You had a lucky escape today Sweder - stepped it up to 17 miles and boy did I feel those last two miles. Think it didn't help having a week off (lungs weren't in top shape being an asthmatic) and body still tired from the road pounding and hard effort of Almeria.
Much as I'd love to wax lyrical about the marvels of the Cabo de Gata-Nijar Natural Park, to swoon over the delicious, deserted beaches, to salivate over the wonderful winding hill-trails and to exfoliate over the fabled Leaning Towers of Broccoli I am in truth strapped for time. So, here's the short(ish) version.
Having awoken with a 'slightly woolly' head on Monday following my small-hours vigil with EG, I wobbled down to breakfast. Like thunderheads gathering in a Speilberg film my hangover blossomed into some kind of all-encompassing monster. Wrapped in aviator shades & clutching a bag loaded with swimmers, a fully-charged iPod and HST's Kingdom of Fear I headed for the seafront, in search of sun, racciones and lots of strong coffee. This helped. The sun did it's part, beaming strong and warm from a clear blue sky. Tracey, Simon and Julie joined me, at which point I decided to take more drastic action. Twenty minutes braving the freezing embrace of the ocean worked wonders for my tight, sore legs but did little for my acheing head, despite a brave/ foolhardy series of full emersions before I scurried back to the warm promenade.
At 3pm Antonio arrived at the Tryp Indalo to take us for our ritual recovery run. He'd announced a change in routine; gone was the annual mountain plummet, replaced by a trail run through the Cabo de Gata Natural Park. Suffering worse than ever I crawled into the back of the van to lay on my side, arms cradling my throbbing noggin defensively as Jules drove us eastward. The oohs and aahs coming from the forward seats suggested I was missing some cracking scenery but it was all I could do to hang on to my lunch. I was a desperately sick puppy. I felt sure I'd be staying right here; running was simply not an option.
Forty somewhat bumpy minutes later we arrived at Playa Monsul, an idyllic bite out of the craggy coastline where desert scrub and fine untainted sand run down to meet the rolling breakers of the Mediterranean Sea. It took a Herculean effort for me to emerge from the back seat and, once standing, to remain upright. I cursed silently as the others set off into the dunes, certain that I was seconds away from adding some unwanted technicolour to the dark-brown sand. Before long Simon, running with admirable ease of motion and apparent lack of effort, set off up an impossibly steep crag. We ended up clambering up the lumpy lava rock-face, the ascent ever-more perilous with each confidence-sapping step. Jules and I crested the summit only to find a sheer drop on the other side. I clambered onto the rocky spine, slipping into a handy natural saddle-seat, my flabby glutes springing into surprisingly effective action as I latched onto the sharp edifice like a fleshy limpet. Ladyrunner seemed most at ease on this precarious ledge, giggling hysterically with Tracey as I mumbled about the madness of mountain climbing bathed in beer-sweat whilst shaking like a recovering junkie. Antonio joined us and we took uneasy snapshots of one another. I had no doubt my grin would be particularly well-set, frozen in fear as my face was by my pathological, life-long loathing of vertical situations.
We slid/ clambered carefully down to where Simon, the instigator and yet the only one with the sense not to complete the climb, sat calmly plotting our next move. He gazed across the bay towards a long, winding trail leading into a series of shadowy hills. Now that we were safely down the only way, it seemed, would be up.
Over an hour and ten (mostly uphill) kilometres later I was glistening with perspiration but delighted. My night-sweats banished into those craggy shadows I'd just run a perfect miniature of Cape Towns' Chapman's Peak. The oceanside ascents along dusty, stone-strewn trails took our breath away literally and metaphorically. Once recovered at the summit I couldn't stop jabbering excitedly about how like the Two Oceans route this was. Should I ever decide to lock horns with that Ultra-beast again I'll be heading out here for a couple of weeks winter training in this heavenly corner of Spain.
