Results are up on the Three Forts website and you may be interested to know I got Tim Shorts' winning time wrong. He strolled home in 2:55:09 Stuart Mills (feeling particularly ill) was second in 3:11:29
As BB said, one to watch. Not easy as he's currently unaffiliated.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder, you're a bloody monster, man. Some very impressive running there, and a testament to all those arduous Sunday morning outings on the hills. Some interesting remarks about your potential, and I'm surprised they haven't cropped up before now.
I don't know how seriously you want to take your running but a period of abstinence from booze and kebabs to loosen some lard would probably have you nudging a good-for-age time at a spring 09 marathon. You might want to try an experiment -- enjoy Almeria in the usual fashion, but then take a couple of months off the booze till after London, if you do it. I bet you could knock at least 15 minutes your PB.
But well done -- good running. You're an inspiration to old gimmers everywhere.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Yes, lard-loss. It's a conundrum and no mistake.
Here's me celebrating yesterday with a good honest five miler to invigorate tired limbs washed down by a red meat-rich barbie (first of the season) and a couple of bottles of Timothy Taylor. And there's the rub; for me it's about pain and reward. One without the other is either no fun or the road to choked arteries and twilight on the sofa.
I know what losing a stone would do for my running. I've talked it over with Yoda in the past; less lard will increase pace, lessen the load on my suffering joints and help with perspiration issues. It's right there in front of me - literally. All I have to do is abstain.
:RFLMAO:
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Yes, lard-loss. It's a conundrum and no mistake.... And there's the rub; for me it's about pain and reward. One without the other is either no fun or the road to choked arteries and twilight on the sofa.
No doubt about it - once you're into your 40s and beyond, exercise is no longer enough to keep the weight off. As RC has conclusively proven, even marathon runners struggle to keep the weight off beyond a certain age.
And yes (no?), a life of complete abstinence is not life. There's no point being able to run xx kilometres at x:xx pace if your down time consists of eating tofu salads and drinking thrice-distilled water.
Sorry to say that there's no easy answer. You have to decide what you want to be - trim, taut and tofu-stuffed, or a beer-drinking, pie-loving runner who has a bit of girth?
Oh God, that sounds so sanctimonious. Shit, sorry.
Well I have a few things to say on this, which I'll do in one of the main entries, but suffice to say that (and I make no apology for repeating it) George Sheehan was right when he said "All runners are an experiment of one".
I'm actually starting to lean the other way from the idea that a booze-free life is no fun.
I've had an interesting experience over the past couple of weeks. Will post about it later.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
El Gordo Wrote:I'm actually starting to lean the other way from the idea that a booze-free life is no fun.
I've had an interesting experience over the past couple of weeks. Will post about it later.
Well no doubt there are happy teetotallers out there, but I just drank a mega-healthy cranberry / green tea / ginseng concoction that only made me yearn all the more for a decent bottle of red.
Except that I want to run this bloody mountain even more than I want a decent shiraz.
I saw Tim Short win Beachy Head last year - I'd arrived a bit early to support a friend, and as I was walking up to the finish line saw this incredible shape bounding across the cliff tops in the distance - I looked at my watch and saw that it was at least 15 minutes before anyone could be reasonably expected to come in so assumed it was just some lanky speed merchant out for a blast... and then as he got nearer I saw he was wearing a race number, and then I just watched with my mouth wide open as he dropped down the really steep hill at the end in about 6 strides and zoomed over the line. There were only about three people at the finish line at that point - they were still doing sound checks on the PA... he threw everyone into a complete panic which was hilarious to watch...
Anyway - I'm pretty sure he's actually already a respected international athlete on the mountain racing circuit - there was something to that effect on the beachy head marathon website - he trains in Europe etc etc. If he's unaffilliated at the club level its probably because he's running at an international level. I do remember overhearing him tell the flustered interviewer at the end of the beachy head marathon that it was his first ever marathon! Anyway - like you say he's an incredible sight, and clearly a phenomenal talent. You've got to wonder what he'd do on a flat marathon...
A rare but welcome evening escape into the hills, the perfect antidote to a day spent simmering in the clogged arteries of London's orbital carpark. Sadly my performance fell short of doing justice to the perfect conditions. A waning sun gloated gently in a cloudless sky, no doubt reflecting on a day's work well done as it slipped over the western horizon.
I broiled on the outward lope, managing to work up a lather in these benign conditions. On the return a beautiful zephyr kissed my sweat-jewelled noggin as the hounds chased rabbit shadows into the blossoming gorse. Around me the hills and valleys of Sussex basked in the glow, a more peaceful and seductive scene hard to imagine.
All is not well in the Sweder engine room. I pulled to a steaming halt on the building site that is my front garden, breathless and in some distress. There's a monster in my belly and it's been gnawing away at me this past week. Throw in disrupted sleep thanks to a combination of annoying tickly cough and the raucous symphony of the dawn chorus (since when was dawn at four-oh-bloody-clock in the morning? The birds 'round here sound like Nigel Kennedy and his tartlets after a good night out) and the wheels are starting to feel decidedly loose.
