Autumn's touch spreads an auburn glow across Sussex. A chill wind sweeps in from the west, rough countenance enhanced by biting, bone-chilling cold. The sun shines, flooding the downs with spectacular early light, warmth fleetingly felt as icy marauders plunder the trails.
Two days into October and two outings for the Large One.
Yesterday a slovenly scrape across the downs, Quasimodo hunched against Parisien ire shuffling into the west. It was a most ugly affair, much grunting and sweating, the only redeeming feature the completion of the circuit without collapse. Four days and nights in the company of SP, The Tipster and Captain Tom in the fleshpots of suburban Paris left me wrecked, a scoured shell of a man, a twisted blend of stiffness, indegestion and ibuprofen.
Today it was the bike's turn. I battled once more into that unforgiving blast, succumbing at last on the approach to Blackcap, sliding off the vicious little saddle to haul the machine to the summit on foot. Having recovered my breath (if not my dignity) I re-mounted and set off on a suicidal plunge, strong wind shoving rudely as I clung on to the handlebars, knuckles white, for fear of being slung into the hedgerows.
Neither outing will last long on the memory. The significance of back-to-back struggles should not be underestimated. I feel I've turned a corner to begin a very long haul indeed, but as someone once said, a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, albeit a rather wobbly one.
Here's the elevation capture from my Garmin. You can see the wobbles on the early climbs, and appreciate the difference in speed on the descents.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Born of a black-hearted mother over foaming primeval seas the spectral outriders swept south across the land. Through the Scottish highlands, the wild, craggy parks of the north, the drab cityscapes of industrial middle-Britain, ever onward towards the shivering south. Teeth bared in a deathly grin they flew with indecent haste, dragging a veil of ice-chilled gems in their lusty wake. Just south of London they veered east, the seaside town of Brighton in their sights. They dropped, hugging the undulating downland, banking hard left to crash along the coastal trails. Behind them the hills wept, shrouded in mist and piercing rain that permeated fabric, skin and bone.
Another windswept flog into the teeth of a heartless storm.
The clouds seemed to part as a monstrous stream of rain-soaked wind crashed over us, barrelling into the east, a maelstrom on a mission. Id battened down in my lightweight wind-cheater, still in shorts (my legs rarely feel the cold), new scarlet Mizunos clawing manfully across the slippery turf. Three outings in three days whatever next? A decision to make on Sunday Lewes Downland Ten, certain to be an ugly struggle amongst a field of swift, lithe operators; or a gentle trundle along the cliff-tops with post-Berlin Steve. My heart says the former, my head the latter. I suspect it will be a case of degrees of stiffness on the day, or at least on Saturday night.
I pondered last night's doorstep discovery. A bundle, abandoned without ceremony or so much as a feeble knock, tripped over on my way out to badminton. The distinctive Flora insignia gave a clue, the bulky nature gave the game away; my tough-luck fleece from Mr Bedford. Ah well, I make a much better cheerleader than I do a runner. And it is a rather fetching shade of powder-puff blue . . .
Alice Cooper did his best to squeeze an extra yard of pace from my ailing legs, dishing up an eclectic blend of fabulous rock including a 1964 recording of Zeppelin performing My Girlfriend She Got Long Black Wavy Hair. Surprisingly good given the title, yet another reminder of just what a fabulous outfit they were. I lumbered home in forty-nine minutes, pleased with the effort if little else.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Slipped along to the Brighton and Hove Time Trial 5K this morning. This in itself all but ended any possibility of taking on the Lewes Downland 10 tomorrow - I'd've rested up for that for sure. Still, it was good to get back out there, even if my work-a-day lumber was not one for the purists. I clocked 25:03, around a minute forty outside my PB set earlier this year. Still, better than I'd expected and I felt like there was some fuel, albeit contaminated, left in the tank at the finish.
Marina tomorrow for what looks like an apocalyptic plod along the cliff-tops. I've vowed that even if no-one else shows I'll run the Wire, an eight-mile round trip. I'd best pack my portable DAB for company.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
[SIZE="3"]Brutal. Just. Doesn’t. Cover it.[/SIZE]
The fifth day of five on my recovery trail began like the end of the world and ended like the dénouement of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice without that bloody mouse.