I'll say no more and let the pictures speak for themselves. Suffice to say all thoughts of our old Sierra Almahilla run were banished; we'll be back here again.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Tempus fugit yet again; I must be (mercifully) brief.
Following the delights of Cabo de Gata and the warm conviviality of El Qinto Torro with Antonio and his merry band of school-teaching disciples we set sail for home, leaving the Tryp Indalo in what seemed like the middle of the night for our airline rendezvous. 24 hours later I was back at Gatwick airport, bags swapped, headed for Salvador da Bahia. Duty called, There's no rest for the wicked you know Satan has me on speed-dial. I was convinced I'd meet myself in the queue at Costa Coffee.
Arriving at my hotel in the dead of night I crawled into bed, awoken after what seemed like an indecently short nap by the heartless screech of my alarm. A day of brutal meetings including a mind-numbingly dull tour of all six levels of the crumbling Centres des Convencoes lay ahead, followed by an evening of culture (drinking Caipirinhas and gyrating inadequately at a Samba party), allegedly starting at 10pm. With a full day mulling over customs clearance procedures followed by a night-flight home on my immediate horizon that particular horror was too much to bear; I bailed. By happy coincidence as soon as I did so my customs agent called to say our meeting would start at noon (translate to sometime after 1pm), giving me an unexpected window in which to run.
I'd packed my runners, once more in hope rather than expectation. By the time I'd hauled myself from the warm embrace of a deep sleep and pulled them on (along with my RC vest and purple shorts) the sun was already planted high in a cloudless sky. The temperature was well over 80 degrees Fahrenheit as I lumbered down the Avenida Simon Bolivar towards the ocean. Within minutes my forehead was beaded in sweat. I clutched the bottle of chilled agua purloined from my mini-bar (rusty old fridge), grateful for a moment of bleary-eyed foresight. I took my life in my hands to cross the multiple streams of homicidal traffic between me and the seafront. Life is cheap on the fringe of the Barrios amigo; best be on your mettle of you’re going to run the rush-hour gauntlet. Once across, heart pounding wild and high in my chest, I turned right (south) along the Av. Otavio Magabeira, running along the green-painted concrete trail. I was not alone; hundreds of joggers, runners, walkers and tripped-out beach-bums of all shapes, sizes colours and creeds ran, jogged, lumbered, power-walked, strolled and shuffled along this ‘fitness trail’. I staggered on, legs stiff and sore from their Spanish pavement pounding, sweat flowing freely down my rapidly-heating face. If there was a breeze it was at my back, helping with forward motion perhaps but useless for cooling. I managed just over four kilometres before some sensible part of me suggested it might be a good idea to turn around.
Sure enough facing north I found the breeze, and welcome it was too. Slightly recovered I marvelled at the myriad of female forms in this part of the world. Brazilian ladies, in Salvador at least, are blessed with bouncing bodacious curves and warm broad smiles, a winning combination when you're a lecherous flagging Gringo desperate for inspiration on the long road home.
By the time I pulled up outside the Holiday Inn I was all but done in. My legs hummed, chest heaving alarmingly under my sodden vest. Despite the lack of air and the rapidly increasing temperature I felt pretty good, chuffed to have got a run in at all. By the time my agent rocked up (just shy of 2pm) my face had completely lost its purple hue and my heart rate was well under 200.
I’ve posted a few snaps from the run and my pre-flight wander around Old Town Salvador.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Having set off from Brazil 48 hours after arriving I managed to miss the Saturday ParkRun but did manage 12.5 miles with Sunday crew over the Sussex downs. More than 70 runners - a record in my time with the JSJers - turned out on a bright, brisk, breezy morning.
Good to see Stevio out after injury. I ran with him most of the way - a sure sign that he was taking things easy - peeling off at the top of the Snake as fatigue started to creep into my legs. I have to say being back on soft turf was a delight; tired as they were my legs rejoiced and I fair flew home over the last three miles to come in at around 1:53, my quickest 'straight snake' in recent times.
