me) approach to Telscombe Tye, a landmark familiar to JSJers. As we approached across open fields rain lashed in from seaward, filling the skies with thick slanted pencil strokes lead by wicked barbs that lanced into cold wet flesh. It actually stung, leading me to think that 'Stinger' would be a more appropriate moniker. I turned my thoughts to another race where the rain had lashed in and battered our collective will: the Steyning Stinger. And what a cracking race that was!
One of many heroic marshals told us we'd reached half way. I had no sense of time or distance, my primary focus being on survival and safe foot placement, so I wasn't sure if this was good or not. I decided it was, more to keep my spirits up than anything else. At six miles we met a cruel climb through an urban area, the ridged pavement rising to meet us as we dragged our weary bods towards the broodingly dark, relentlessly disgorging heavens. Even as I reached the summit, relaxing in an effort to encourage blood flow to my frozen fingers, I felt the even colder hand of fate on my hunched shoulder. I'd stopped passing runners some time ago. Now I could hear the rasping breath of those behind coming ever closer. I tried to respond but the legs were leaden, synaptic instructions lost in translation. As first one then two cruised past me I felt my trusty rucksack of resolve slipping off my back, weighed down with ugly Amsterdam excess. Sweat, rain and mud ran off my shoes to mingle with the brackish trail puddles as I hung my head for the hard slog home.
The last couple of miles offered the very worst in underfoot treachery. Wide shingle paths pockmarked with water-filled craters promised a zig-zag safe route only to lead us into ankle-deep filth. My shoes filled with freezing water, feet each gaining at least fifty kilos in no time. I started to run like a man shot through both legs. The BBC aired Platoon after MotD last night; Sargent Elias did a better job of making for the drop zone than I did of that last, hideous mile. And he really had been shot in both legs.
Finally the torture ended. Cold, wet, exhausted, my will to live battered into submission, I staggered through the finish in 1:31. At the entrance to the Leisure Centre I was invited to remove what masqueraded as my shoes before claiming my goodie bag and, of course, my bloody mince pie. Remmy was already there; dry, changed, looking like he'd never left the place. He took one look at this horrible, haggard wreck lurching towards him and flashed a commiseratory grin.
'That was pretty tough' he offered, a thinly disguised attempt at making me feel better.
I grunted in reply, slumping onto the bench next to him, digging through my goodie bag like a man searching for an answer.
The answer wasn't in the bag. It lies in the hills, in the sodden, soggy, wind-lashed hills. My TOM dream officially went into hibernation this morning, to be taken out and reviewed for 2009. I'm in Shanghai for work two weeks before TOM, an unfortunate diary clash that conveniently provides the nails and the hammer. My dismal performance this morning helped seal the deal. There will be any number of quirky local runs this winter. There's AlmerÃa with the excellent half and the mountain plunge, plus a series of local races and off-road adventures, every one of them filled with unmatched pleasure. I shall enjoy them all without the pressure of a big race on the books.
And who knows; something may yet come along.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Hmm, well... 10 miles in 1:31 sounds like 9 minute miles to me. Ten miles at that pace in a tempest, slithering across a series of steep, muddy hills, strikes me as pretty impressive. Some of us would die for a performance like that. Or should I say, die after a performance like that?
The TOM decision sounds like the right one. Given your desire to break 6 hours, you might have needed a slighly longer run-up than you're likely to get. I wouldn't give up hope of a spring marathon though. There are plenty to choose from. Perhaps if you have a reasonable idea of your early-2008 work schedule, you could find a race to do? http://www.marathonguide.com is always worth a wander through.
Anyway, well done on the race. Sounds like one where the after-glow will burn on for at least a day or two.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Hmm, well... 10 miles in 1:31 sounds like 9 minute miles to me. Ten miles at that pace in a tempest, slithering across a series of steep, muddy hills, strikes me as pretty impressive. Some of us would die for a performance like that. Or should I say, die after a performance like that?
Believe me it was an ugly showing Andy. These things are relative, I know. Two weeks ago I had a blinding run keeping up with some serious runners (even though they were taking it easy).
This was something else; I felt wretched out there, and that afterglow has yet to really catch fire. I can detect the symptoms of a cold though, so maybe there was something lurking beneath the surface, just next to the residual Duvel and Rioja.
Bierzo Baggie Wrote:Sounds like you secretly had a muddy good time Nice one!
You're a perceptive one BB - part of me loved it.
It's easier to list the parts that didn't though!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Once again, well done Sweder! You and your 'races' never cease to amaze me. I agree with BB - you secretly do like these type of races. A normal one just isn't enough of a challenge I think.