Incredibly there were four of us huddled above the marina this morning. No sign of Stevio who, marathon safely banked last weekend, must’ve had the good sense to stay under the duvet. Lycra Tony was on hand for the official launch of the FLM 2009 Sunday morning group. Sonja too, a stalwart of recent years, and a young lady who’s name soared high over the cliffs as soon as it appeared on her quivering blue lips. She turned out to be quite the whippet and, as I told her at the three mile break, made me feel suitably old, fat and slow. It's a fair cop.
This was, for me, a mighty struggle. Legs locked down by lactic acid I hauled my wobbly frame over the harsh climbs of Saltdean and Rottingdean cliff-tops for eight cruel and unforgiving miles. The wind howled, dancing, swooping and jabbering around us, at us and through us from all angles, taunting, roaring, screaming and whispering like a thousand insanities. On cresting one climb on the outward lope I was met with the mother of all gusts. It must be what walking into the backdraft of a jet fighter must feel like – without the heat. It was almost comical, legs blown akimbo from all sides, one moment thrown forward with frightening speed, the next stopped in my tracks by an immovable wall of monstrous ferocity. My confidence, carefully gathered and stored over recent days like a squirrel's autumnal reserves, lay scattered across the hills like my modest ambition, eviscerated in Krueger-esque fashion by the whirling blades of the wicked wind.
Rain was less of a factor. Sure, the return was akin to running alongside a gritter lorry armed with a jetwash, but for the most part any falling precipitation was whisked away into the hills. For the briefest of moments I pitied those running the Lewes Downland 10. That rain would be falling hard and steady all morning on my beloved homeland slopes, tripping the unwary, flint traps slippery and lethal. No doubt we’ll hear from Gillybean and Simon in due course.
I lumbered home dead last, iron legs incapable of greater effort. The sea foamed and boiled a full quarter-mile from shore, tearing in to rage against the marina defences, Poseidon’s wrath in full flow. My feeble attempt at stretching abandoned all too soon I hobbled off to the sanctuary of my truck. Driving back along the coast road I felt the vehicle jibber and twitch in the teeth of the storm, the full scale of our folly dawning as the numbness receded, the first thaw of what looks to be a rather long and inclement winter.
Happy Halloween . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A stiff-limbed Ray Wilkins-esque crab across the peninsular under a glorious sunrise. Wither the winds of yesterday? Who cares . . . an unmolested chug was just what the doctor ordered. Nipped under forty-eight minutes for the first time in a while, though I felt every sinew-stretching step after yesterday's battering.
The Beeb reckon this is as good as this week gets weather-wise.
Oh well.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:The Beeb reckon this is as good as this week gets weather-wise.
The BBC? Don't you have a weather bureau?
Nice work there though Sweder. I guess the cycling has helped eh? I miss my bike, it really is a nice work out - a good kind of Clayton's running. Though with rather less knee pain.
Keep going big fella. The forum is getting interesting again!
We have all sorts of weather stuff hurled at us day and night - it's a national obsession. Auntie's weather pops up on my desktop so I tend to go with that; she's usually as misguided as any of the others.
Interesting? I thought things had been burbling along nicely for a while.
Nice of the Johnny-come-latelies to chip in though :p
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Another sun-filled morning in paradise.
That, the first run in a while that felt like a good'un and a flurry of activity on the Almeria 2009 thread in recent days made for a great start to Wednesday.
Almeria 2009 looks like being a bumper year for the RC contingent.
If we could get Niguel and Suzie Q it would also be the first time the original five has regrouped. Fingers and toes crossed. Of course this raises the spectre of the RC running vest, something I have singularly failed to address with anything more than bluster and good intentions. I hereby vow to take myself off to the vest man this afternoon and to report back with news. Again.
As I left the house, hounds tethered for the brief passing of adjacent domiciles and their sunbathing feline tenants, I spied a neighbour and his mutts stepping onto the muddy delta leading to our usual route. With the dogs full of piss and vinegar at this early hour I chose to circumnavigate this party, discretion being the better part of valour. Oh there'd be no unsightly fighting but some people don't allow thier dogs to socialise, becoming horribly flustered and embarrassed at the unedifying sight of their dogs exchanging olfactory greeting in time-honoured canine tradition. I find it best to avoid such situations where possible so as to be able to look one's neighbours in the eye without worrying about paralysing thoughts surfacing during semi-formal polite exchanges.