Tuesday I dodged a bullet; Ladyrunner's (as it turns out brutal) 17 miler. I was horribly strapped for time, having to complete reports on Dubai and Salvador by noon. It may well have been this deadline that drove me on to BlackCap and back in record time, the first time I've covered the distance in under 40 minutes. Once again I felt fabulous running on soft, yielding ground, legs moving well over the muddy trails, dogs bounding happily by my side. I have to agree with Dorothy; there really is no place like home.
Thursday I attended my first Spin class with Bridgette - more on that here. Suffice to say I've followed EG as a convert to the static bike and plan to make this a regular thing. It'll also come in handy as the traveling continues; most hotels have a static bike (if they have a gym) and if I can sort out a decent ipod playlist - more of a challenge than it perhaps should be - I can bash out a 'sad spin class for one' when running is not an option.
This morning I turned out for ParkRun despite succumbing to SPs siren song last night. We hit his favourite Lewes pub, the Royal Oak, where the voluptuous barmaid (patron?), worried that we might drift away from the near-deserted bar, entertained us with her observations on the content of Heat magazine. Before I knew it my stated quota of 'a couple of pints' had slipped all too easily up to five. The Guinness was flowing freely. Thankfully Captain Tom (by now on Virgin Marys) was intent on driving home and dragged me away (via the Charcoal Grill for a homeward-bound Donner kebab).
Despite all this I got to Hove Park 5 minutes before 'kick-off', though confess at 1 degree C it felt particularly chilly in my shorts and Captain Sensible t-shirt (the only top I have featuring a large amount of red, de rigueur for Valentine's Day ParkRun). LR rocked up to watch, Simon, Stevio and Tracey lined up with what looked like a pretty big field - well over 200. I thrashed my way round, desperate and breathless, to bag an acceptable 22:28, my best time for well over a year.
Out tomorrow with the JSJers once more, planning on fifteen miles. As work kicks in towards the end of February and into March I'm going to struggle to get the miles in; spin may yet set me free.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Another cracking belt across the east Brighton downs this morning. Sub-zero wind-chill, insidious sleet, soft, muddy fields and lively banter proved a winning combination, even in shorts and RC shirt. Unhappily I’d left my gloves in the car. I blame last night's pre-Valentine’s dinner Harveys at the Lewes Arms. Steak was also possibly not the best choice. Having crawled into bed well after 1am I rolled up a tad late despite skipping breakfast to save time. As I pulled on my muddy runners the Peloton was already cresting the first cliff hump east of Brighton. Chasing hard, gazing out across the millpond sea towards a pink blush horizon, I yet again thanked my lucky stars to be running in such a wonderful place. Good to see Gillybean, Tracey, Stevio (back with the front-runners) and Nigel amongst the brightly-coloured madding crowd.
The Quicks were chomping on a juicy eighteen-miler. I was tempted, but only for a moment. Frankly with no marathon on the horizon, I don’t see the point of pushing too hard and risking injury. Far better to hit a hilly fifteen hard, build on the strength gained in December and January and preserve my ageing pins.
I joined a group of fast-improving newbies, mostly Brighton Marathon entrants looking to build on last week's run. We hit the Snake at full pelt, keeping excellent pace - around five minute thirty kilometres - to the summit. At the top I took them along the switch-back and down into Rottingdean by way of the Reservoir, hammering out a good rythmn all the way to Windmill Hill. For once I flew up the muddy face of this debilitating climb, pausing next to the eponymous landmark to take on air and water as the rest of the group staggered up the brutal, slippery slope.
On the cliff-top run home I called for the leaders to 'give it some welly' - run as hard as you can - all the way home. The front three did just that. I grinned and tried to hang on, working hard, arms pumping, really enjoying the freedom of running hard on strong legs with two miles to go. Those legs, still giddy at being back on the turf, are working well with the bellows; I'm having a lot of fun out there. Another five miles on Tuesday (maybe ten; I'll see how I feel) then spin (hoorah!) on Thursday. I tried to sign up for Monday too but Bridge's House of Fun is, sadly, over-subscribed.
