No, I haven't hitched a ride in the (almost) new TARDIS to report on this future event; rather I decided to post this heading in my diary to establish in my mind (and publicly affirm) my commitment to this event.
No training runs yet this week, although I managed 18 holes of extremely pleasant golf at Hever Castle today with the Mayfield Golfing Society.
Cross training anyone?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Time of day: 09:00
Location: Brighton to Saltdean clifftop round trip
Distance: 8 miles (12k)
Duration: 01:08:55
Conditions: Sunny, light breeze, damp underfoot
Id arranged to meet SP for a post FLM plod along the cliffs, but a belated call late on Saturday indicated that Mr Plodder might have invested a little too heavily in moonshine to make the early morning rendezvous.
The Sunday group chatter post London had been about taking a couple of weeks off, so it was little surprise I found myself alone above Brighton Marina this Sunday morning. The drive across the downs had been shrouded in fog, the heavy mist cloaking my old hunting grounds. As I approached the seafront the skies cleared and the first signs of a lovely spring day formed above the shore.
Despite my solo midweek sessions I prefer companionship on runs. This morning I took Williow, our yearling Cocker Spaniel, on what was to prove an interesting and educational journey. I had concerns about the twin perils of dual carriageway and cliff-edge that would accompany us out and back along this four-mile stretch. There was no way I could bring the long dogs on this run first sniff of a rabbit and all reason departs with the speed of a whippet in full flight, and its all pile-ups and nasty smears on the tarmac from there on in. I had reason to expect better from Willow, yet I knew this would be a test for both of us.
Willow, an endless source of energy and inquisition, appeared hell bent on testing my nerve for the first two miles, darting from roadside bush to cliff-top fence as I loped along. The option of keeping her on a lead was a last resort I wanted us both to enjoy the liberty of running un-tethered this morning. The idea of being pulled from pillar to post over 8 undulating miles was about as appealing as the prospect of Willow spending an hour choking against the lead in a perpetual bid for freedom. So I sucked up the stress and, with regular, alternating cries of NO! and good girl . . . we traversed the springy cliff-top turf, the sparkling sea to our right, hazy hills to the left.
This route is basically the good Good Friday Friday run. Despite the threat of imminent canine peril my running was relaxed, comfortable; no times to beat today, no fellow runners to keep up with, just a fabulous, warm day to enjoy. We reached the turn in a little under 36 minutes, comfortable pace for both, having developed a basic understanding; I wouldnt shout like a hysterical loon, and she wouldnt dice with death at regular intervals. A brief stop at the Wire to appreciate the sea view (and cool down a touch; it had become quite warm by now) and we set off for home.
Occasionally runners exchanged Shearers as we strode West, the quickening, cooling breeze nudging my right shoulder. Willow maintained a steady pace, albeit in her unique, rag-doll style, pre-Raphaelite ears flopping comically as she bounced along. I settled into a smooth rhythm, performing regular systems checks as I ran. Groin comfortable, hips OK, knees a little sore, hamstrings could use a stretch, shins and ankles quiet. It seems the six days rest had allowed my nanobots to get a lot of work done on the traumatised muscles and ligaments battered on the hard London streets last weekend.
The marina hove into view, white yacht sails gleaming in the bright sunshine, steel and glass structures winking reflective semaphore to the circling gulls. Id started the gentle descent from Roedean café when I realised Id not seen Willow weaving in front of me for a while. I glanced to my right, and there she was, belly flat to the ground, ears pinned back breaking the Spaniel sound barrier . . . in the nearside lane of the dual carriageway.
Cue hysteria. Images of mashed pulp covered in sticky black hair sprang to mind and that just what Id look like after Missus S got hold of me if anything happened to her dog. Happily Willow elected to rejoin me on the grass before my heart blocked my windpipe, and we finished together, panting, wild-eyed and very, very hot.
On arrival home Mrs S asked how it had gone.
Oh, you know, fine.
No problems with Willow?
Not really a bit lax on the road sense, but otherwise OK.
Little white lies, perhaps, but a lesson well learned.
Next time Ill pester SP a little harder hes a lot less trouble.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Time of day: 19:00 hours
Route: Lewes/ Black Cap round trip
Distance: 5 miles
Duration: 40:48
Conditions: Cool, dry, breezy
A quick run, and a quick report.
Just fancied an evening blast out on the downs tonight. I've missed my hill runs, and I felt the need to push my legs through some hard work to see how they're healing. I'm pleased with the result.
The outbound (mostly uphill) section flew by. I ran aggressively without busting a gut, and turned in 22:04, comfortably my fastest time through this section. The return home was slightly less driven, but 20:44 rates pretty highly against previous efforts so I was pleased to feel fresh and energised at the finish. More than can be said for the dogs, who have not moved, other than to snaffle some grub, since we got back 5 hours ago
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Following my FLM exertions I had booked in with my Mayfield Golfing Society pals for a trip to Southern Ireland. This was by way of self-congratulation, R&R (rest & recuperation, or rack n ruin as its known in the forces) and a general letting down of the little hair I have left after a pretty hectic Spring schedule.
I packed my running shoes in the expectation of finding green fields and rolling hills through which I could plod should the mood take me. I did so in the knowledge that this would be a serious Guinness drinking expedition tinged with occasional golf, but still looked to the old Baden Powell maxim: Be Prepared.