'Good morning Mrs Smith - good lord, my lurcher appears to have her snout buried in your Beagles' butt!' Horrible, horrible.
So we found ourselves a couple of gallops over on the South Downs Way proper, a chalk and mud blend of slippery foulness, homicidally slick with recent rain. I found the incline, whilst continuous, that much less urgent, allowing me to build a steady plod rather than kick off with my usual breathless scramble. This may be the way to go in future. I'd planned on mapping the new route but for reasons best addressed to my live-in Mother-Outlaw my Garmin, dutifully left on charge overnight yet mysteriously unplugged this morning, was now bereft of life. Gah! Perrin-esque visions of uzi-style executions swam before my squinting eyes as I chugged up the slowly climbing trail, warmth on my back, hedgrows illuminated by urgent fingers of untrammelled sunlight.
We emerged from the guarded trail onto the downs, the full glory of Sussex laid out before us like a harvest banquet. Fields of golden grasses, white-wheat fronds nodding gracefully in the gentle breeze, shone left and right. No clouds to blot this landscape, just blue skies and vapour trails to guide us on our way.
No idea of time but it felt reasonable, the first strong finish in too long indicating progress. I missed out yesterday, keeping my powder dry for Tuesday Night Badminton. Please don't confuse this with any top-level sporting activity. This is church hall fare, old people taking on really old people. Whilst not the stuff to tax Gail Emms* it still proves a good sweaty stretch session for those of us able to move more than one step in any one direction (and that's not many). Last night Captain Tom and I were the 'youngest' players on hand. Consequently we found ourselves on court more often than not, working up an indecent lather as we leapt and lumbered around our more static playing partners. I gave all this up for a while, when I 'got serious' about running and didn't want to risk turning an ankle or twisting a knee. What a foolish notion; this is terrific fun. Competitive within the confines of players and venue, half-time tea and coffee, resting on the altar between matches, lively banter, rolling up the net at the end, taking the collection of one pound-fifties across the road to Trixie, ancient and beloved white-haired guardian of the badminton court and no mean player in her day, before ending discussions in the street and winding our separate ways home.
The St Mary's court is a fiendish anomoly. Beams and cross braces pepper the roofspace providing devilish obstacles to high shots, a bit like flying a partridge-shaped kite on the Glorious 12th. A touch on the beams (or roof) is deemed loss of point. The court is marginally too big for the hall, so at one end the 'in play' boundary actually goes up the wall, at the other onto the first two steps of the altar. For all its foibles it's some of the best fun I've had in sport. When any number of Brians are gathered - Brian the plumber, Brian the Builder, Brian the Taxi - the level of competition rises to feverish levels. Two hours thrashing a battered shuttlecock at these boys - and dodging the returning fire - is a darned good workout for anyone.
[SIZE="1"]*Lord, please forgive me for indulging in private visions of Ms Emms cavorting in her tight white badminton kit :o[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I really enjoyed hearing that phrase, famously used recently by Barrack Obama, in an unwittingly (or not) disparaging echo of increasingly rabid ‘Hockey-Mom’ Sarah Palin's early call to arms. Listening to the hubble-bubble of nonsense surrounding the US Presidential elections it seems increasingly likely that John McCain’s Big Gamble, selecting a hard-hitting, easy-on-the-eye yet little-known running mate to negate Obama’s popular appeal, will backfire. I hope so. Should the Republicans succeed the lady would be one heartbeat away from the Big Chair. It’s a sobering thought.
The phrase has more resonance for me today. As the stock market tumbles end over end in the most dramatic freefall since Icarus, putting lipstick on a pig (and the newly made-up porker still being most assuredly a pig) seems applicable to the desperate patch-up job being attempted by governments across the globe. Traders aren’t buying it, and it should really come as no surprise to anyone with half a brain when a huge chunk of the world’s economy is driven by greedy marketers looking to make a fast killing by shuffling paper faster than the human eye can fathom. The world economy is in a truly terrible state.