So, I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself just at the moment.
What could possibly go wrong?
Heard a decent FA Cup gag on the way home:
Rafa, Wenger, Fergie & Neil Warnock in a pub. Each buys a round.
Warnock goes up a second time but comes back with just one pint, for himself.
Fergie jumps up and roars ‘Bloody hell Neil, that’s not on! What are you playing at?’
Warnock looks him in the eye and says ‘But Alex, this is the 5th round, and you lot ain’t in it.’
23.3 kilometres in 2 hours 10 minutes (5:38/ km pace)
Monthly total: 72.8 kms
Year to date: 267.18 kms
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(14-02-2010, 02:16 PM)Sweder Wrote: Heard a decent FA Cup gag on the way home:
Rafa, Wenger, Fergie & Neil Warnock in a pub. Each buys a round.
Warnock goes up a second time but comes back with just one pint, for himself.
Fergie jumps up and roars ‘Bloody hell Neil, that’s not on! What are you playing at?’
Warnock looks him in the eye and says ‘But Alex, this is the 5th round, and you lot ain’t in it.’
Did you know that Neil Warnock is an anagram of "Colin Wanker". Or was it the other way round?....
(14-02-2010, 02:16 PM)Sweder Wrote: Heard a decent FA Cup gag on the way home:
Rafa, Wenger, Fergie & Neil Warnock in a pub. Each buys a round.
Warnock goes up a second time but comes back with just one pint, for himself.
Fergie jumps up and roars ‘Bloody hell Neil, that’s not on! What are you playing at?’
Warnock looks him in the eye and says ‘But Alex, this is the 5th round, and you lot ain’t in it.’
Did you know that Neil Warnock is an anagram of "Colin Wanker". Or was it the other way round?....
He was at it again yesterday in the post-match (ranting, not ... you know).
The man could start a punch-up in an empty room. I think he was sparked off by his side's profligacy in front of goal; the Eagles could have been three to the good early in the second half. The linesman's myopia simply dumped gasoline on an already smouldering fire.
This is where EG chips in with a well-reasoned argument for despising everything within a two mile radius of Sellhurst Park, a fully justified pathological hatred of Neil Warnock and evidence that Simon Jordan is an Extra Terrestrial from the planet Decleor ... come to think of it I can't think of much to like in that lot either. Oh, I did see Peter Gabriel perform at Sellhurst Park once in the late Eighties (lacked pace but had a good engine). Otherwise, call in the air-strike
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(14-02-2010, 02:16 PM)Sweder Wrote: On the cliff-top run home I called for the leaders to 'give it some welly' - run as hard as you can - all the way home.
I like it . It sounds like you have been hanging out with me too much!!
Had a good run with Moylebird today - lots of chats to catch up with and 18 muddy miles covered. Finished strong and got more booked for Tuesday 23rd in the daytime if you want to come along?? A Couple more 18's before we jump up to the big 20!!
(15-02-2010, 03:19 PM)ladyrunner Wrote: Had a good run with Moylebird today - lots of chats to catch up with and 18 muddy miles covered. Finished strong and got more booked for Tuesday 23rd in the daytime if you want to come along?? Julie
I'll be in Dubai sadly. Good work today though Jules; you're going really well.
Shuffled off for a spin class - Bridge read the wild desperation in my text when she told me it was full tonight and found me a bike in the corner. One mile jog down there, 45 minutes of insane helter-skelter leg-battering with a large salt lake pooling beneath me (seated next to SP's daughter as it happens) and another mile home (uphill all the way) grinning through the drizzle. Brilliant; even the day after a hilly 15 miler the impact on the legs is negligable. If anything it's proved to be the perfect recovery session.
