Consequences.
The results of ones decision to take action or a series of actions, in this case in a particular order.
Example: having returned from South Africa I identified a number of things that needed doing today, and set them down in this order:
1. Phone my Mum.
Mum was diagnosed with cancer of the womb last month. She went in for the big op on Friday and almost died from an allergic reaction to the morphine-based pain killers. Apparently it was pretty much full-on Casualty stuff – ‘Charging to 200 – clear!’ and all that. I kept in touch with the family over the weekend, feeling about as useless as one can, being 7000 miles away.
2. Sort out photos from Cape Town and
3. Post my last Cape Town plod in my RC diary: http://www.runningcommentary.co.uk/forum...stcount=52
4. Get out on the Downs with my hounds for a welcome home muddy plod
5. Open last weeks’ mail.
All this I achieved before 2pm.
The consequences of completing the tasks in this order are that I managed to completely miss the GRIM 8 challenge (entry bought and paid for). It was today, in Aldershot, at 10:45. Had I elected to open the mail over breakfast at 8 am I might have made it. Regular readers of these columns will know this is not the first race I’ve entered and failed to show up for – stop giggling SP – but it is the first one I’ve completely forgotten about.
I must have known, subconsciously.
My plod today was going to be a regulation 5 miler up Blackcap. I set off at around 12:30, the morning rain having eased off. The tracks were magnificently muddy, deep brown puddles of cold water festooned along the slimy, slippery pathways. As I sploshed merrily towards the peak, leggings given their first outing of the season together with my excellent new Nike running vest (thanks Kids), it occurred to me to keep going at Blackcap and push on to Ditchling. This is all good for the GRIM 8, I thought, oblivious to the contents of the envelope waiting on my desk. That’ll be up soon, and I need to get some serious mud-miles banked before then.
The run to Ditchling and back, a round trip of a tad over 13 kilometres including a 4 k climb to start and some serious undulating hillside tracks, felt comfortable. As expected so soon after 12 hours with a 747 strapped to my arse I struggled towards the end. I embraced the pain with a knowing grin, studying my mud-splattered leggings as we rounded the last turn to home.
After a good stretch I abandoned my sodden footwear, brewed a coffee and retired to the sanctuary of my office. And opened the mail.
Bugger.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Don't think I've ever forgotten about a race completely, but I'm a serial offender when it comes to entering races and changing my mind - or having my mind made for me by a total lack of readiness. Also managed to squander a return plane ticket to Inverness this year.
Was sorry to hear about your mum - hope she is on the mend.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Thanks for the good wishes mate.
To be honest I had a lot going on and I'm relieved not to be wading through 8 miles of freezing water-filled mud holes today. Still, it was pretty dumb not to know when the race is! It'd be a lot less hassle to simply light the wood burner with £20 notes . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Managed a creaky five miles over the downs this morning with the hounds. Blue skies, a chill wind scurrying eastwards providing ample excuse for the woolly gloves. The sticky terrain held onto yesterdays' drizzle, my early thudding footfalls producing a pleasing sucking sound. My Mizuno offroaders earned their corn this morning. Planet Rock provided the soundtrack and my thoughts turned to the current election and my unlikely part in the outcome.
The Big Verdict is finally in today.
Of course, some knew the outcome was inevitable, even when the list of candidates was somewhat longer. As the voting process eliminated each contender I felt sure I'd backed a winning horse.
But whether to actually vote?
It's one thing to watch these contests from afar, chortling at the inanity of the speeches, at the synthesised chumminess between the contestants; quite another to exercise ones right to nail ones colours to a particular mast.
What to do?
I can honestly say I've never endorsed a candidate from this particular section of society in the past, but this contest has been compelling in a way that so many before it have not. But to actually vote, to commit ones support, to such a person! This was indeed a big step.