Last night on BBC’s Question Time, as an increasingly hysterical chairman Dimbleby attempted to shout down any sensible debate about real economics, the idea was floated that this current crisis could see the end of the radical free market we’ve ‘enjoyed’ since the late 1970’s. Counterpoints flew, from amongst others Ken Clarke, a man who looks in danger of being swallowed alive by his indulgent lifestyle, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Jabba The Hut, who eloquently argued that the alternative, communism, didn’t fare any better. Of course this is all bollocks; there’s a compromise, a middle ground where trading markets can flourish within carefully defined and regulated boundaries. The 'true' free market is doomed to failure simply because a select few cream off the profits, amassing vast personal fortunes whilst keeping the store windows suitably fogged so none of us prolls can see what they’re up to. Political donations ensure the status quo, toothless regulators hamstrung by a tissue-thin remit.
Well it’s all gone tits up this time and no mistake. Wither the Fat Cats? Instead of berating Gordon Brown, a man who seems increasingly at home in this blossoming mushroom cloud of economic manure, surely our national press and electronic media should be parading mug-shots of those large-bellied, pin-striped bastards who’ve been so busy nest-feathering they've let the whole sorry mess slide into the porcelain vortex. Never mind stocks and shares, bring back the public stocks. Roll up! Roll up! Pelt the greed-mongers with stale bread and rotten fruit! Instead they wallow, protected in their gated, guarded CCTV estates, shaking their heads as they circumcise their next Cuban, wondering where it all went wrong and pointing pink stubby fingers in all directions. Perhaps City of London bonuses of recent years (11.3 billion pounds in 2006, 7.3 billions pounds last Christmas) might help to explain the current situation.
All this flooded my feeble mind as I plodded wearily up the South Downs track this morning. Last night’s celebrations (my son turns 20 today) sat heavily on my paunch. I’d offered an interpretation of City piggery through the medium of eating, over-indulging in most sensational and unattractive style in our favourite local Chinese, the Panda Garden. The fall-out (a misnomer if ever there was one) wobbled unkindly as I hauled lard to the summit of Blackcap. It felt more like Snowdon this morning, the relief-offering Milestone appearing to recede as I struggled ever upward. Still, a plod is a plod, and if you’ll forgive yet another fiscal reference, eight hard-earned kilometres banked.
Track du jour: Big-Eyed Beings From Venus, Captain Beefheart.
[SIZE="1"]Ken Clark[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Lovely morning for it. Sadly 'it' was the dreaded 5K flog around Hove Park. Nice to see so many Brightonians turn out - around 20 newbies - for a total group of around 100. I took it very easy, scooting round without special effort.
As usual the highlight was the apres flog coffee and banter with MSilv, Gillybean, Simon, Ladyrunner and Gary. I could happily have stayed all day, not least to avoid the horrific Honey-Do list lying in wait at Chez Sweder but also because it was a simply beautiful morning; warm, sunny, bustling with Parklife.
Stocked up with Mars bars and Big Water on the way home. Bracing myself for a battle with the ladies over thermos flasks and coolers for Sunday; they're off to Chichester for a dance comp, I need my creature comforts for the sunbathing extravaganza on Castle Hill.
Official time: 24:23, half a minute up on last week but still well down on my PB earlier this year.
Work to be done.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Oh, what a beautiful morning!
Thick cannon smoke wafting across the hills, a thousand spider's webs frosted against the hedgerows. Blue skies and an ascendant sun warming the scene - breathtaking.
I ventured out for a five mile scuttle, once again taking the chalk/ flint track to the Stables. I carried on along my 'old' route - the one that hugs the gallops - to see if the climb
to Blackcap was really any easier than my usual hillfest. If time is a fair unit of measure it's certainly a far easier route. 23 minutes to the summit - it's been 27 on the Wicker Man Hill route since I can remember. I sucked air hunched against the Milestone overlooking the Jog Shop escarpment as banks of mist rose and vanished like steam off a great beast's back. I hurled myself homeward on the usual trail, reaching the house in 44.21 to maintain the four minute advantage over the full distance. This route measures around 200 metres short of my regular run so WMH costs me around three and a half minutes through rate of climb alone.
Not sure what that really proves, other than I'm working hard on my midweek runs which is good to know. I've attempted to upload elevation images from Friday's run and this mornings' diversion to see how they compare. Being a card-carrying luddite I'll cease and dissist from further attempts at analysis and get back to good old-fashioned plodding.
