March musings to appear here.
General running goals:
Deliver a successful Moyleman 2016
Set up an epic Medio Marathon de Almeria 2017
Run more offroad routes
Number one goal: enjoy my running
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A good pub run session with Lewes AC tonight.
Met at the Snowdrop Inn at 7pm, joined the intermediate group (I can't see me ever going out with the 'quicks'). Our meander up through the gentler slopes of the town took us past
The Snowdrop
The Dorset Arms
The Gardners Arms
The John Harvey Tavern
Harveys Brewery
The Volunteer
The Lamb
The Lewes Arms
The Rights Of Man
The Two Brewers
The Pelham Arms
The Black Horse
After that we took the climb up to Chez Sweder before dropping down through the Nevill and Landport Estates, back along the river and, finally, back to the Snowdrop Inn. 7.8 kilometers in 52 minutes and change. A Pub Run indeed.
I rehydrated with Burning Sky Saison and a pint of Arise, whilst chatting to various Lewes AC liuminaries including club Chairman Peter Masters. We talked at length about Tom Mantell, a man who put Lewes Athletics on the map in the late 1800's. Here's young Tom with a few of his running trophies.
Not only was (Mantell) an outstanding athlete, he was the driving force behind the establishment of the first Lewes athletic club in the 1880s. He was born in Lewes and lived at 161 High Street. He was the great nephew of Gideon Mantell, the well known surgeon and geologist. Known as the Countryman, Tom Mantell competed in and won running events in London and the surrounding area as well as in Sussex.
Masters told me all about his own history with Lewes AC, and his involvement in local building developments, including the purchase and renovation of the YHA facility at Southease. 'We built the wooden bridge that crosses the A26' he enthused. 'That cost a million pounds.' I thanked him profously, not least on behalf of all Moyleman runners, who not only enjoy the shelter and amenities at that YHA facility - our halfway point - but also the convenience of the bridge that marks the start of the second half of the race, the evil climb up Itford Hill onto Firle Beacon proper.
I rather like these monthly Pub Runs. On, on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I love how, having run up past the castle, the pace chart has seen fit to outline, err, a castle. Very cool.
John took us from the bottom of the town to the very top via a series of 'less steep' inclines. In fairness, very few of them were leg-busters. I put the hammer down with just over a klick to go, the tantalising waft of Burning Sky in my nostrils. I was quite surprised at my sustained turn of speed. I fell good, pounding across the wet tarmac. Those Twitten Runs may just be paying dividends.
The elevation map shows the gradual ascent before what was, in truth, a fairly ugly plummet through a series of dark passages and down steep flights of steps. The flat road home was good for a nice steady run in, though. All in all a good route, one I'll revisit.
Our timing was impressive. As I steamed in to Snowdrop Inn station, the improvers group approached from the Cliffe end, all suitably ruddy-cheeked and ready for beer. Even as I sucked cold night air, hands on knees, the Quicks pulled in, Tall Simon amongst them. We'd all taken very different routes, yet our leaders had conspired to ensure there would be a queue at the bar. I cottoned on and slipped inside, waving a slightly soggy tenner at the barman.
Lovely drop, that Burning Sky Saison.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I have to say Sweder, impressive though that all is, what happened to that classic RC beer and world-renowned training food, Guinness? It barely rates a mention these days!
Though, of course, I am as guilty as anyone else in that regard. Must put that right.
Honest answer? The stuff we get is gas-driven mediocrity compared with the nectar from the Emerald Isle.
That, and there are simply now so many better beers out there. The craft beer revolution is in full effect here. Within a short plod of my doorstep I have the following independent brewers:
Harveys, Burning Sky, Bedlam, Gunn and Longman. Dark Star isn't too far off and plenty of local pubs are delivering guest ales every week.
An hour away (by train) in London there's Meantime, Signature and many, many others I've yet to taste.
Same story in many cities; Vancouver has a terrific selection of IPAs, San Diego, too. You lot have Coopers and Little Creatures (and many more besides).
These beers are lively, sharp and tasty. Burning Sky have at least four ales I'd say knock Guinness into a cocked hat.