But vote I did, conscious as I did so that many of my friends from yesteryear would be appalled to know I'd so much as taken an interest in the proceedings. All those marches in the '70's, the new wave attitude, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie - Out! Out! Out! The rallies through Trafalgar Square, Anti-Apartheid, CND, Rock Against Racism, Ben Eltons' 'Mrs Thatch', the travesty of the Miner's strike, Thatcher the Milk Snatcher . . .
. . . yet I voted.
And I'm proud of myself for dismissing doubt, ignoring the wailed lament of the Ghosts of Demos Past.
I voted, and I voted . . .
. . . Thatcher.
There, I've said it. I voted Thatcher.
Against every instinct, every belief held fast these many years, I gave my support to The Thatch.
Carol Thatcher, Queen of the Jungle.
Habitual public pee-er, breaker of wind, scoffer of bugs and all round good egg.
A most deserving winner, a true eccentric, mad as a bucket of fish and as far removed from the monstrous spectre of her Mother as you could imagine. OK, it's only a silly game show, but it showed me how preconceptions, even first impressions, can be entirely wrong. That sometimes you really need to give people a chance, time to reveal their true selves. Hats off to you, Carol T. Enjoy your champers, and thanks for a barrel of laughs (and for beating that most annoying footballers' wife who seemed to draw support solely for managing to fall out of an aeroplane).
The real Mrs Thatch had many years to make her impression, and pretty much everyone made their minds up about her long before Geoffrey Howe and his merry men sharpened their steely knives. But you can't tar the kids with the same brush - at least not Carol. Mark appears to be the one who inherited the bloodlust for world domination - shame he didn't get the brains required to pull it off. I hope they throw away the key.
All this bubbled about merrily in my head as George Thoroughgood and the Destroyers belted out 'Move It On Over' and I circumnavigated the peak at Blackcap, returning home in around 45 minutes a good deal warmer than I left. I hope the leggings are dry in time for Thursdays thrash.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Of course, it all makes sense now. The perfect running music, especially when fighting the sort of hills you have down there.
I haven't thought about Thoroughgood for years, but he was part of the soundtrack to my student days. Dust My Broom... ah yes, he got me into Elmore James and all roads south.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
A fine exponent of the slide guitar in a rock stylee.
Most people know Bad to the Bone, but George is worth a little further exploration. Like you I enjoyed his music at a younger age, when my well-practiced sneer looked more juvenile than senile. Dr Feelgood was another artist who pumped out good solid rock n roll with a dash of attitude.
That's what I like about Planet Rock - every now and again they put me back in touch with an old friend.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thanks SW.
The op went well but it seems she had a terrible reaction to the anasthetic. Happily she's making excellent progress - when I spoke to her tonight she'd been for 'a few laps of the hospital'. Amazing as two days ago she could barely speak.
Good to see you're getting out there. 10 miles at this stage is good shape indeed - keep it up.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Nasty underfoot this morning, the first few hundred metres climb almost impossible to navigate, feet sliding awkwardly through unpleasant slurry. Mindful of the possibility of the tiny muscle tears that such activity can cause I high-stepped in most ungainly fashion through the unkemp grass and brambles. Good job I left the leggings behind today - could easily have been mistaken for Max Wall.
A reasonable plod into a steady headwind today, 5 miles-ish around Blackcap.
The peaks were shrouded in fog, so much so that at times all I could see was grass and my muddy path appearing behind me from the fog, dissappearing into the murk ahead. Eerie stuff. Rounding the summit I glanced back to see two large, dark shapes emerge from the mists. Hooves thundered as two race horses belted across the open downland. Gypsy, my feather-brained Lurcher, decided to join in, much to the consternaton of the jockeys. They pulled up and one came slowly trotting back to me as I tethered the hounds.
We exchanged freindly greetings and he suggested I might restrain the dogs, as a collision at such speed could be catastrophic for all concerned. I agreed it would be best to avoid such a calamity, and further suggested that they might refrain from hammering the horses through thick fog across public land.