Arriving via the Red Eye from Gatwick to Cork we had taken on a full Irish breakfast followed by 18 holes of leisurely golf at the Water Rock Golf Club. Avoiding what appeared to be certain precipitation we sank a few local brews and moved on to our digs in Macroom. Macroom, I must tell you, is a gem of a town; wedged firmly in the 1950s, adorned with any number of peculiar shops and hostelries, the latter cunningly disguised as curio shops, general stores, or, more frequently, someone's living room. Our hotel, The Castle, proved well appointed, blessed with a decent bar/ restaurant, of which we took full advantage.
The evening slipped surreptitiously into night and a few brave souls ventured into the town, concerned that the quality of the Guinness might be variable. Testing proved inconclusive, though it is fair to say a great deal of effort was put in by certain parties to complete a thorough examination.
continued . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Cutting to the chase (the meat of that evening is to be served on the MGS website after careful consideration by my legal team), I awoke at six on Saturday morning a little disoriented. My room-mate, our Society Captain, lay as if pole-axed a-top his bedding, pale and as near death in appearance as any man I've seen. With a silent prayer I felt my way to the bathroom. A dull throbbing started in the depths of my skull and grew steadily, like Aslan's song in The Magician's Nephew. This was no enchanted tune to bring forth a new land, however; this was the rhythmic beat of the Hangover Drum, and it's intensity threatened to drown all else if no measure were taken against it. What to do? Bereft of pharmaceutical deliverance I did the only thing I could in such circumstances; I pulled on my running shoes.
Following a difficult moment where my laces seemed to have sprung to independent, serpent-like life, I followed the shoes (in appropriate order, I felt) with shorts and running vest. A final glance at the near-corpse in the next bed convinced me, and I was out the door, through the maze of corridors and into Macrooms' main street.
A blanket of perfect Irish Mizzle (mist & drizzle) greeted me, the ultimate humidity for the Northern Hemisphere. Droplets of water appeared to drift around nomadically looking for a place to settle. Despite a lack of morning sun the temperature, so far as I could tell, was pleasant enough. I glanced left then right. Which way to go? I vaguely recalled seeing the river Lee on a map of the Town and elected to head right, for the street descended in this direction and even in this state I realised that any river was likely to be below rather than above my present location.
I started to jog. This a liberal use of the term. Im mostly focused on avoiding the perils of curbs, slippery paving slabs, lamp-posts, manhole covers and any other contraption waiting to trip or slip me up. I made the bridge and wondered at the impressive breadth of the waterway beneath. On the far bank I could make out an ornate building set in what appeared to be an array of small, well-kept gardens. This turned out to be the Pitch & Putt Clubhouse (you heard right). Further inspection revealed a riverside path, and I resolved to find a route down to the loose gravel track that would become the start of my run proper.
The haze in my head lifted in equal measure to the improvement in light as, somewhere high above the grey shroud of mist and cloud over Macroom, the sun's rays struggled to reach me. I set off along the towpath, river to my left, head down, in a sort of lope-shuffle. The drummers in my head were picking up the beat nicely, although they showed little sign of quitting as yet. About a half mile in it occurred to me that I might meet a dead end at any moment. Undeterred I ploughed on, resigned to keeping this journey as short as the fates would allow.
The track lead on, past the end of the impressive pitch & putt and on alongside playing fields. I wondered at the nature of the sport to be played here later today, and decided it was probably Gaelic Football or Hurling, one of the most brutal sports known to man and one I would become closely acquainted with later in the trip. And on, where the path began to lose definition as mud and grass invaded its parameters. I slipped and slid along, taking care not to divert into a minor inlet and plunge headlong into the crystal clear, yet undoubtedly freezing, clutches of the Lee.
Into a new housing development and it was here I was forced inland, taking a small climb in my slightly lengthening stride and running along a raised embankment some 30 yards away from the river. And down again to my path as it re-appeared, into and under thick brush, past a barbed wire fence . . . and I stopped. I had reached a peninsular of boggy land. To my left, the main river, her waters rambling past, small patches of white water signalling the presence of a protrusion of rock or tree limb. Ahead, a small stream, water flowing at a fair pace, set with a series of stepping stones, the top face of each stone just beneath the surface. To my right dense trees and more barbed wire; the only way is forward, or this journey has run its course. Despite the constant banging in my head I wanted to continue, if for no other reason that to explore this beautiful landscape. Oh yes, and to continue to exude Guinness from every pore in the vain hope that I might be able to swing a golf club later in the day.
I stared at the stones before me. They were obviously there to be used, their careful configuration without doubt man-made. Yet they were a little deep in the water which was continuing to join the larger body at an impressive and alarming pace. Come on, I said to myself. If you go in, you go in – at least it’ll wake you up.’
I looked beyond the far bank, blinked and took a wider view.
The stone steps lead across a stream to an open area of lush green grass, into which was cut an impressive golf green flanked by serious bunkers. Panning out yet further I saw a tee box leading to a long par three, and a path between the green and tee leading to a considerable arched iron bridge spanning the main river. Looking left, across the Lee, I saw the most wonderful golf course laid out on the far bank. A variety of mature trees waved gently in the morning breeze, their branches reflected in a series of ponds. Jackdaws and magpies swooped across the close-mown fairways where wild rabbits breakfasted on the glistening damp grass. I drew in a chestful of cold, clean air and wondered at the fog in my head that had prevented me from glimpsing this nirvana before now; for it was obviously the Macroom Golf Club, and I knew the course ran along the Lee for some distance.