I didn't have your horrible weather for my run yesterday - only a wind and minus 18. I'd rather that than what you had!
I would have to heartily agree with the fellow forumites. Superb effort in tough conditions. I'm sorry I couldn't have joined you, recovering from a bout of man-flu and back strain at the moment.
Remember the "Alamo" Stinger - a particularly tough day. I think like some say you actually do thrive on nasty conditions. Like myself you know you've
earned your stripes when you survive a hellish race and they are fondly remembered compared to the not so tough ones.
Bottle that Will to get out there, when most wouldn't dare.
Woke up to some seasonal sword-play with Mrs S. Invites for Christmas drinks, the delivery of cards, yada yada yada . . . it ended as it always does, with me laid out on the bed, her rapier quivering in my vanquished chest. My mood was not improved by the small army of ulcers that have invaded my mouth in recent days. A sure sign that I'm under the weather, run down after a tough autumn show season, these recurrent leech-like lesions are a painful reminder that I need to rest and recharge. I dragged myself off the bed and opened the curtains . . . onto a view of winterous wonder. What a morning! Intricate patterns of frost laced the downland under a clear blue sky. Trees stood tall, sparkling in the early morning light, not a breath of wind to disturb their majesty; time to run!
I set off without radio or music player, intent on soaking up every nuance of the morning. We runners who write (or writers who run) set out to forage for words, gathering descriptions and feelings like yuletide fire-food. All around me shrubs and trees twinkled in their crystal skins. My breath plumed in the cold air, steam rising from my shoulders as my body warmed to the uphill challenge. Bones and muscles groaned from Sunday's Mince Pie mashing, but as the run unfolded so my pain receded, leaving only the joy of being part of such a fabulous day.
After turning at Blackcap I stood to gaze upon the scene. The heaving bosom of the hills dressed in finest gossamer; the flat stomach of the Ouze valley plains draped in a mist so fine and light, like freshly-sprayed scent. This magical corner of the Earth turned its face to the wintry sun, steam rising from the gently warming soil. I took a deep breath and set sail for home, feasting greedily on this splendiferous tableau.
Stretching hard on my frozen front steps, sweat dripping at my feet, my own steam curling off my back, I gave silent thanks for days like this. When all your troubles, however serious or petty, can be set aside for fifty minutes of pure, untrammeled self-indulgent pleasure.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Mrs SP went for a horsey hack this morning. She phoned me from the top of the hills overlooking the Ouse Valley to tell me what a fantastic day it is....although she put it slightly less eloquently that you.
What a contrast to last Sunday! A beautiful winters' day, sunny, bone-chillingly cold, a harsh wind knifing in out of the east. Downland grass crisp and dry yet with enough yield to give the hillside loper the perfect bounce.
A small band of shivering souls gathered above Brighton Marina. My companions of two weeks ago, Steve, Sarah and Andy were joined today by Gary and El Rog-Air. Sadly Moyleman was unable to join us, having suffered a nasty back injury during a particularly violent yoga session The Old Boy is in a back brace awaiting further news from the docs - we wish him a speedy recovery and hope he doesn't balloon to impossible proportions whilst incapacitated.
I've been studying the FLM sub 3:45 thread on RW lately. The shared wisdom there is that one's long runs should be 'limited' to 9 to 9:15 minute miling. Well, this is pretty much flat out for me in this hilly terrain so I expected to stay well within those loosley prescribed confines. Once again I tickled my fellow runners by announcing I would restrict today's course to The Wire, the eight mile out-and-back cliff-top run. I had this in mind from the moment I creaked out of my pit for in truth I was still suffering the aftershock of the Mayfield Golfing Society AGM. The post-meeting Guinness/ Vodka-Red Bull marathon lasted well into the small hours of Saturday morning. I shan't name names but one regular visitor to these halls (with 'previous' a-plenty) performed particularly well, transforming into a human pinball machine on the stagger home. A jolly good time was had by all.
As regular readers of this column have no doubt surmised it didn't take much arm-twisting to pursuade me to join the longer run. It was the right thing to do; nineteen and a half kilometres over a quite gorgeous Christmas landscape, frosted forests, frozen puddles, shining blue skies and a white winter sun providing the perfect Yuletide backdrop. Like a lycra-clad, slightly disconbobulated train we six long-haulers puffed and steamed our way across the countryside, chatting easily, revelling in our collective solitude; for we saw no one or no moving thing, save for the occasional soaring seagull and a squadron of low-flying pigeons racing home after an early morning sortie. How remarkable these creatures looked as they swooped low over the hedgerows, bellies thrust out rather like Colin Montgomery after an especially satisfying approach shot. They reminded me of Mosquitoes, those legendary fighter-bombers from WWII, stars of the quite wonderful warflick 633 squadron. I've no doubt this will appear in the deluge of repeats about to assail our seasonal television schedules.