I'm not sure we reached a consensus. There is huge animosity between the Horse People and Other Downland Users. The stables has a gallops that traverses the South Downs Way. For years the militant wing of the Right To Roam campaign have taken to cutting wire fences and pulling up fenceposts in protest at what they consider use of 'public' land. The law is far from clear, and I have tried to stay out of the whole debate.
I do feel that as the stables has acres of gallops they don't need to be thrashing their chargers across the open downland. But life's too short to get on ones high horse at every opportunity. I'll have to see how things pan out.
It may be I adjust my route to ensure less contact with the horses.
Or I could consider running without the dogs.
Or I might just carry on regardless.
5 hilly miles banked. Looking forward to a substantial lope at the weekend.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Running in a winter wonderland . . . or so the fairytale version would have it.
The reality this morning proved a little grittier, a devilish blend of the frozen and the slippery. Frost-kissed pathways laced with frozen puddles still firmly in the grip of Jadis. Aslans' breath had reached the east-facing trails where the ice duly turned to warm, sticky mud liberally splashed with mud-filled pools.
11 miles (17.5 k) of hills and dales swept the Saturday Christmas shopping cobwebs away. A late start (I confess, I rolled over after hurling the bleating mobile/ alarm across the bedroom) meant I missed my usual pre-run feast, a hastily scarfed banana and a half pint of water being all that time allowed.
I joined the Brighton group, around 10 well-wrapped souls, atop the marina.
Much to my chagrin I learned we'll not scale the Snake 'til January. Today's run, the 'New Famous Residences', involved three major climbs and several minor ones. I chugged along, mindful of my light fuel load, listening to the eager banter of several 'newbies'. After a brief stop at Saltdean we turned inland to climb Telscombe Tye, 1.2 kilometres of grassy, muddy hill. The view from the top of the Tye was spectacular, and I sneaked a couple of snaps (below). There's little to beat such a vista - distant hills swathed in silky mist, strong winters' sun blazed across the downland.
Along the ridge behind the village of Telscombe, past the gate leading to the North Face and some dear old friends from last winter. A sharp left at the third gate, the track leading to the foot of the Snake heading due west - but not for us today. I bit my lip and plunged down the rock-strewn slope towards the farm buildings and our second major ascent.
The hill from the farm up to the downs above Rottingdean is a killer. Easily as harsh as the North Face one cannot run the full climb without a walk break on the first time of asking. I managed about two thirds before my burning lungs demanded respite. Joss, a horribly fit and flexible young man, bounded Bambi-like all the way up, seeming to revel in the challenge. I muttered a terrible oath against youth and staggered on.
Across another ridge, this time headed south-west towards home base. Down the sticky trails into the village of Rottingdean, through said village, past the postcard perfect duck pond and into the allotments. Ah, the final climb - to the Windmill. It's only 300 metres but it might as well be 300 miles so steep is the gradient. Once again I huffed and puffed in Joss’s wake. Alongside the miniature golf course to St Dunstans', through the loose wire fence and then - oh joy - the 'Little House on the Prairie' moment as we hurtled down the close-cut slopes of the school towards the tunnel. Under the main road and onto the cliff tops for the last mile and a half.
I finished with Joss The Younger and his female companion in 1:45 ish. Steam rose from my heaving, sweat-drenched carcass as we stretched out above the marina, gasping our congratulations to one another before welcoming the second tranche of runners home.
A very satisfying run, one we'll repeat next Sunday.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Love these reports plus photos Sweder. It makes me go all nostalgic for the hills and cliffs of East Devon. You must have a crack at the Grizzly one year. It's the event that I've always wanted to do....
Following my contretemps with the Horse People last week I took the hounds in search of a new route to Blackcap. We chugged through the sheep field as usual, traversed the series of gates adjacent to the stables until we stood overlooking the jump section of the gallops. Here the rough track divides; left/ south west onto our usual flinty footpath; right/ due west down a steep, well-trodden grassy knoll toward thickets and dense gorse.