[SIZE="1"]Images: First normal WMH route - Second chalk track up, normal down [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Crammed another 7.8 ks in this morning, blending new track with old by nipping across at the stables to rejoin my regular route. A low 47-minute effort, a small improvement that tells me I'm regaining some of the fitness lost during my recent bout of knee gah!
On the approach to Wicker Man Hill a carpet of freshly discarded leaves lay draped across the muddy trail. Wind-stunted deciduous trees had shed their autumn cloak to lay like a pedestrian crossing across the well-trod turf. ‘Stop, humans and dogs; go rabbits and squirrels’. The morning light leant a golden glow to this mosaic, adjacent naked branches bowed to gaze longingly after their erstwhile companions as we pounded them into the hungry earth. So leaves become mulch, food for the Downland trees and the mud-dwellers. Not quite the Serengeti perhaps, but a circle of life none-the-less.
I timed the outing to coincide with the Planet Rock Connection, Rob Bernie's eight connected songs with one odd one out. The gamble failed as Rob dished up a bland blend of MOR ballads. One track stood out though - the Sensational Alex Harvey Band's live rendition of Delilah.
Off to Montreal for a couple of days. The forecast is wet and cool so I've packed my road-runners, hoping for an early-morning return to Mont Royal. Be a shame to waste all the recent effort on a week off. Besides, I'll certainly be visiting Hurley's (for the best pint of draught Guinness outside the Emerald Isle) and there's an outside chance of a return to the Sugar Shack (though I seriously doubt it could be as hilarious as the last one), so the Piper must be paid.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
With all the burble about cross-training combined with my ritual impossibly early awakening I chose a quick spin in the hotel gym to kick start day one of this short, sweet visit. 10 miles on the static bike in a shade over 30 minutes . . . that means less than nothing to me really. It takes longer for me to cover half that distance on my home course and I'm always a good deal more wiped out than I feel now. Apparently I burned 250 calories and my average heart rate during the session was 122. That had a good deal more to do with the impressively-toned young lady in the tiny red 'Lifeguard' sweat-shorts who insisted on doing a series of pornographic inner thigh stretches on the floor in front of me. Saints preserve us
All in all better than nothing which was the alternative. Now for the artery-clogging North American hotel breakfast buffet . . .
Tomorrow I hope to head out to Mont Real for a something like a hilly 10k. Depends on this evening's activities I guess but if I can get out there for an hour or so I'd be chuffed to bits.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Was the sweat dripping off your forehead and splashing onto the equipment (as it were)? That's the test. I've just got back from a 3 mile plod which would be little more than a warm-up for most decent runners, but the splashy sweat tells me that I did something good.
I'm off for two nights in a hotel too. I doubt Stansted Airport will be that scenic a running arena, so it looks like the gym for me too.
Aren't we all being good?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Yes, as ever with me there was sweat-a-plenty on the cycle machine.
Breakfast turned out to be a good deal better than expected, too. Oatmeal, fruit-n-nut cereals, fresh fruit, 2 eggs over easy with wheat toast (no marge), lashings of fresh (good quality) coffee and pink grapefruit juice. Have to admit I feel energised and 'up' for a day of long meetings. It's a stunning autumn day out there - I may live to regret the gym choice but I wanted to put in a decent run tomorrow so saved the legs from a concrete hammering this morning. The colours on Mont Real are breathtaking; I think Canada takes some beating when it comes to seasonal splendour.
Fascinating to watch CNN this morning. Gordon Brown, our very own under-seige Eeyore, is hailed here as the man leading the world out of financial meltdown. The US announced a 250 billion dollar investment to their top 20 banks, very much in line with our governments' recent move. My hope is that whatever the colour of our leaders' flag - and indeed the choice of the US voters next month - we're going to see a change in attitudes towards bankers and banking. The US announced curbs on massive payouts and reckless bonuses as part of their control measures. That would be a good start on what promises to be a long road to recovery.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Recently noticed my 'retrospective' links had 'switched off'.
I've nipped in to re-link some old posts - they may be of interest to people with a vast amount of time to fritter and waste.
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![[Image: emms_lunge_200.jpg]](http://www.jedburghbadmintonclub.org.uk/images/emms_lunge_200.jpg)
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