Merry Christmas one and all. Thanks for your company through 2008 - it's been emotional.
Big Love to all and especially MM - thoughts with you and T always bro.
I've eschewed a night with Hunter S Thompson at the Duke of York, much to my dismay. I'd planned to smuggle in a bottle of Chivas and a rucksack full of ice so as to pay hommage in the right spirit. I've swapped a night with my idol for one on the sofa with my ladies scoffing chocolates, creating and downing a heady collection of severely alcoholic cocktails whilst watching Nicolas Cage and James Caan ham their way through Honeymoon In Vegas. I guess that says something about me as a person, though I have to admit spending Christmas Eve with Raoul Duke and a wild bunch of nefarious trouble makers was a helluva thing to turn down.
Historical footnote: SP and I, in a fit of cross-training madness, took on and roundly thrashed Captain Tom and Wee Ray at Lewes Golf Course this morning.
Selah!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A swift five klicks at first light this chilly Christmas morn, as much to work up an appetite for the seasonal debauchery as to exercise the hounds. B52s and Mimosas set the world on an even if slightly softer keel, good friends and family popping in to help scarf blinis and quaff drinks.
Good Santa left us a Nintendo Wii this year. I'm no fan of electronic games but this one seems diffferent. Two post-luncheon hours of boxing, baseball and ten pin bowling left me with a sore shoulder and quite knackered. Add that to the thirty minute plod and my efforts in the kitchen - I survived cooking Christmas lunch solo, my usual chef de maison having declared himself on strike after a heavy Christmas Eve - and I reckon this to be my most physical Christmas day for some time.
Good luck to all taking part in tomorrow's fancy dress race.
Lots of silly pictures please.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I didn't manage a run on Christmas Day, settling instead for 270 miles of driving, punctuated with the odd mouthful of turkey and mince pie. It's been a disappointing week training wise, so I need to buckle down and get going again, starting today.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Stepmothers-breath
hissing through barren boughs
dispensing discontent,
cold as a witchs kiss.
Scandalmonger of the fields,
grips ragweed by the forelock
to lay across the hills
and beat away the dirt.
Hickory switch, finger wagging
at a sprinkling of frost-flakes
leapfrogging through ochre fields
and playing knock-knock
upon Black Caps parlor door.
[SIZE="1"]with apologies to Debbie Ouellet[/SIZE]
I set off for some BHTT 5K torture at a quarter to nine - OK that's leaving it fine even by my tardy standards. As I approached the roundabout at the A27 I spied a line of Police cars blocking the road to Brighton. Must be some black ice, or maybe a nasty shunt further up, I thought. That, or an elaborate attempt by the authorities to prevent my seasonal corpulence from damaging pedestrian pathways. In any event I wasn't getting to Hove Park in time so I turned tail, vowing to take the hounds on a five mile plod across the downs instead.
Brother it was cold out there today. Frost lay in the shadows, a dusting of icing sugar on a pudding of a track. Fingers of sunlight thawed the mud in places, creating groin-wrenching skiddy sections. In others the ground remained cold and hard as Condoleeaza Rice at a press conference.
New Hilly gloves, courtesy of a series of heavy hints in the direction of Sweder Jnr, replete with useful toweling first finger (for unavoidable cold-weather nose-dribble), proved up to the task of keeping my fingers attached to my hands. Leggings were essential too, holding my errant knee firmly in place as I dragged my turkey-stuffed carcass across the hills. That North wind, heartless, flesh-slapping, no respecter of layers, flayed me to the core, keeping my pace honest and my face turned slightly to the south. The hounds rejoiced, apparently unphased by the deep chill, gamboling in the yellow sunlight, as ever just happy to be out, running free.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Minus one on the temperature gauge in my shivering, quivering truck as I left home at eight forty-five. Dark clouds rose from the hilltops, a smudged plum-grey bruise on the brightening skyline. I was wrapped like a (large) babe in swaddling clothes – leggings, two layers of vest (long and short-arm), gloves and for the first time since I received it my Almeria open-ended hat, a sort of giant blue bandage around my head and – mercifully- over my ears. Lycra Tony did a double-take before declaring 'It's official - it's effing cold!', a reference to my usual preference for shorts even when the sun don't shine.
Unsurprisingly a modest gathering waited above the marina. Ade, Stevio, Soft Al, Chris, a selection of the FLM crowd and, belatedly, Steepler, who went through a remarkable OCD-driven seven-times locking/ unlocking of the van ritual. As he finally lumbered up, adjusting white baseball cap and bronze mirror-shades, I assured him I’d seen the lights flash one more time as he’d jogged away from the vehicle, but he wasn’t taking the bait. We set off at a modest pace, Lycra Tony on foot, Sam, sans Tash, mounted and wrapped against the bitter north wind. Whilst fully appreciating the ear protection I cursed the elongated, floppy nature of my Almerian headwrap. It felt for all the world like I was running in Marge Simpsons’ hair. Thirty minutes later we reached the Saltdean rest point, five kilometres from the start, a collection of stretching, steaming bodies grinning and swapping stories. The long boys declared a seasonal homage to old Snakey and I was happy enough with that. Almeria looms large. I need a minimum long run of twelve tough miles for the next three weekends or so, at least according to the arbitrary schedule floating about in the dark, dusty recess of my subconscious.
Stevio promised to keep the pace honest yet relaxed, then proceeded to hammer up the tough climb out of Saltdean and up onto the Tye, where the icy dragons’ breath raced down to meet us. My chest felt like it was pushing a large block of ice up that impossibly long hill, numbed beyond redemption, flogged ever-onward by stubborn, over-worked legs. Chris flew up the slope, taking a hundred metres out of us with little apparent effort. I was working hard to stay with them, rasping breath snatched away in great vapourous clouds as my elbows pumped and I assumed my standard hunch against the slope. Across the summit ridge the wind abated, a welcome respite from Mr Freeze's ice-blast, allowing us to relax into something approaching a comfortable pace. Until Stevio, taking heart from what he perceived as a tail wind (but what was, I assure you, nothing of the sort), stepped on the gas and stretched away across the furrowed track towards the ploughed field plummet.