I loped to the right, recalling John B’s recent race report as I lumbered down the slope:
‘The people passing me were running down the hill (ie, using their muscles),
whereas I was trying to fall down the hill.’*
I engaged the gears and ran the descent, dogs bounding about me in a mixture of excitement and confusion. This ain’t our usual route, Guv’nor! But hey – look at the gorse – here be rabbits!!!
A cotton-tail twitched under a thorn bush and pow! the two long-dogs unleashed full power, bellies flat to the grassy slopes as they tracked exocet-like toward the vanishing prey. Now there’s downhill muscle in motion.
Willow bounded in hapless pursuit, ears flapping like useless curly-haired wings, stubby legs working overtime. I chugged along behind, happy that our diversion had reaped benefits for my companions. Rabbits are few and far between on the ‘old’ Blackcap run, and the hounds do love a chase. Thankfully they are rarely successful.
Gypsy, physically in her prime, lacks the guile to calculate trajectory, a skill prerequisite in her profession. She also lacks focus, reacting to the movement of possible targets in her peripheral vision, bounding from sighting to sighting until exhaustion overhauls her and she stands, panting for breath, eyes bulging, steam pluming from her slender haunches. Tess, older and a good deal wiser, was different class, a mean huntress in her youth. A locked in, heat-seeking dealer of death, darting towards an inexorable, neck-snapping conclusion. Father Time has dulled her reactions, stolen a few yards of pace from the White Whippet, yet her enthusiasm remains unbowed, her thrill for the chase unmatched.
My own enthusiasm received a timely boost as our new path revealed a treat for the two-legged pack member; hills! Although the overall altitude adjustment from home to the Cap remains the same, this new track offered a delightful series of steep climbs and descents. I embraced the gradients, hunkering into my hunched stance, chugging up the slopes in a steady rhythm.
We circumnavigated the peak in a ragged figure-of-eight.
I thought about rejoining our old route back to the stables, but the lure of more climbs, especially the final hill back to the sheep field, clinched the deal. On the return we spied more bunnies. I say ‘we’ - I often spot Fiver and his pals before the hounds, enjoying considerable height advantage over the canines. I smiled; the fluffy white bottoms disappeared into the thicket even as the first flurry of claw-flung earth flew from the longdogs' launch.
Into the homeward mile I sensed an acrid stench on the northerly breeze. The cloud covered sky betrayed no hint of local smoke. I suspect this heralds the arrival of the Hemel Smog, the first vestige of the remarkable black plume that seemed to span the country. I offered up silent prayers for strong winds, easing up for the run-in to keep my breathing shallow. The smoke may not be toxic - I’d rather not coat my lungs all the same.
Home in a shade over 50 minutes – definitely a more demanding route. A keeper. And not a snotty horseman in sight. 5 miles-ish in the bank. Happy, knackered hounds.
There are always days like this in any training schedule.
I heard Wayne Rooney confess as much the other day. He said sure, there were days he'd rather just stay in bed. Bed was not my problem this morning, it was lack of power. Someone must've pulled the plug on my overnight battery charger.
Out at sun-up I plodded easily onto the Downs, leggings deployed against an icy blast from the west. At this point I visualised my Thierry Henri's, the little black woolen gloves still laying on the coffee table. And at this point I committed the cardinal sin of running - I started feeling sorry for myself.
Another miscalculation on this morning of blunders was my choice of listening. Planet Rock made way for Five Live Sports Xtra and live coverage of the 3rd One Day International cricket match between Pakistan and England. The commentary crackled all the way from Karachi, Arlo White and Geoffery Botcott describing the carnage as the hosts removed layers of lacquer from the ball, crashing it to all corners of the packed stadium.
I soldiered on up the slopes of my new Blackcap route. I considered exactly how to describe my performance today; running in treacle, perhaps? No, no . . . ah yes - tethered by strong elastic. That's it. I staggered on against the breeze just waiting for the mental bungee to reach maximum stretch before catapulting my sorry carcass back down the slope and into a large, sloppy cowpat. How Stuart Hall would love that! 'Ha ha ha HA!!! The Belgians!!!' or in this case, perhaps, the Swedes.
