December 2013

[Sweder]

I stumbled into December like a tipsy Santa, wobbling my way across dew-laden downs under a weak winter sun. My feet kissed the mud, tired legs grateful for the yielding turf. I'd wrapped up as if on an Antarctic adventure, thermal vest, long socks, fingerless gloves. Wholly unnecesarily, as it turned out.

Yesterday lunchtime I completed a thirty-five hour journey from Melbourne via Dubai. The seven hour stop-over in the Duty Free section of DXB was a tour of gaudy excess. All shiny things were there, none you knew you needed, like the solid gold iPhone or the latest Mercedes sportser with its purple and white leather upholstry. Ghastly. Thank heavens for the Jack Daniels bar. I dined on Huevos Rancheros, washed down with several glasses of a most agreeable Pinot Noir from Oregon. The flight to London included a seven hour serenade from a miserable and, sadly, vociferous child. A chorus of restless grunts and angry tuts accompanied this cacophany of woe as the increasingly frantic parents struggled in vain to settle their offspring. It was hard not to imagine airlines installing little airlocks for such occasions.

Mrs S was there to greet me, dropping me off at the Dripping Pan just in time for Lewes Ladies v Gillingham. Unbeaten, top of the league and never behind in a league match this season, the Gills were expected to brush the Rookettes aside. Funny old game, football. Lewes fought like tigresses, closing down, forcing mistakes and taking a shock early lead. They ran out 3-1 winners. Fabulous stuff.

Today's plod covered barely two miles, an easy, welcome-home shuffle. The hounds seemed happy to see me, bounding around as if to show me the sights. Lewes lay in her sleepy vale, shrouded in white mist, waking slowly to another Monday morning.
It's good to be back.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Are you trying to tell us that instead of going straight home after a 35-hour flight, you went instead to a ladies football match? Seriously??

Did Mrs S stop the car before letting you out?

[Sweder]

Did Mrs S stop the car before letting you out?

You kindly omitted 'after a month away'. Yes, just about
Anyway, it was Gillingham at home. Needle match.

[Sweder]

Crisp, nippy, sun-kissed, gorgeous. Three point five leisurely pre-breakfast miles around the sheep field, now happily devoid of the woolly critters. I threw in a mini hill-rep session, mostly because I was enjoying myself and didn't want to head back too soon.

No major ailments to report aside from a low hum in my lower right leg. Not pain, exactly, more the kind of dull, nondscript ache one might feel on waking to find a limb missing.

   

[Sweder]

A test of my resolve today. After a gin-fuelled end to the week I'm up at daybreak on a Sunday, peering out into the bleak mizzle, thinking about a run up the hill. On the radio the limp form of the England cricket team is being eviscerated by ruthless Australia. Barely halfway through the series we're all in, not so much of a whimper of resistance. It's as public and severe a spanking as I've seen in the sport.

Perhaps a muddy trudge is just what I need.

[Sweder]

Well, that was unexpected. My first proper tumble in all these years of off-road running. We'd battled manfully (and dogfully) into a filthy old morning. Grey mizzle, a strong wind out of the south west, thick mud on the bridleways, slick grass in the fields. We ran past Blackcap, skirting the summit to the south, hunched against the rain. Dark shapes loomed out of the murk, thick-set cattle, wide-eyed as we scampered by. The hounds seemed happy enough on the lead, noses thrust straight ahead, no doubt as keen as me to get home.

Running up the north face of the hill we paused at the top, but aside from walls of dense mist there wasn't much to see. Setting off down the slope the turf felt loose under my heavy tread. A section gave way as I landed, my right foot shooting off at an improbable angle. What followed appeared to happen in slow motion. My body rotated, trying to compensate to stop my leg snapping clean off. My left leg slipped and I went onto a full, face-first plummet. Even as my hands braced for impact I thought 'flint!', tucked my head under my bent right arm to land on my right shoulder, rolling into the fall. The rest of me followed as I went down like Ashley Young under a puff of wind. FallUMP.