Sarah and Steve put the hammer down up the Snake. I held back, determined to keep this as leisurely as possible. Right up to the point when El Rog battered past me, elbows pumping, steam trailing of his lime-green shoulders and sweat-jewelled bobble hat. I dug in and caught him, working hard to keep pace with my fellow Tom-finisher. A glance at the Garmin revealed the mad truth of this assault: 8 minute 30 pace up the Serpent. Madness! Still we hammered on, Rog finally pulling away over the last hundred metres; the old fellow is in fine fettle, having ditched the demon drink at the start of the month.
We waited for the others before loping easily towards Woodingdean and the plunge home through East Brighton Park. Sarah had other ideas and again upped the pace. Steve and I followed, wondering aloud what on Earth had gotten into her. Half way through the park, as I breathlessly announced that we were now below 7:30 miling, she half-laughed and apologised.
'Sorry chaps, I was thinking about my presentation on Tuesday. Was I going a bit quick?'
Our gasped replies, hands waved in a vain attempt at casual dismissal, brought a big grin to her face. She then turned and once more hit the gas. We fair flew over that last mile, not once getting above 7:25 pace. It was an exhilarating way to finish the run, and to my great relief I didn't entirely collapse at the end.
A perfect day for running. With one mid-weeker under my belt I'd have to say I'm walking a thin line between less-is-more and bugger-all, but with strong outings like this, for now at least, it's paying off.
19.69 kilometers, 1:57
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Nice one, El Swede. We were never really in the same running category anyway but I become increasingly aware that your standards are getting ever higher, while mine continue to drift. My Boston campaign officially starts tomorrow, so I rounded off my gentle preparation with a steady and solitary 6 miles this morning along a frosty towpath. I'll write it up later.
Bad news about Moyleman. I hope it won't endanger his Almerian attendance. My thoughts are turning increasingly to that weekend. I need to give a better account of myself this time around. If I can keep to my schedule I'll have tucked away 3 double-digit runs in January before Almeria, so that should ensure a better performance than last time, when I think my longest preparatory run was a desultory 8 miles. As previously discussed, it would be good to hook up with your Sunday group but I'll only do that if there are likely to be some fellow 10+ minute milers in atendance, and if the distance roughly fits in with my schedule.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I'm sure you'll find life pretty comfortable in our FLM/ Paris Sunday groups Andy, there'll be plenty of +10 minute milers for you to chat with. Today around ten runners stuck to the eight mile Wire route, accompanied by the Lycra'd One (happily still on foot). This route will be extended - and the group expanded - over the weeks to take on Telscombe and the Famous Residences (a couple of challenging but relatively short hills) and so on until they take on the denizens of the hills. Not everyone will be ready to 'step up' at the same point so there will be several distrance groups heading out on any given Sunday (everyone lopes the first three miles to Saltdean together).
Fingers crossed that knee settles down and you get to join us - it would great to share some of this wonderful runscape with you.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:I'm sure you'll find life pretty comfortable in our FLM/ Paris Sunday groups Andy, there'll be plenty of +10 minute milers for you to chat with. Today around ten runners stuck to the eight mile Wire route, accompanied by the Lycra'd One (happily still on foot). This route will be extended - and the group expanded - over the weeks to take on Telscombe and the Famous Residences (a couple of challenging but relatively short hills) and so on until they take on the denizens of the hills. Not everyone will be ready to 'step up' at the same point so there will be several distrance groups heading out on any given Sunday (everyone lopes the first three miles to Saltdean together).
Fingers crossed that knee settles down and you get to join us - it would great to share some of this wonderful runscape with you.
OK mate, it's a deal. All being well, I'll get along for a pre-Almeria loosener (no, not that sort of loosener -- I'm hoping to be still on the wagon through January). The schedule I'm nominally following is the FIRST thing I mentioned on the TypePad blog. They have a sort of novice schedule as well as an improver. Neither is quite right for me so I'm steering a path between the two.
The former has a January long run schedule of 10,11,12,10 while the other goes for 13, 15, 17, 20.
I'll be in touch after Christmas to try to work something out.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Nice one!