I had to get over there. Hop skip, slip and finally jump, and I was on the putting surface of the first green I’d spied. I looked across the river, seeing that the approach shot to this first green would be a corker, and chuckled to myself. We were scheduled to play here on Sunday and the lads would certainly enjoy that little challenge. I set off around the edge of the green to the bridge, pausing in the centre to enjoy the view down the Lee. A weir roared some 100 yards away, a white band across the water confirming the source of the sound. Looking down I could truly appreciate the clarity of the water; I only wished I could achieve the same condition in my head.
On again, the dry stone wall marking the boundary of the course on my right, the sweeping fairways and thick, clinging rough to my left. Beyond the wall unkempt fields bordered by dense woodland accompanied the Lee on her Westward meander to the coast. Up alongside the steady incline of the 17th fairway to the cusp of the equipment sheds where I Shearered a greens-keeper as he prepared his Gator 6-wheeler for the days’ tasks. Through a gap in the drystone wall and left onto the main arterial road that runs above and alongside the back 9. I gazed at a large rabbit not 20 paces away, hunkered down in the rough, nose twitching as he munched contentedly on the rain-laden greenery. Past the tall pines that shield the front 9 above and to my right; past the dark green clubhouse, festooned with neatly arranged trolleys and dormant buggies awaiting the arrival of the first of Macrooms’ finest day-time swingers.
My pace had settled into something respectable, the throbbing in my temples receded to a gentle hum. For the first time since prying open my bloodshot eyes that morning I felt alive and, greedily gulping another lungful of unsullied country air, I kicked for home.
As I reached the end of the golf course the trees closed in along both sides of the roadway. The previously flat surface rose to greet my plodding plates, and I set myself for the steady incline back up to the town. I managed an audible laugh as I rounded the turn from the entrance to the course and spotted the Castle gateway, a stone archway leading into the main town square. The scene looked set for the finish of a race, the finish line being beneath the ancient arch, and I sprinted through in a parody of the great Roger Bannister – I must’ve looked about as knackered as he after his 4 minute mile, too, as I drew a number of worried glances from early rising locals bustling about their morning chores.
Recovered and now happily headache-free I loped gently back along the high street. Past Penns Nightclub, where many a Mayfield Golfer would dent their reputations in the nights to come; past Murphy’s Bistro, home of one of the finest fillet steaks I’ve ever had the good fortune to be served; past Goldens, the pub that looks like an antique shop, complete with an abridged version of Mein Kampf and a Russian Doll set of 20th Century Dictators sitting innocently in the window, and to the only shop open at this hour; the newsagents.
Walking in I noticed who I presumed to be the proprietor, a lady of middle age, bent over the newspapers, sorting and marking for her regulars. ‘Good morning’ I offered as she stood upright, adjusting her glasses in the gloom. ‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed, her gaze drawn to my pale, mud-splattered and mostly naked sparrow’s legs. ‘In all moy terty years in dis business Oiv never seen the loikes o' dat!’ And with that she returned to her paper marking, her head shaking gently from side to side.
Approximately 4 miles, part off-road, part gravel track, somewhere between 30 and 40 minutes.
The best hangover cure I’ve ever tried.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Excellent reporting, Sweder. Clearly, neither break nor Guinness has diminished your eye for detail.
Perhaps it will help to clear my own path to finishing my Hamburg report. I've been stuck at 10km for about 5 days now. A surfeit of beer and football, often in tandem, has proved a crippling enemy to the muse.
I'll crack on while I can still remember something about it.
Anyway, thanks for the great write-up.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Following yet another days golf (at the excellent Bantry Bay) and the required nocturnal tour of Macrooms hostelries, I was rudely awakened at an ungodly hour by an insistent tapping at the door.
Good grief, what time is it?
My addled brain stirred, a leg fell off the bed, my weary carcass slithering behind it. Barely wrapped in a towel I opened the door. Had I a modicum of reflex to call upon I would surely have recoiled in horror; as it was, I stared perplexed at the vision before me.
'We did say 8 oclock?' queried a clearly wide-awake SP, adorned in last years JDRF Team 2005 jade T-shirt. Oh God.
The memory of a foolish arrangement swam up through the murk; Guinness, lots of it, a dark corner of a busy neighbourhood bar; loud music, defiant declarations of early morning sporting endeavour. Bravado, bluster and macho posturing. And the swine had remembered.
'Tom coming?' he grinned, enjoying the mixture of confusion and horror playing across my pallid features. I turned in time to see a vision of our Captain, Tim (known for reasons to remain untold for now as Tom), rising, slowly, from the remains of his bed. We groaned in unison.
'Outside, 5 minutes', I managed.
As I stumbled through clusters of golfing and evening attire strewn Ermin-like around the room, my memory cells began to warm, like the valves in an early television set. Riding on the crest of a half-decent round at Bantry Bay, fuelled by drink, I'd extolled the virtues of tackling a woolly head with an early morning run.
A little more than 5 minutes later I staggered into the main street of Macroom, blinking in the harsh daylight. The road and pavements glistened with last nights rain. We had established early in our tour that it is a legal requirement for rain to fall overnight in Ireland. Once this fact is accepted one can find solace in dampness; all is right with the world, provided that world is ever so slightly soggy. SP was across the street, signalling with an enthusiasm that would at this point have caused me to fall over, and was, by any yardstick, indecent.
'You have to see this!' he called. I trotted across the road, the crisp morning air doing its best to clear my head. We strolled along until SP stopped, turning to face a shop window above which a squeaky sign announced Macroom Antiques. SP said nothing, holding out his arms in presentation towards the central window display, a large oil painting depicting a rural scene. I tried to focus. I tried again. Hmmm . . . somethings wrong with this picture . . . it was absolutely awful.