*pauses, takes stock*
So much to do, so little time.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(02-03-2016, 09:58 PM)Sweder Wrote: So much to do, so little time.
Yes indeed, a lovely prospect. And I agree about the world of fantastic craft beers etc. But I was discussing training food. There is something restorative and performance-enhancing about the old black magic, isn't there?
Still, as you say,we don't have much time in the face of a world of fine ales.
I think the restorative/ carb-rich properties of Guinness have been expertly massaged via a compelling series of ad campaigns over the decades. Beer is a great/ tasty rehydration tool/ reward for sweaty effort, but it doesn't really play much part in pre-run strategy, other than for Dutch Courage.
Speaking of beer, the Lewes FC Beer Festival starts tomorrow. We've cheekily adapted one of those fabled ads for our promotion posters ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
An ill-advised outing today. Keen to test out my brand spanking new Adidas Terrex all-terrain boots, I set the alarm for silly o'clock. A cloud bank to make RBS look like a corner shop was rolling away to the east, leaving the sky clear and the ground soggy as a soiled nappy. So, out the door I went.
A mile in I knew I'd messed up. Not only was the topsoil as loose as Phil Jones's marking, my body was sending strange signals. late in the day I realised I'd been harbouring some foul germs, but with the sun struggling into the sky and dogs to chase I slip-slid on.
Running through the woodland, hurdling giant roots, ducking homicidal branches and trying not to go arse over tit, I felt like a contestant in the BBC's new Prime Time Saturday Night game-show, The Getaway Car. In a strange mash-up between Top Gear (the finale even features The Stig) and It's A Knockout, couples drive small cars over impossible obstacle courses. Inevitably they crash, causing much mirth and leg-pulling by the show's genial host, Dermot O'Leary. In my pre-man-Flu funk, though, all I could hear in my head as I cavorted around the latest set of lethal obstacles, was the maniacal cackle of IAK host, doyenne the BBC's Sports Report and, most recently, convicted paedophile, Stuart Hall.
I did my best to stay upright, cursing myself for not being more careful with my pre-flight checks. My breathing was shallow and fragile, lungs ready to burst into a painful, hacking cough at any moment. My bones ached (they ache still, several hours afterwards and in spite of a fabulously hot shower). It was cold, the ground was more slippery than Donald Trump on a polygraph and I wanted it all to just stop.
I pulled into my driveway a shaking shell of a man. I also found out that my shiny new boots are not waterproof. What use is a porous trail shoe? Not that it matters, I'm used to copping a boot-full on these outings. But still, come on, Adidas, sort yourselves out. These things ain't cheap, y'know.
Thanks goodness it's the 4th Annual Lewes FC Beer Festival tonight. At last, a chance to drown these germs once and for all.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Germs obliterated by THE most delicious Island Records Jamaica Porter. Rum and coconut notes, dark as midnight, thick as molasses. I tried any number of IPAs at last night's 4th Annual Lewes FC Beer Festival but I kept coming back to this Island beauty from the good people at Bison Beer. A close second was, unsurprisingly, Burning Sky's magnificent Saison L'Hiver, an homage to classic cloudy Belgian brews. The fine bubbles and sharp fruit tang lit up my taste buds.
Parkrun was a bit of a blur this morning. Having woken at 3.30 am on the sofa, snuggled up to lurcher who could not believe his luck, I snatched a couple of hours in bed before heading out into the crisp cold air. 28 minutes and change for the two loops is OK by me. Rory, Phoebe's other half, joined me, finishing 8th in a creditable 24 minutes. Well played young man.
Twittens tomorrow but first another evening of revelry as we celebrate our youngest's 21st at the Pelham Arms. There will be beer. Again.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Another long night in a pub, another restorative short-range blast, this time with the Twitten Runners. My word, there's nothing like twelve consecutive lung-crushing hill-sprints to blow the cobwebs away. Happily, Arch Duncan (not of this Parrish) joined us. Arch Duncan is a lapsed ex-smoker who struggles as much with his inner demons as he does with the hills. All this internal wrestling affords those of us putting the effort in to catch a breather at each summit. I was immensely grateful to him this morning, as I was for the absence of Mr Cat, for I was able to lead the group at a comparatively leisurely pace.