Moments later I lay still, face down in the mud. I glanced up. The dogs stood a few feet away, bemused. My hands stung but I could see no blood through the caked mud. I cursed softly, grabbing Ripley's lead to start hauling myself back up. A quick check revealed no major damage. I set off once more, eyes glued to the trail, seeking out the grassy clumps that might offer purchase. By the time I reached home my palms were singing, bright white scars glowing against chilled pink flesh.

An hour later I felt shivery, decidedly unwell. Whilst the tumble was down to a lack of focus I was clearly coming down with some kind of lurghie. Today my internal thermometer is up and down like the Assyrian Empire. Bugger.

[Antonio247]

You're glad you fell on soft surface like mud. It could have been much worse.

Get better soon, S.!

[marathondan]

Sounds nasty, glad there's no major damage. Hope you can take it easy for a few days and that the temperature will pass quickly.

[suzieq]

I think your body is telling you to take it easy! You haven't slowed down for ages. It'll make you slow down one way or the other. Glad to hear you didn't do serious damage with the fall.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Well I've got no sympathy... you go galloping through quagmires and bogs in all sorts of foul weather like there's no tomorrow. And you're surprised when you take a tumble? Duh!

Still, do recover soon. We'll miss your writing of said quagmires and bogs and of the quaint frollicking of the bemused hounds.

Chin up ... you idiot.

[Sweder]

Some fair points, well made. I may well be considered an idiot for running in such conditions. I console myself that my rough terrain exploits have, so far at least, steered me clear of bio-mechanical injuries. The risk of the occasional fall on soft mud is, in my book, worth taking if the prize is a robust personal infrastructure. That risk expands, however, when one is the size of a house. I'll need to get back on the fairly straight and incredibly narrow after Christmas.

In truth I was heading for this fall. My body has, as Suzie alluded, had enough. My decline continued as I nursed my woes on the sofa, revisiting Cloud Atlas and Silver Linings Playbook, both intriguing, heart-warming films. But three days on the sick and I couldn't stand it any longer. Blue skies, weak sunshine and an end to the rain-lashed apocalypse drew me out this morning. A modest 2.4 miles at well over nine m/m. I felt pretty good, if tired, pleased to have got round without dining on dirt.

Next up it's Freaky Friday. The (alcohol-free*) office party (in the office, at lunchtime) followed by a tour of Lewes pubs with some of the Lewes FC supporters and staff. Not for the feint hearted.

Season's Greetings to all. I intend to eat and drink too much before crying softly into the mirror and starting a fresh campaign in January. The sadness that this will be the first Boxing Day with no gathering at Mum's is offset by the prospect of plenty of seasonal footie. Come On You Roooooks!

*we all have to work/ drive home afterwards

[Antonio247]

I'm very glad you got better soon, S.

I wish you all peace and happiness at Christmas and my best wishes for the new year.

[Sweder]

A handful of short wobbles to report. Saturday saw a return to Parkrun where, inspired by PR virgin Rob's impressive debut, I completed my 50th event in 23:40. I could feel every festive morsel as I ground my way around the circuit. On the last lap my hamstrings became uncomfortably tight, causing me to ease up. Back home an hour later I slipped out for a second helping, trudging through mud at a pedestrian pace, forcing warm blood through the strained fibres. Happily all seems well.

This morning I'd planned an extended slog across the top. I woke to find wind and rain lashing my bedroom window and instantly abandoned hope. At this stage of proceedings I am but a fair weather runner. Hardly the Dunkirk Spirit from running days of yore, but there it is. Hurry on sundown*, see what tomorrow brings.

*Sic

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

"Fair weather runner"? Really??

I mean, really???

[Sweder]

"Fair weather runner"? Really??

I mean, really???

Today's six-miler may have busted that one wide open.
I've rarely run in such abominable filth.

   

Farewell then, 2013. My annus horribilus was peppered with joy. Running returns to Almeria and Hobart and wonderful events in Glasgow and Orlando saw old friends reunited and new friends well met. And then there's the birth of the mighty Moyleman Marathon. Much to look forward to, much to do.

Happy New Year, runners and riders.
On, on.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

That's more like the Sweder we know!

[Antonio247]

All the best for the new year.

Happy New Year, everybody! ¡Feliz año nuevo a todos!