'If your 5 year old brought that back from school youd slap him and tell him to try again', grinned the Plodder.
He was right.
At this point a small commotion announced the arrival of Tim (Tom) through the hotel doors and into the Macroom morning. Resplendent in trackie bottoms and jacket, our glorious leader wore an MP3 player the size of a small house-brick, hung from his neck like techno-bling. For the love of God . . .
Pleasantries (grunts) exchanged, we established that I had worked out a route the day before. I felt it right to make clear that part of our journey would be off-road. I point this out because, in fairness, my two companions are devout treaders of the pavement and have shunned the ways of the hill runner. They seemed unperturbed and ready to continue.
'Right it's that way, down the hill, across the bridge and left behind the shops to the river path - '
No sooner had the words left my lips than Tim, already bouncing on his toes, cried out in the sort of pitch and volume that only a person with extremely loud music blasting through their earphones can attain; 'RIGHT LETS GO!' - and he was off. SP and I set off in hot pursuit, but even with a block start I'd never have caught the Captain.
'Bloody hell!! He wont last five minutes at that pace.' SP was right.
Tim's form disappeared over the cobbled horizon, racing off towards the bridge. What we couldnt know, of course, is that Tim had no intention of sprinting the first 200 yards. In his eagerness to start he'd turned sharply and stumbled down a small set of slippery steps. The wonderous power of momentum, Tim's not inconsiderable mass allied with the forces of gravity and the steeply declining path, ensured unstoppable acceleration. Attempts to slow down would have been futile and, quite possibly, painful.
SP and I jogged on behind, bewildered. Finally we established order, with me leading (I was supposed to know the way), followed by SP and a rapidly fading Tim/ Tom. Half a mile along the towpath and SP pulled alongside. 'I think wed better slow up' he suggested. I glanced back. Tim, his pale visage transformed into a worrying puce, laboured behind. We slowed, then walked. After a minute or so our Captain joined us.
'A bit of hill-work ahead', I announced, with no small measure of mischief. We scrambled up a sodden, weed-infested embankment and into the housing development. Back down another slope and onto the muddy track that only I knew would lead to the open expanse of Macroom Golf Course. 'Bloody hell' (Tim/ Tom), 'It's a bit muddy!'
'Ouch!' (SP) Ive cut my finger! A bold yet ultimately foolhardy attempt at a slingshot around a fencepost would provide SP with the perfect excuse for every duffed shot for the next two days : a nasty barbed-wire cut.
We reached a triangle of trees and thick rough, the intersection of flowing river and babbling stream. I paused at the stepping stones I'd found the previous morning. 'You sure?' asked SP. 'No worries' I growled, and leapt across the rocks to open ground. SP followed, but Tim remained poised on the far bank, a Wildebeest wary of waiting predators. Or not. 'You've got to be ****ing kidding me!'
'Come on you big tart' I called. Its quite something to watch a man of substantial construction tiptoe across a stream as if it were held a mile above a perilous gorge. Indiana Jones this wasnt.
Safely reunited on the edge of the 12th green we set off across the iron bridge. The late® start meant that most of the natural inhabitants of the course had dined and retired to the safety of their burrows/ nests. Wise council, as a small army of Sunday hackers had already broken camp and were marching steadfastly toward their morning battleground. Still, the fairways and surrounding drapery offered a fabulous backdrop as we chugged up the gravel path inclined towards the road to town. As we reached the final ascent that would lead back to the ancient archway my legs finally found new life, and I pushed hard toward the finish. SP kicked on behind me, looking remarkably fresh, whilst Tim maintained a pace one could safely describe as steady.
We entered the town square as a coach-load of American tourists filmed and photographed the morning scene. No doubt on a whistle stop tour of Europe hey, I cant wait for dinner in Paris these time-travellers, well wrapped in Burberry overcoats and the occasional deer-stalker, filled the air with appreciation of the Town That Time Forgot, delivered in a variety of drawls and nasal East Coast twangs.
Once again exercise had worked it's magic; I felt energised, and hungry. A full Irish breakfast awaited, and we set off for the hotel with renewed vigour and a healthy enthusiasm for more golf and gourmet guzzling .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Following self-assessment and conclusion that current lethargy due in part to lack of running I decided to take in 5 easy miles this morning. A little pushed for time I had a meeting scheduled in London that required a timely departure I rounded up the hounds, stuffed my radio in one pocket, mobile in the other and set off onto the downs towards Black Cap.
At the foot of the 2 ½ mile ascent I paused to sort out the headphones, tune the radio and set the stopwatch feature on the phone. At this point a maintenance vehicle from the local council appeared behind me and proceeded to meander slowly along the rough track, obviously destined for the water station located just behind the houses. Distracted I dropped the phone into my shorts pocket (rather than zipping it into my water bottle belt) and set off after the dogs. The bouncing phone in my left pocket offset the bouncing radio on the right, and I made steady progress across the sheep field towards the riding stables.
The morning was a beauty, strong sunshine in a clear blue sky, occasional high white clouds still distant. Id planned on 5 miles, but a combination of time pressures and concern at my somewhat laboured breathing early in the run dictated I should cut this one short. I decided to turn before the final ascent to Black Cap, a repeat of my last pre-London run.