I've been following the shenanigans in the US Primaries with morbid fascination. Just last week a journalist recorded a range of Vox Pops amongst Donald Trump's supporters. He read what they assumed to be quotes from Mr Drumpf (his actual family name, according to the brilliant John Oliver - see clip below) and recorded their apparently supportive reactions. The quotes were from one Adolf Hitler. This is rather like shooting fish in a barrel, given that so many Americans seem quite happy to see this monstrous asshole in the most powerful seat in the western world, but it serves a purpose in reminding us that you can not only put lipstick on a pig, you can brush up a bug-eyed fruit-loop with homicidal tendencies to appear electable.
Whilst we here in the UK point and snigger, we would do well to reflect on the state of our own leaders. Our Prime Minister, for example, attended an institution where performing a sex act with a severed pig's head is considered normal. A good many of his colleagues and a fair slice of the so-called opposition attended the same or similar institutions, and his likely successor plays Boris the Clown to such effect that many British voters think of him as a national treasure rather than a Very Dangerous Man. People in glass houses, and all that.
Last night we celebrated our youngest's 21st in the Pelham Arms. Thinking of absent friends, I was given pause to reflect on something I wrote about a while back. It has to do with how we measure our wealth. My 'Dad's speech' was short, much to the relief of the fifty or so gathered, swaying, good-natured heckling subsiding as I sought to pull the words out of the surrounding warmth.
Those of us lucky enough to have children want many things for our progeny. Health, success, happiness. What struck me last night, as I watched my son move easily amongst the throng, chatting to undergraduate dancers and tipsy grannies, is that we want them to become people that others want to be with. Both my children have turned out to be people I love to spend my time with, and, if our recent holidays are a barometer, who enjoy the company of their parents. I'm eternally grateful for this, and I said so to those faces beaming out of the soft-lit room. We raised our glasses, hugs were exchanged and we drank on into the night.
Some fondle their money, others polish their sports cars, watch their stocks rise and fall, peruse their portfolios. I prefer to count my personal wealth in friends. In this regard I am surely amongst the wealthiest of men, and I count you all amongst my treasures.
Fear not. Normal grouchy service will be resumed before you know it.
Carry on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(06-03-2016, 12:46 PM)Sweder Wrote: ...I prefer to count my personal wealth in friends. In this regard I am surely amongst the wealthiest of men, and I count you all amongst my treasures.
Fear not. Normal grouchy service will be resumed before you know it.
Just as well, OM, I'm crying into my beer right now.
One of those grubby little 40-minute filler runs tonight, post-work, pre-trip to Upton Park to watch West Ham United take on Spurs in one of the last matches at that iconic old ground. West Ham move to Stratford, to the Olympic Stadium, in the summer. They will rattle around inside that colosseum like a fart in a colander. So be it.
Last time I stood inside the Boleyn ground I watched Georgie Best score in a 2-1 win. Tonight the Hammers triumphed, the ladies echoing their male counterparts' 1-0 victory over their natural foe, a Katie Bottom penalty providing the Iron Maidens a glorious sunset into which to ride off.
No such backdrop for my run, sadly. Iron rainclouds meshed low across gloomy skies, heralding the arrival of a day of rain tomorrow. Unwanted, what with the Moyleman but five sleeps away. The trails are still tacky. Any amount of water will return them to porridge, though the forecast is better from Thursday on.
I chugged slowly, still tired after three consecutive running days, fairly certain that my body favours the every-other-day routine. After a couple of kilometres climbing the flinty slopes towards Blackcap I loosened up a touch, hitting a nice pace on the run home. I paused to snap the shot that Dan admired last week, only this time the purple hues were more smudged charcoal.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(11-03-2016, 10:32 PM)Bierzo Baggie Wrote: Have a good Moyleman on Sunday Sweder!
Hope everything goes smoothly ... what is more exhausting, organizing it or running it?
One of our organising committee is doing both! Madness.
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