It was another iconing sporting commentator who cut in with a far more telling remark. 'Ees spent, is the lad. Any fool can see that. I've said it before an' I'll say it again, you need to be on top of your game to perform out 'ere'
I shook my headphones, glancing nervously at the surrounding gorse bushes.
Nah. It's coincidence. 'You can't tell me the lad's not under prepared. Ee's really strugglin' and it's no wonder.'
Well Geoffery, you see I had planned to wear the gloves, but with all the commotion this morning and the dogs and - 'Poor preparation is that. Y'can't expect to succeed at this level if you don't prepare properly.'
No, well . . . sorry Geoffery. It won't happen again.
Duly admonished I buckled down to some serious hill-munching, pounding the soggy turf up to and around the summit. At the turn I felt the welcome nudge of the wind at my back and relaxed, loping home in better spirits. The story from Karachi failed to match my improved mood, the Pakistani batsmen taking turns to see who could hit the ball farthest out of the ground. The delirious spectators screamed their approval, conveying pure bedlam through the ether.
Home in under the hour, cold and tired but with 5 hard miles in the bank.
When it’s not always raining there’ll be days like this
When there’s no one complaining there’ll be days like this
When everything falls into place like the flick of a switch
Well my mama told me there’ll be days like this
[SIZE="1"]Days Like This, Van Morrison[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Pity about the cricket??? For sooth, Sirrah!
Hot news from the Old Country!
Darren Gough has triumphed! The twinkle-eyed, spikey-haired deliverer of the 49th over yorker is now the twinkle-toed darling of Strictly Come Dancing, a celebrity ballroom dancing competition aired live on the Beeb. Against all the odds after ten weeks of whirling, twirling (and a good deal of hurling), The Dazzler won the People's Vote to pip Colin Jackson for the title.
Cue clichés; fallen at the final hurdle; hit the ball out of the ground, yadda yadda yadda.
It's been strangely compelling viewing in our household. In the spirit of the underdog I've cheered Darren from my lonely corner of the sofa.
Who says England Cricketers never win anything?
It's a triumph! (more on pages 4, 5, 6, 7, see [i]Lifestyle and Sports section)[/i]
Sadly the current England cricket team's up against Pakistan in Karachi tomorrow.
Reality is almost certain to bite. Hard.
Off to bed am I - in 7 hours an eleven mile hill run there is
(use Fozzy Bear voice here).
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yikes it's a tad chilly out there this morning.
Eleven miles in prospect and still suffering the effects of Friday night. Peanut butter, honey and banana toast safely tucked away, smoky tendrils lifting from my mug of black coffee as I gaze at the waking Sussex skies.
It's a morning for Brass Monkeys.
And Golden Cricketers.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Nipple rash; we've been here before.
Vaseline is not enough, it seems. One of the results of very cold weather, as many delighted teenage boys will tell you, is scantily-clad nipples become bullet-hard. I can attest they do so to such an extent that the layer of grease carefully applied in the warmth of a centrally heated bathroom is pierced, leaving the naked tips exposed to the gentle chaffing of the running vest.
I sit here cursing this scientific revelation. It feels as if someone has massaged my chest with a cheese grater. Or that I've gone tobogganing sans tea-tray. On my chest. Over gravel. Ouch.
Enough whinging; it's almost Christmas, and raw nips aside this was a blinding run.
Crisp, clear, almost windless, perfect conditions in which to assault the Downs around Telscombe and Rottingdean. Our group numbered some 25 hardy souls, familiar faces joining last weeks' group. They'd all been off at the Mince Pie 10, by all accounts an excellent local event, but perhaps one that Andy has no need to attend judging by reports of his already impressive stash.