The maintenance truck pulled in as expected at the water station, and I chugged onwards. I shouldnt have been surprised at my lack of pace Ireland aside this was only my third outing since London; any remaining form would take some coaxing from hibernation. I passed the stables, the hounds detouring via local thickets in search of rabbits, and we reunited on the rutted horse tracks leading West across the South Downs Way. 200 yards into this section and I noticed a distinct imbalance in my stride pattern. An injury? No, everything seemed fine, if a little rusty. Ah thats it. Whilst my right thigh received the steady slap, slap of the bouncing radio, my left had lost its own responsive beat.
Damn! Id lost my phone. My first thought was Id have no recorded time for the run. My second, brushing rudely past the first, was that Id need to find it. And quick. I called the dogs to heel and turned for home, paying even more attention than usual to the rough terrain. Needles and haystacks sprung to mind the long grass and dusty flint laden tracks seemed an ideal hiding place for my grey Nokia. Think where could it have fallen? Well, just about anywhere. I wouldnt have heard it land Planet Rock had successfully drowned any chance of that.
I ran steadily, eyes fixed on the on-rushing ground. As they always do on the return leg the dogs joined in close formation. I had a vague notion that one of them might sniff the errant hardware out and then reality took a grip. There was nothing whatsoever about my mobile that would appeal to my dogs, unless I was using it to order home-delivered minced beef.
We made good time back to the water station. I met a couple of fellow dog-walkers and imparted my news, each vowing to keep a look out. The workmen at the water station had seen nothing on the way up. I weighed my options. I could abandon the phone and return this evening; however, there was always a chance that, if found, it could fall into the wrong hands, ie someone who might take advantage of his/ her good fortune and the lack of an international bar. No, Id best mount a rescue op right away.
Jake, my teenage just-out-of-school-but still-in-the-midst-of-GCSEs son, had arisen and was making toast as I burst though the back door, panting hard and dripping perspiration onto the kitchen floor tiles.
Got your phone I huffed at him. He looked at me, his face a blend of alarm and disgust.
Been for a run Dad? name, Sybil Fawlty; Subject, the Bleedin Obvious. I elected to save the sarcastic remark I needed his help.
Ive dropped my phone need yours to find it I gasped.
K, hang on. He moved with a pace that would have shamed a lethargic mollusc. I closed my eyes and bit my tongue.
Err . . ah, here you go hang on, Ive got a text message . . .
My bulging eyes and virmillion countenance failed to convey my haste.
Finally he handed the phone over and I belted into the back garden, grabbing my under-used Mountain Bike. Id figured that although I wouldnt manage much better than running pace back up the slopes, Id be assured of a much quicker descent.
So there I was, puffing and panting back up onto the downs, left hand gripping the handlebars, right the phone as my thumb frantically repeat-dialled. My best chance was to listen out for the ringtone as I pedalled along. Alarmingly a tinny version of my own voice crackled from the handset;
You have reached Ashley Head of EFI . . . bollocks! Answer phone . . . OK, keep re-dialling, shut off after eight rings, re-dial . . .
I repeated this any number of times, all the while scanning the left side of the path. I reasoned that, having fallen from my left pocket and certainly not having struck my leg on the way down there was a fair chance the small, grey, brick-shaped object would be lying in the grass on this side.
Up through the sheep field, past the stables, onto the rutted track. My legs pumped hard and I rued my lack of cycling experience in recent years. Then, finally, like the cry of a small creature in the thick grass, my ring-tone . . .
Yes! Found it. I checked the time oh dear, Ive got 15 minutes to get home, showered and into the car.
With both phones safely secured I hammered the bike back down the slopes towards Lewes. As the cheap Halfords frame shuddered on insufficiently inflated tyres I imagined losing control altogether and the resulting unpleasantness as I picked flint segments from bleeding wounds. I slowed up a tad, negotiating humps and hollows and finally a couple of fairly hairy left hand bends. Finally home.
Found it then? Jake called as I crashed through the front door, sweat pouring into my eyes. Yeah thanks! I hurled Jakes phone back at him as he lay sprawled in a fashion unique to teenage lads on the sofa.
What you watching? I coughed.
Thing about the Tate should help with my studies he yawned in reply.
10 minutes later I was out the door again, suit jacket tails flying behind me, briefcase bouncing off the door frame, car keys poised.
Take it easy from the sofa.
Yeah, right.
3 ½ miles off-road running, 3 ½ miles off-road cycling.
Heart rate off the scale. Time? All out of that.
Welcome back to training.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Marvellous stuff, Sweder. You've shamed me into getting my sizeable bottom in gear. My Hamburg report will be up this evening, though I fear it can't match yours for excitement.
Please keep 'em coming...
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Time of day: 06:20
Distance: 6 miles appx
Terrain: Concrete buggy path
Location: Carmel Mountain Ranch Country Club, San Diego CA
Duration: 59 mins
An all too brief business trip to Los Angeles and San Diego - the whole thing took less than 3 days - saw me awaken in Carmel Mountain Ranch this Friday morning not exactly sure where I was.
Mike, my agent in this part of the world and a good friend for many years, and his lovely wife Kim had spoiled me rotten, serving up a feast of great food and fine ales and wines the night before. Corn-fed steaks the size of dinner plates garnished with wafer-thin slices of garlic, green beans, sauteed mushrooms and a healthy portion of home-made creamed corn, washed down with an excellent Cakebread Vineyard Merlot from the heart of the Napa Valley.
