May has arrived, breathless, wet and windswept, a bedraggled apology for a month. The Bluebells are out but they're shivering in their delicate jackets as the wettest drought in living memory continues.
I've managed a few gentle outings since my exploits as the Man in Black. Nothing longer than four miles, leg-spinners if you will, easy lopes to push warm blood through torn muscle, flooding battered flesh with natures Nanobots. Today's ninety minute power-walk with Julie, Cam, MSilv and Dave, through the soggy, blue-carpeted forests of Stanmer Park, completed a hat-trick of consecutive outings. My legs have regained much of their spring, such as it ever was. Thoughts are turning to the next race, a welcome return to the delightfully hilly Seaford Half in early June. Tom Roper has suggested a foaming pint of Harveys, with a side order of endorphin-fuelled banter, at his sailing club after my post-race ocean dip. I can't wait.
Peering into the future through the persistent mizzle, clinging like an unwanted drunkard to the hunched shoulders of the surrounding hills, I'd like to take on a big offroad challenge soon. The obvious choices are the Jog Shop Jog, twenty miles of unforgiving undulation through the East Brighton hills, or perhaps Beachy Head, or the Seven Sisters if you will. As ever pressures of work will dictate what's possible. With both races in October I can ramp up the training and hope to hit one or the other.
On, on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A couple of gentle waggles across the hills this week. Everything sags under the weight of ceaseless rain, yet nature keeps calm and carries on with Spring. Skylarks, the original Twitterers, dash and flutter above the lengthening wild grass. Rabbits abound, the youngest marshalled to safety by the wiley old lags as my leggy hounds approach. Rooks circle and caw, their mocking tone a harsh critique of my languid style.
I'm hoping to hit a slightly longer run on Sunday. It'll be an easy affair, nothing over ten miles, a test of the continued healing process. Ideally I'd like to cover Old Snakey a couple of times before Seaford. Sadly, once again, work will jam a stick into that particular planning wheel. A return to Geneva beckons, though I'll not be staying at the Overlook Hotel this time.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Little to report. No, that's not true. There's NOTHING to report, as I've not so much as lifted my running shoes out of my suitcase. The wheels are well and truly off at the moment, my agreement to partake in the Seaford Half in two weeks alongside the mighty Tom Roper seems overly ambitious.
I am enjoying the sights and sounds of Geneva, and of Ferney Voltaire, where I've made my camp. No Overlook nightmares this time. I'll write a bit about a couple of evenings in particular when I can. Some interesting audioboos to come, too, featuring a local jazz ensemble that plucks musicians out of the audience. Fabuolous.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
No problem. Hop over here and deal with these 200-odd shipments for me and I'll get right to it
Besides, my good friend Mr Tom Roper reminded me only yesterday I don't need to train like a maniac to enjoy the Seaford Half. I can take it easy and let the tow path rise to meet me. Wise counsel from La Roper.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
You're very kind. You need have no fears. From an imagined conversation at the breakfast table at Chateau Sweder:
Mrs S: Morning, dear. Doing anything nice today?
S: I thought I might run, with no preparation, an ultra in the far west of Ireland, where the Atlantic breaks ceaselessly on the rocks, as relentless as the banshee's howl, and the mist hangs all day on mountain and valley
Mrs S: That's nice dear. Don't be late for supper
χαιρέτε νικὠμεν
Next race(s):
In the lap of the gods
Similarly this last November from the Sweder breakfast table:
Mrs S: Much planned today, dear? Sweder: I thought I might run up an antipodean mountain, through lush primal rainforest and then onto alpine moors and into the teeth of a nightmarish Antarctic blizzard. Mrs S: That's nice dear. Don't drink too much Guinness.
Following a week of untrammelled sloth, including a two-day golf tour in Berkshire with the Mighty Plodder, I returned to the hills last night.
I'm always slightly nervous about 'getting back out there' after a lay-off. I needn't have worried. The cool kiss of evening landed on my legs even as my wobbly upper half warmed in the muggy, higher air. I love the contrast of these moments. Heavy, creamy warmth clings to the last of the day as cool night creeps in through the shadows, sweet relief dancing around your ankles. Nature's Guinness.
My funk of the past few days, a combination of post-marathon blues and a heavy workload, flowed out of me on a tide of perspiration. To the south sat Kingston Ridge and the Big W, hillside folds casting deep shadows against the fading sun, summit draped in a thick mist duvet, a miniature homage to Table Mountain's great, tumbling cloud cap. Below me the town stretched out, accepting nightfall with sleepy good grace. Ripley and Murphy swished and swooped through whippy, waist-high grass in a high-speed game of Blind Dog tag. They'd have happily stayed out all night, and I might have too had a juicy sirloin steak not called my name across the gentle breeze.
As if I didn't know already, running is the answer.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
![[Image: determined.jpg]](http://www.sandarac.com.au/misc/determined.jpg)