So hard and potentially deadly was the ground I couldn’t make up the distance on the perilous drop, using my considerable weight as a jarring brake on the frosted, ruptured ground, wondering just when my footing would give and one of my legs would shoot out sideways to surely snap clean off in this interminable cold. After a brief pause for a slurp - damn, I forgot to put ice in my drink! - we head north once more and on to the frosted foothills of the Snake proper. The old serpent was clearly in hibernation; slippery scales dulled, ubiquitous cloying mud chilled to a rutted mat under our thundering hooves. I stuck with Steve until the very last knockings when once again he left me for dead without any discernable change of gears. It must be fabulous to run so easily.
On over the top into East Brighton park, dodging several mutts of dubious pedigree, owners huddled under several layers of wool and weave, fag smoke mingling with last nights’ pub breath in the crystal clear air. Finally my two companions – Steepler had succumbed fully to seasonal indulgence and dropped some way back – opened their legs and showed their class, streaking away across the sloping hillside. I could only watch in awe as my own battered legs carried me home in a new PB for the route – 1:49 and change. It’s a great result for me, due entirely to the gentle cajoling of Steve and Chris. Once again I caught a glimpse of what could be before the lactic acid rose up to throttle my ambition. My right calf, finally at rest, blood cooling at a rate of knots - I almost expected to hear that pinking sound you get with a recently thrashed race engine - announced a ‘little discomfort’ before going into gentle spasm.
19.86 hilly kilometers in the bank, a half by any normal measure, and a great way to kick off the run-in to Medio Marathon madness.
[SIZE="1"]Elevation; Pace; Drop into Saltdean; Chris and Stevio with Cows[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It's been a funny old year, much of the latter stages dominated by non-running events. Just for fun I thought I'd tot up my mileage for 2008.
Notwithstanding a run-free August, a woeful September (knee-knack) and the usual assortment of lurghies and binge/ travel-related sloth I think I've done OK.
Here, sports fans, are the stats:
Total miles run this year: 878.8 (1406 kilometres)
Averages: 73 miles per month; 16.9 miles per week
Or, if you prefer, just over 33 marathons in the calendar year. Speaking of which, not one full-distance race in 2008, the first time that's happened since I started out on the long and winding road back in 2003. I'm not sure there'll be one in 2009 either; at least, probably not a hard-top 26.2.
Top month for mileage was March with 117.5 (188 kms) at an average of 3.8 miles per day. Longest run was 17.6 miles (28.16 kms), also in March.
Resolutions for 2009?
The usual nonsense about eating well, drinking less and all that jazz.
Running-wise perhaps one or maybe two offroad races, gammy knee permitting. I'd like to revisit the Stinger, and perhaps take on the Three Forts or even the Seven Sisters. Much will depend on injuries and workload. I yearn to read tall tales in this place, of triumphs and disasters, of struggles and achievements, of noble victory over cruel luck and unkind fate.
Whatever your running aspirations I wish you well.
In all other things I wish you peace, love, health and happiness.
And I hope I get to run with you in 2009.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thanks, Sweder. I'm sure there'll be a general swirl of reciprocal new year greetings.
Your stats read well, considering running is just an occasional respite from your more pressing duties in the quality control inspectorate of various breweries. More impressive is your oft-noted ability to turn in a great performance after another extended lost weeeknd.
Something you don't mention is your unflagging energy in keeping us updated with your latest adventures on and off the trails. Very annoyingly, your writing seems to get better, year on year. Bastard.
But seriously, I'm sure everyone on here appreciates your unfailing ability to paint those garish word pictures, and bring a little humour and inspiration to our monochrome lives. We thank you.
I know I could unearth this info by digging back through your stuff, but what's the situation with your various leg ailments? Are they untreatable, or do you have plans to get them sorted? If not, it may be best to change your goals. Plenty of good runners out there never go near marathons. Sussex is overflowing with shorter cross country and fell-running type events that could keep you grinning like a loon until your batteries finally fade for good.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
My right leg seems to be the one intent on failing first. Knee and calf injuries come and go. Latest is I'll book in for a scan on the knee after Almeria and (gulp) take the advice offered.
Long term I still aim to return to Chapman's Peak, though it won't be in 2009, at least as a runner. Please remove all targets other than Almeria from my list of intended targets. And Almeria? I've no lofty aspirations here. I'm nowhere near my 2007 zenith so I'm open to assignment as a pacer or, failing that, I might just lumber round and enjoy the run. Right now the only ambition I have for the race is to avoid getting lapped by one of our newbie whippets
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Nipped up to Highworth (on the edge of the Marlborough downs) for New Years and couldn't resist an invitation to run with my cousin-in-law and her local group. Minus four this morning when we tiptoed from the slumbering house into a veritable winter wonderland. Jack Frost had partied hard, bestowing his gifts across the hedgerows. Spiders' webs hung like wet snot across the windows and gateposts, crusted verges sparkling, bejewelled in the early sunlight.
We drove off to the middle of nowhere, took out a local map and ran for a shade over thirteen kilometres, starting out gently, slowly cranking up the pace to sub five-minute klicks for a total run time of 1:11. I felt fantastic, running freely on the ice-hard country lanes, soaking up the occasional hill, chirrupping away with my new-found friends (all FLMers in 2009). When I get chance to download the Garmin data I'll publish a map (and find out officially where we were/ went). Until then, enjoy tonight and I'll see y'all in 2009.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