As I lounged, bloated and tired, in the hot-tub, gazing at a new arrangement of stars, I felt sympathy with the poor Boa Constrictor who's just devoured an indecently large prey. I made brave pronouncements about an early morning run just before the rush of blood to my digestive system left my eyelids unable to support themselves any further, and headed for bed.
The alarm clock winked 5:23 am as the cacophony of birds outside my window greeted the first rays of another impressive Southern Californian sunrise. I remembered my vow to hit the streets early and resolved to keep such rash thoughts to myself in future. The Addistars lurked expectantly by the door, my surf shorts alongside them. I'd crashed in Mike's home office and decided to prevaricate, checking e-mails before the UK office bailed for the weekend. Nothing pressing there; I was all out of excuses. Time to greet the dawn.
Carmel Mountain Ranch nestles in the hill country less than 20 miles north of San Diego, some 6 miles inland from the Pacific Ocean resort of La Jolla. Mike and Kim had settled in a comfortable commuter residence, repleat with American TV clichés such as white picket fences, mailboxes (with little red flags) and immaculate front yards in all directions. I could have been standing on Wysteria Lane, although sadly there was no sign of Gabrielle.
Another aspect of American suburbia is the golf course threaded in between the houses. Carmel Mountain has just such a feature, a full 18 holes of beautifully sculpted landscape set up to challenge even the best golfer. I'd played here on previous visits, but sadly there was no chance this time. I had decided before I left for the States that I would run around the concrete buggie path, this being my only opportunity to get some miles in. Most 18 hole courses add up to around a 4 mile walk. The extensive meandering of the path at Carmel Mountain Golf & Country Club, coupled with numerous and extremely long deviations from greens to tees, often across or under main roads, made this one closer to 6.
I set off at 6.20 am under cool blue skies. The houses backing on to the course lay dormant, occupants yet to rise. My only companions at this hour were a number of Jack Rabbits (looking suspiciously like Hares, or at least skinnier, lankier versions of the cuddly European bunnies) and a gang of Jackdaws that followed me around for a few holes, cawing raucously at the sight of this lumpy Limey chugging around their domain. 30 minutes into the run we were joined by the hispanic workforce, clad in uniform Khaki shirts and Pith Helmets. I hoped we'd get the weather they expected, although I could happily wait another hour or two for the heat of the day to arrive. The gardeners busied about their chores, smoothing bunkers and evicting the occasional errant weed in the shade of tall pines and ceders, ignoring my well-meant 'Shearers'.
Despite the early hour I soon worked up a sweat. There's not a flat fairway in the 18, and I realised early on that not carrying water was a big mistake. Happily a number of water dispeners (perfectly chilled of course) were located by every 3rd or 4th teebox, each with a supply of dinky paper cups; I took full advantage. I congratulated myself at the forward planning that permitted me to pack the Addistar roadsters as opposed to my usual offroaders. The paved buggie path proved unyielding, yet to have run on the perfectly manicured fairways would have been an act of sacrelidge.
Heading up the beautiful par 5 16th, with its hidden gulch laden with scrub and cacti, and the striking giant boulder hazard planted in sand in the centre of the fairway, the effects of this rollercoaster run began to bite. At the intersection between the 17th green and 18th tee, yet another major road, I veered right towards the house and the cool embrace of the cold shower I'd been daydreaming about for the last 20 minutes.
Mike and Kim were up and about - Mike firing e-mails left and right, Kim rattling breakfast pots and pans with gusto. Despite waking with food far from my thoughts my morning thrash had roused my appetite. Eggs over easy, sausage links, sliced beef tomatos and fresh avocado with lashings of freshly squeezedl orange juice and piping hot black coffee hit the spot.
Several hours later Mike and I hit the freeway, detouring via La Jolla en route to the Amtrak railroad station in San Diego for my 3pm train to LAX and the Virgin flight home. The Pacific Surfliner runs from downtown San Diego into the heart of LA via the coast. The views as I sat scrawling meeting notes were spectacular, pure California. Surfers danced in white-capped waves, palms pines and cedars their silent, waving audience. A dazzling array of architectural styles flashed past; Spanish Villas, French Farmhouses, Mock Tudor homes and space-age modern glass constructions rubbed shoulders with traditional American wooden homesteads. Between the clusters of habitation mile upon mile of golden sand, laced with Ice-plants and sprawling Cacti, kissed the gently rolling Pacific surf. We sped through Camp Pendleton, home to the US Marines, as trainee soldiers absailed from Chinook helicopters into the hilly scrub.
After Oceanside the tracks leaned inland through rambling hills populated by Joshua Trees and into Santa Ana, a small town that shares it's name with the hot winds that fan the forest fires infamous and lethal in the region. On to Anaheim, home of The Mouse. We stopped, the Amtrak station directly opposite the impressive home of the California Angels baseball team. The conductor, in a classic American Railroad style, announced on the tannoy that Mr Coby Bryant was at this moment signing autographs in the stadium lobby. This revelation failed to entice my fellow passengers to disembark. In the parking lot a giant billboard depicted a well endowed young lady strapped into a tight white T-shirt with the word 'Hooters' splashed across the front in dayglow orange. Hmm, now that might be worth leaving the train for . . .
Hooters, for those unfamiliar with the brand, is an American fast food franchise. Despite the requirement for waitresses to flaunt their natural (or synthetic) talents in tight fitting clothes (including bright orange hotpants) Hooters is a family restaurant. They specialise in Southern fast food, specifically chicken wings, hot wings and, as re-named by a colleague a while ago, Effin Hot Wings.