Head full of heart rate stories I made a conscious effort to run well within myself. I reached the 'stretching point' - Saltdean Lido - in the leading group. A glance west revealed tiny red dots cresting the hill behind us. Blimey, they must be really holding back!
'Phew! That was a bit swift!' Laurence, a downland regular, puffed along side as I stretched.
'Really?'
'Five minutes faster (for 3 miles) than last time' he confirmed.
Ooh err, perhaps not as reserved as I'd thought.
Regrouped we embarked for the long climb out of Saltdean, crossing the main road to the long ascent onto the Downs proper. Remy bounded past me headed for the Tye at an impressive pace. Charlotte (from last week) and two regular lads kept me company. We chatted about all manner of things; runs past and future, hopes and aspirations, heart rates and hill climbs. The detail escapes me, but the fact that we managed to burble along throughout the climb suggests running within the comfort zone.
Ahead of us Remy loped on past the turn for Rottingdean. I felt a stab of envy - he's off to the Snake, the swine! But Remy is extremely fit - I stuck to plan A, loping easily in the gang of four. Thoughts turned to the hideous climb ahead, some 400 metres of sharp ascent through heavy mud. I'd run two thirds last week and I'd resolved to keep going all the way today. Slowing my pace, shortening my stride, I set myself for the long haul. Charlotte and the two lads had climbed ahead of me (I'd stopped at the base to snap couple of photos). Slowly I reeled them in, bobbing along until finally the gradient eased.
Across the ridge and down into Rottingdean, the sea shimmering on the horizon. Sailboats, white flecks on the sparkling water, scattered around the marina mouth, searching for the breeze. Half way down the shaded track I felt a familiar whipping against my left ankle; shoe lace on the loose! Cursing softly I maintained my pace.
'Hey Ash, your lace is loose' in my left ear.
'Thanks'. Damn. Better stop. An ugly visual; me in a hospital bed, Christmas cards mingling with get well soons, sad-eyed children, lots of plaster . . .
I pulled up.
The other three dissapeared as I tied my lace and took a swig of juice.
I decided against chasing them, still resolved to run within my limits.
I caught a glimpse of them as they turned through the village below, and again as I reached the foot of the Windmill climb. I grit my teeth, determined to keep running up this barbaric hill. The others had reached the summit, pausing to reload with O2. As I arrived, bent double, sucking air, they straightened.
'Right then - off we go!'
I wheezed, a horrible, rattling sound.
'Oh, sorry mate - err . . .'
'Go - huh - on - huh - really . . .'
They left.
I stood, hands on wobbly knees, as the ground swam back into focus.
Re-focus; good idea. Plod on, easy does it. Last mile. Keep it steady.
I loped past St Dunstan's along the cliff tops above the marina.
Roedean stood imperious, sun-drenched, towering above our steaming procession. I could see the others, stretched out over 500 metres ahead. I ran on breaths -that is to say, I slowed my breathing and ran accordingly; two strides per breath, then three. My heart slowed and I held this leisurely pace to the finish, breathing easily as I hiked each leg onto the parapet, hamstrings screaming.
Charlotte timed the run at 1:41 - probably 1:45 for me. Laurence joined us ten minutes later and confirmed his Garmin readout at 10.9 miles.
'You're running well' he beamed.
I grinned.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The law known to be the property of Sod applies to holidays and illness.
Awoke this morning to a crisp, frost-laden day full of running promise and a nose and throat full of something less pleasant. The old adage about not running when ill sits stoically illuminated at the forefront of my addled mind, yet still I paw at the window and whimper.
Happy Humbug
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Gorgeous sun rise follows stunning daybreak.
I gaze longingly through my bathroom window as Jack Frost dances with the Valley Mist, Apollo rising behind the cliff top golf course above the river Ouze.
The majesty of the moment is shattered as I hawk up another glob of green slime, my feeble chest rattling with the effort. Shake me up, Julie - shake me up! My sputum spirals around the plughole, dragging a tiny piece of fitness with it as it heads for the coast.
Woe is me.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