El Gordo's right, I'm in deep. I had worried it wouldn't be as good second time around; it was better. Bridge has an endless supply of tortuous playlists and enthusiasm that just won't quit. The endorphin rush is as good as intervals at the track without the impossibly tight hamstrings. Finally I understand what Moyleman was banging on about
The only downside I can see to all this is I can't bank any miles on Le Jog. C'est la vie.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(15-02-2010, 08:54 PM)Sweder Wrote: The only downside I can see to all this is I can't bank any miles on Le Jog. C'est la vie.
Maybe you should challenge EG to a separate LE JOG-esque contest, to see who can bank the most spinning miles?
I've no way to clock spin miles Dan - the Keiser bikes we use are functional but sparsely appointed - no clocks or other fancy gadgets. They do have a saddle at least, but Bridge has us up and out of the saddle pretty much half the time which is tough on the quads.
Clearly the Garmin's no use as it works off one's location/ GPS tracking to measure distance. To be honest I couldn't care less how many miles I rack up on the bike so long as the exercise helps build strength in my legs whilst avoiding injury. So far so good on that front.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(16-02-2010, 01:15 PM)Sweder Wrote: the Keiser bikes we use are functional but sparsely appointed - no clocks or other fancy gadgets.
Yeah, I guess the additional weight of extraneous equipment would slow you down...
Steyning Stinger as a loosener? You're an animal. Training pace or flat out?
Lets be clear; this is the half marathon (2 stings), not the 26.2 (4 stings).
I'm daft but not that daft. Or that fit. Training pace for sure; you can't really do the Stinger flat out in the normal sense; if you do, you'll fall short, literally. I expect Connemara to offer similar topography, albeit on a slightly firmer footing, hence the logic(?) behind the last-minute decision. That said someone recently suggested I bank some mileage over potholes by way of preparation. No shortage of those round here just at the moment ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Happy Ash Wednesday everyone.
For lent this year I shall mostly be giving up rambling, rambunctious, repetitive run reports (and, for that matter, gratiuitous alliteration). Mostly.
Awoke from a steamy ménage à trois with Lady Ga Ga and Lilly Allen to find the sun up and beaming out of a clear blue sky. The morning mist was burning off the downs as I dashed downstairs, pulling on my gear along the way, to catch a fleeting glimpse of the last dancing whisps as they took flight. My nefarious tryst had left me exhausted. Try as I might I couldn't muster a gear change, settling into a casual lumber as the sun kissed my back across the western hills.
Cresting the hill before Blackcap I was drinking in the wonder of the day when a movement up ahead stopped me in my tracks. Trotting easily up the slope, steam rising from their brown velvet backs as they rose from the shadows, came around thirty Exmoor Ponies. They're back! And how apt, just as I'm chugging my way through their homeland on Le Jog
I first encountered these soulful equines last year, enchanted then as now by their soft dark eyes, shimmering flanks and gentle countenance. They're part of a Sussex Pony Grazing and Conservation initiative, and they're most welcome in our hills.
It dawned on me as the tribe trooped slowly past that someone might well have cocked up. The electric fencing that last year kept the horses penned in (they 'thrive on the nutrient-poor herbage which is often unpalatable for modern domesticated breeds of cattle and sheep' which means their chomping needs to be directed towards said unwanted flora) was back in place but this merry band of foragers were on the open hillside, free to roam with impunity across the downs.
5 miles, 46 minutes.
Track du jour: The Boss, Born To Run
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
![[Image: product-69029.jpg]](http://imagesb.ciao.com/iuk/images/products/normal/029/product-69029.jpg)
![[Image: 51K7njshpsL._SL500_AA240_.jpg]](http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51K7njshpsL._SL500_AA240_.jpg)
![[Image: keiserbike.jpg]](http://fitnet.ca/images/pfocus/keiserbike.jpg)
![[Image: Exmoor_ponies.jpg]](http://www.exmoor-holidays.co.uk/images/Exmoor_ponies.jpg)