On through Fullerton Station into the sprawling, smog-shrouded metropolis that is Los Angeles. My ticket for this most comfortable and entertaining journey cost 26 dollars (about 15 quid), with a 12 dollar upgrade to Business Class. What value.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Time of day: 09:00
Distance: 12 miles
Terrain: Offroad dirt and grass tracks, hills
Location: Brighton Marina, Telscome Tye, Downland Shortcut, Snake, Madeira Drive, Brighton Marina
Duration: 2 hrs 2 mins
I fancied a return to the South Downs this morning. Wobbly from the long flight on Friday night/ Saturday I wondered if a brisk morning thrash would banish or at least postpone jetlag. West/ East jetlag is, for me, infinitley worse than the other way around.
Strapping on the radio (5 Live Sportsweek with Gary Richardson from 9 till 10, Planet Rock from 10 onwards) and scoffing a swift banana and maple syrup sandwich I headed for the Marina. Once again as 9 o'clock came and went I remained alone on the Brighton road. I remembered (at about 9:05) that post Marathon the group had agreed to meet at Hove Park. I shrugged and set off alone. The sun shone in a blue sky, mild Easterly wind cooling my face. I'd made no decision on distance, but as I loped lazily along, the laconic Richardson grilling various Footballing luminaries on the Glazier/ Man United debacle, 12 miles seemed likea good idea. Seaford Half is a fortnight away and I needed to make sure I'd held some form over the last month.
Dogless today, I made steady progress. I greeted the occasional mountain-biker and hill walker in the customary fashion, and set my mind to wondering why there were so many black lambs around this year. Not only that, but I saw four sets of black twins (at least, they appeared to share the same Mother) on my travels. A reflection on the general moral decline of our age, perhaps?
I reached the Snake in good shape, and thought of Andy and his commitment to Loch Ness. He's going to need some offroad hillwork, I reasoned; best invite him down for a Sunday 12 miler to get a taste; this is perfect territory. I glanced down into Death Valley, following the path with my eyes up through the Nature Reserve to the brow of the hill over which I knew lurked the evil Big W. I'll need another month's training at least before I head back that way.
At the top of the Snake I considered a rest, but I still felt comfortable so on it was at a leisurely lope. The last time I descended Wilsons Avenue I pulled a couple of G's; today I barely raised a ripple as I allowed gravity to dictate my pace towards the finish. 2 hours 2 for around 12 miles - quite acceptable. I'll need to up the anti this week, and to get a swifter circuit in next Sunday. Seaford beckons, and I'm looking forward to it.
As for the jetlag, I've managed to get to 9 pm without so much as a yawn, so perhaps it worked. That, or the raw passion and exitement eminating from my radio this afternoon, bringing tales of heartbrake and unbelievable joy from the last day of the premiership, has something to do with it.
Well done Baggies - Boing Boing.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
12 miles is probably more than I could comfortably manage at the moment, Sweder, but I'll definitely invite myself down for a run next time we're in Crawley for the weekend (where M's parents are). I haven't totally ruled out the possibility of Seaford, though it will depend on a variety of factors that haven't yet fully revealed themselves.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Time of day: 08:30 Hrs
Location/ course: South Downs Way, Lewes/ Ditchling round trip
Distance: appx 10 miles
Duration: 1:30:14
Conditions: Blustery, sunny/ partly cloudy
Companion: Williow (Cocker Spaniel)
Soundtrack: 5 Live (Sportsweek)/ Planet Rock
Following a heavenly night's sleep in our new Tempur bed, complete with 'pressure-relieving mattress', I awoke to the bustling distractions of girls getting ready for a day of frantic dance competition. 6:45 am on a Sunday - only one thing for it. I rose Vader-like from the bed and shuffled through a technicolour battlezone, bright, sequin-covered garments flying through the air like sartorial shrapnel. The muted cries of Wife and Daughter scolding each other for failing to prepare last night faded as I slumped down the stairs in search of black coffee and peace.
For once my Sunday hangover owed less to over indulgence than to over self-indulgence. I had wailed and gnashed my teeth as Arsenal stole the FA Cup from my beloved United. I had of course approached the final with trepidation; the form book stated clearly that we would get a pasting. Arsenal, with or without their mercurial French magician were flying, whereas United were clearly finishing the season with leaden feet firmly on the ground.
My disbelief blossomed as the match unfolded with United playing fluid, spirited football and Arsenal, playing like a pub side imitating AC Milan, looked for all the world as if they had only met each other that morning. Bergkamp in the Andy Johnson role? What was Wenger thinking? Surely a tactical ploy to lull my lads into a false sense of security and then wham! Van Persie and Lundberg at the double, all guns blazing . . . but no. I called the subs exactly right, only I could never have dreamed they would have so little effect on the match.
Wave after wave of sweeping attack crashed fruitlessly on the Rocks of Van Nistlerooy, and I wondered if some strange curse had afflicted all Dutchmen on this day of days. Rooney huffed and puffed and made Ashley Cole look anything but world class, as Ronaldo fullfilled the hopes of all United fans, reducing Lauren to a twisted, exhausted shadow aiming wild kicks at thin air as the 'show pony' danced, pranced and simply blew him away.
As time wore on, and the curse of Ruud, evident since his return for the Old Trafford side, continued, it looked increasingly as if penalties would be required to settle the match. I would say to separate the sides, but of course they were separated, by a gulf in class as wide as the North/ South divide, the 'Invincibles' embarrassed by their lack of cutting edge.