No such complaints about my musical company this evening. An ecclectic mix from the good people at Planet Rock, topped off by the rather wonderful Miss Janis Joplin telling Kris Kristofferson's story of Me And Bobby McGee in a way that must've made the writer weep. It's awful to think this ethereal songstress was lost on the cusp of her greatest triumph. She shared a troubled path with another of my early heroes, John Belushi; a flawed genius with dangerous tastes who lost out to his own drug-fuelled demons all too soon.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It's funny . . . Cohen sings about their perceived lack of beauty yet I always think of Janis as gorgeous. She plainly wasn't, at least in the two-dimensional, photographic sense. Yet whenever I hear that voice . . . Great stuff.
It's been an odd day, musically speaking. Earlier I caught up with the Good Doctor's latest film review podcast. Apart from semi-slating Iron Man - a must-see film simply for featuring the eponymous classic by Sabbath - he started banging on about the Comsat Angels. Actually he was saying that the Comsats were a 'better band than Joy Division' - apropos of his review of the new JD biopic. I remember the Comsats. They were a favorite of one of the weekend DJs at my local, the Royal Charter (aka The Fishes) in Kingston. Dick was a large man who filled his days landing passenger aircraft at Heathrow. Dick always wore the same vast T-shirt depicting a young woman having her pants pulled down. The tagline read 'Get 'Em Down Safely With Air Traffic Control'
I ordered a copy of the excellent Waiting For A Miracle from Amazon right away.
Dick might have been aptly named for many reasons but he had great taste in music.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Like many I've been appalled by the harrowing scenes leaking out of Burma. This is a country in turmoil, ravaged by cyclones and swamped by floodwaters; the death toll looks set to rise exponentially as disease tightens its merciless grip. The military rulers of that nation appear confused as they struggle to get their heads around the scale of the disaster. In a display of unforgivable selfishness they fear a loss of power as thier people descend into the seventh circle of hell.
In the midst of all this we hear US Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice banging her ugly political drum. The military regime in Myanmar is just the sort of target to get Rice and her pals salivating; Regime Change appears to be the sport du jour in the White House. Of course politics should take a back seat at a time like this; gentle diplomacy through 'friendly neighbour' states such as India and China should be deployed to get aid to those in peril without delay. Does it matter to the dying who's hands are on the essential food and medical supplies? Of course not.
But seeing as she's stuck her pretty head above the political parapet I've got a question for Condee. Where was this flash of burning urgency when the good people of New Orleans were stranded in the aftermath of hurricane Katrina? I recall the US government moving with all the alacrity of a sedated snail when their own imperiled people cried for help.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:I've got a question for Condee. Where was this flash of burning urgency when the good people of New Orleans were stranded in the aftermath of hurricane Katrina? I recall the US government moving with all the alacrity of a sedated snail when their own imperiled people cried for help.
A point not lost on America herself it seems, with the New York Times raising exactly this question. Even CNN appeared to be giving fair, accurate coverage and refusing to be drawn into hypocritical politicising.
Unlike the Australian media, which I regret to say have been quite frankly disgusting.
Yesterday I sloped off early for an evening round with SP and Cap'n Tom at Seaford Head. The course is nice and hilly, offering a physical as well as a sporting challenge. The golf was of (ahem) modest standard yet SP and I were tied after eighteen holes. It seems it doesn't matter how crap you are at a sport, so long as your playing partners are of an equal crapness you can still enjoy a darned good contest. SP won by virtue of a better back nine but I didn't have long to sulk. Within a minute Capn' Tom appeared with three foaming pints of Harvey's Best. We sat on the bench outside the clubhouse watching the gulls wheel over the cliff tops as the golden ale slid down three parched throats. SP launched himself into a standing position and uttered those dreaded words.
'Who's for another?'
It took less than a second for me to politely decline.
This is great progress; if I can resist a second pint when the first has all but evaporated after a hot sweaty round of golf I'm well on the road to blocking out those dreadful Sirens.
After another restless night of tickly coughs and vociferous birdlife I set off for this mornings' BHTT 5K. A slurp of coffee and a hurridly scoffed banana constituted breakfast. This seems to be a winning combination as for the second week in a row I clocked a PB, this time 22:22. In five attempts I've reduced my 5K time by 01:29. It won't last (quiet Eeyore) but for now I'm chuffed. No spaced-out weirdness this time, just a good honest gritted-teeth arm-pumping thrash, hanging on for grim death around the last lap. I think I'm starting to enjoy these
When I got home I harnessed the hounds and took them for a hot slog up to Blackcap. A nice easy five miler after a sweaty flog around the park was just the ticket. Easy breathing, legs nice and relaxed, my TOM 2007 technical shirt the perfect antidote to a very warm day. I chugged home at a gentle pace, reflecting on a good start to the day. The rest of the day could be a good deal less comfortable. It's that time of year when my lovely daughter press-gangs a parent into taking to the dance floor for her Dance School Funday Parent and Child competition. I drew the short straw; an afternoon whizzing around the living room to loud, hi-speed techno-music beckons.