You have to take your chances, and even Van Nistelrooy can only look so many gift horses in the mouth before he must admit defeat. Arsenal hung on and stepped up at the death to administer the coup des grace for the hapless men from Manchester.
I had, inevitably, been like the proverbial sore-headed bear for much of Saturday evening. I restricted my sorrow-drowning to a couple of pints of Harvey's and a good kick in the pants. How many times had my own team destroyed the dreams of other, more deserving teams with the last kick of the game? How much pity had I spared the distraught Bayern players back in '99? Not a jot. Move on, nothing to see here . . .
Back to this morning. Resigned to running solo (I still haven't picked up the 'phone to find out where abouts in Hove Park the Jog Shop crew assemble on a Sunday) I elected to take Willow on a 10 mile lope to Ditchling and back. I left the longdogs in deference to the last of the seasons lambs almost certain to be scattered across the downs. I fancied a swift run today, and stopping to tether the hounds every couple of miles was not on my agenda.
We set off at gentle pace towards our first 'checkpoint', Black Cap. My decision on the dogs was vindicated early on, for the path was strewn with gamboling baby sheep and their suspicious Mothers. Willow paid them little heed, seeking out her favorite places to stop and play; mud holes and the Dew Pond.
In my earphones George Best, Bob Wilson and the offensive Jeff Powell (Daily Mail) debated the folly of penalties. The concensus was we should return to replays, but of course the paymasters who set the TV schedules simply won't hear of it. I listened again to Wengers' graceless supposition that his team got what they deserved. If you're reading this, Arsene, what you deserved was a bloody good thrashing. Enough already.
At Black Cap I paused to infuse the magnificent vista, hectares of fabulous sunlit Sussex countryside coralled by sculpted downland hills. To the South East the white chalk lines of the Big W shone with the allure of a forbidden mistress; soon, my love, soon. Scanning West past the ugly stacks of Shoreham Power Station and on to my destination. My stopwatch said 23 minutes, about on par with recent runs. We pushed on, immediately meeting a stream of mountain-bikers cruising East along the South Downs Way, Westerly breeze gently nudging them towards Lewes, Firle and the promise of a well-earned pub lunch somewhere near Cuckmere Haven. We exhanged Shearers, the irony of the expression lost on the surrounding sheep.
The path from Lewes to Ditchling is pretty much 5 miles of ascent, sprinkled with the occasional level section. The terrain is mostly stony path, with flint shards and mini-boulders waiting to rend ankles and puncture tyres. Following a few days of mixed weather, puddles and small ponds had accumulated on the chalky soil, much to Willow's delight. She splattered and splashed through every one, coating my leggings with a fine muddy spray, creating Rorsharch patterns to test the most dedicated Psychologist.
On to Ditchling Beacon, high point of the trail. A flock of runners loped by, Lewes-bound. Grins added to the raised right arms indicated a solidarity that excluded mounted path-users. I paused at the turn to let Willow wallow in a grass-filled Pond. 30 seconds later we were bounding off again, enthusiasm renewed by the breeze at our backs. A mile in and the running flock appeared on the horizon, having themselves turned for home. Wider grins and a few 'Hi's passed between us. I pushed on, determined to make this a swift finish.
We barely paused back at Black Cap. My legs felt strong and full of running, no doubt the result of a complete lack of physical activity this week. I pushed again, until finally Willow was no longer scanning ahead of me but ran adjacent to my flying feet. Gates came and went, another couple of cyclists, and we entered the last sheepfield side by side, Willow's ears flapping like fledgling wings, me puffing hard, sweat splashing off my nose onto my midriff (must do something about that midriff).
Home in 1:30:14. I'll check back in past logs to see how that compares with my only other Ditchling run, but I know without looking this was a good one.
Somewhere close to Black Cap I'd switched radio stations, picking up Planet Rock. I was dissappointed with the playlist at first, reminded of just how poor Def (Deaf) Leopard really were. Happily the quality improved, and I raced through the final field to the sound of the excellent Bon Jovi. How appropriate that a morning begun with thoughts of yesterday's glorious failure should end in this way;
You ask me if I known love
And what its like to sing songs in the rain
Well, Ive seen love come
And Ive seen it shot down
Ive seen it die in vain
Shot down . . . in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
cause Im going down . . . in a blaze of glory . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
. . . I've tried following his guide on posting pictures but my montages are either so small you can't see what they are or they need a whole stream of bandwith all their own. Here's a pic from my FLM disk, received this week.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:How many times had my own team destroyed the dreams of other, more deserving teams with the last kick of the game?
Oh God, it's all coming back to me.
1996. The year QPR got relegated from the Premiership. A couple of games from the end of the season. QPR v Man Utd at Loftus Road. QPR winning 1-0 in a crucial game.
90 minutes comes and goes. The crowd are whistling.
1, 2, 3 minutes of stoppage time pass. The crowd are getting hysterical. Blow the bloody whistle!!
This was the the days before the electronic board displaying how many minutes were left.
4 minutes, 5 minutes. What the hell's going on?!! There were no significant injuries or stoppages in the second half.
6, 7 minutes tick by. We are getting uncontrollable. This is outrageous! Stop the bloody game!!
8 minutes. 9 minutes!
NINE MINUTES! Eric Cantona thumps a speculative shot from 20 yards. It skids off Ray Wilkins into the QPR net for an undeserved equaliser.
Before we can fish the ball out of the net, the referee decides that he is now safe to blow the full time whistle.
Man Utd win the league, QPR are relegated.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Seaford Half Marathon - 5th June 2005