During the apres-flog cafe session I mentioned my annoying cough to Jill, Marion and Julie before, right on queue, offering the perfect demonstration. Marion remarked it sounded like asthma - she's a fellow sufferer. The penny dropped with a loud clang. I was diagnosed with asthma about fifteen years ago. The condition was assessed to be mild, I was prescribed ventalin and given two inhalers; a brown one for once-a-day use and a blue one for when I got a bit wheezy. As time went by my symptoms dried up and I abandoned the inhalers, never giving the condition a second thought. Since starting running five years ago I've felt relatively fit in the lung department, attributing the occasional lapse to the after-effects of ten years smoking between forty and sixty tabs a day.
One aspect of having mild asthmma is one becomes sensitive to changes in the air. With the sudden onrush of what appears to be summer the air around Sussex is suddenly full of pollen and grass-heads. This has coincided with my alveoli tightening up like a Scotsman hanging onto a fiver. Ding ding! Hello? Anyone there?
Perhaps it's time to nip down the Docs and see about an inhaler.
If I had a brain I'd be dangerous.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Bad news about the asthma, though as I'm sure you know, a lot of good, or should I say, "even better", runners have the same problem. You know what to do, so I won't nag.
I like the sound of these 5K Saturday runs. Let's hope someone sets up a group within striking distance of Reading.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Hearty congrats on the PB old man - totally brilliant, and well deserved!
I also suffer from asthma (particularly now I've moved to a cooler, damper climate), but the good news is that as long as you have a "management plan" (see your quack) it's not going to impact your running too severely. Best of luck with it.
A tasty broil over the Brighton cliff tops under a blazing summer sun. Moyleman and Ade joined me for a gentle Wire trip whilst Simon and a couple of hardy souls took off for the Snake.
Sweet cool breezes laced our outward meander only to disappear for the sweaty dash home as the merciless Martian deathray lazered into our backs. 7.49 miles in 1:08:17, a fair effort after yesterday's exertions.
Now it's a quick cool shower and a swift change of clobber before stepping out under the lights with my fabulously gifted daughter. Fulham, Reading, Birmingham, Chelski and the Rowdies are also stepping out on Grand Slam Wham Bam Thank You Mam Green Eggs and Ham Take It On The Lam Sunday. Some, like Phoebe, in pursuit of glory; others, like me, seek only to survive.
It is, as the Great Man famously said, Squeaky Bum Time.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Quick update: the Rowdies claimed their tenth Premiership, Ryan Giggs sealing the deal and claiming his own tenth winners' medal to boot. As I've mentioned before his autobiography is refreshingly unremarkable; just a genuinely lovely bloke who loves his Mum and his Nan and is, by any definition of the word, a worthy winner.
Of more import at Chez Sweder was the outcome of the coveted Parent and Child competition at the Finesse School of Dance Fun Day. Having recovered from a sever cooking along the seafront I donned my outfit (laid out for me by daughter number one with a hand-written note which in esscence told me that she loved me for doing this) and head for the dance floor. Competition was tough with twenty pairs starting. We made the first cut, into the semi's, where we faced a lad who had gone the whole hog and struggled into a girls' latin outfit to dance with his girlfriends' daughter, plus the head teacher of the school - herself an award-winning dancer - and her talented daughter.
Straight into the semi when I probably gave my most coherent performance and sure enough we squeaked into the final where we placed second behind the head teacher but ahead of the bloke in the dress. I achieved my own personal goal - not to tread on/ collide with/ injure anyone else (or myself).
In the serious awards Phoebe passed her Gold Star 4 (an IDTA accredited examination taken back in the springtime blizzards) with honours, the highest accolade. I took a slow look around the packed dance hall and I can tell you that no parent, male or female, had their chest more puffed out than I.
[SIZE="1"]Mrs S took the Video Recorder from me before the Parent and Child heats. I told her I'd filled the memory with footage of Phoebe in competition and she swallowed it - hook, line and selfish sinker. Sorry.[/SIZE]
PS: In the aftermath of all that I cracked not only a bottle of Timothy Taylor's AND a bottle of Breakspear Oxford Gold. We're off out to dinner at the Rainbow where I'll sink at least a couple of pints of Best.
No apologies in this part of the forum
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I enjoyed that Giggs goal... might it be one of his last?
And well done for being a top dad. Any chance of seeing some footage on Youtube? I'd like to see some of the action.. especially of the bloke in the dress:o
Stuart Mills (feeling particularly ill) was second in 3:11:29
