A week that started with personal glory descended through inevitable debauchery into apathy and sloth. Not ideal preparation for a blustery, hilly 15 mile romp across the Sussex downs, but there we are.
Feeling bloated and heavy, precisely zero miles banked since last Sunday, I scuttled out of the house just after sunrise clutching my water carrier and spare togs. The hounds lifted their heads with a collective air of resignation; I never take them on Sunday runs.
A good sized group gathered above the Marina. I chatted briefly with one or two interested in my experiences of last weekend. I kept details to a minimum but I did suggest I might be a little sluggish following the re-hydration program – getting excuses in early, I think they call it. Heading east along the cliff tops I felt pretty comfortable, until I realised we were the beneficiaries of a moderate breeze. I considered the implications for the more testing sections of the circuit, most of which faced west and into the wind.
The run to nine miles offered uneventful Downland fare; more polite chatter with familiar faces, pleasure at the sight of gambolling lambs decked out in the farmers’ green graffiti, views to die for and crisp, clean air. By the time I started up the Snake I’d paired up with Charlotte, an extremely fit runner with an easy style. I found the going tough but manageable, working my breathing up the winding ascent, regulating stride pattern and effort rate. I paused at the summit, gulping my personal blend of Robinsons’ R and H2O (10:90 mix). A number of runners caught us, setting off for the double-back without a break. As I loped along behind a couple of niggles made themselves known. First a tightness in my right groin echoed by a slight pull on the right hamstring. Nothing serious, but worth keeping tabs on. Then a minor twinge behind my left knee – I put this down to 13 miles on hard roads and pavements last week, shortening my stride as a precaution. The small group in front pulled away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I shuffled on past the reservoir and down the long, broken asphalt road into Rottingdean. I scarfed a gel but even as I did so an impending dread crept upon me like storm clouds in a high wind. Normally I'd not notice these nagging complaints. My body's tired, under prepared; I stared grimly down the barrel of a tough few miles.
The steep climb to the Windmill at Rottingdean loomed large as I puffed and panted through the village. Running the hill was a non-starter, so I walked as soon as the track started to rise. I carried on walking a good 200 metres after the summit, waiting for my ragged breathing to settle. As it did I took up a gentle jog to St. Dunstans, almost falling down the grassy slopes to the tunnel beneath the main road.
As I limped along the undulating seafront hills, the last few miles stretched out before me, I imagined myself as a Lancaster bomber pilot returning from an aborted sortie. Two engines out, third a-flame, crew safely ditched over Roedean, I spluttered across the chalky coastline, a lone airman seeking home. No Black Lab awaits my return; no beautiful WRAF sergeant bites her impeccable nails, scanning the horizon through tear-filled eyes. The fuel gauge shows ‘empty’, wings waggle in the buffeting headwind; oxygen is at a premium in this smoke-filled cock-pit, the co-pilot’s seat as empty as my tightening stomach . . .
Get a grip.
Sucking air desperately I raised my drooping head, squinting in the watery sunlight. The marina emerged as I crested the next rise, all bright colours and gentle motion, sailboats setting out for a day’s pleasure. I cursed my weak will, vowing to work hard next week to replace those miles lost to hangover and fatigue. I made all sorts of silly pledges to myself; if I can just get through this last mile . . .
Back on the gently sloping cycle track to the finish my breathing eased once more. Stride lengthened, tempo a tad less frenetic, relief flooded through me like central heating on a cold afternoon. I collapsed against the marina wall, steam rising from my soaked vest, stretching half-heartedly as the oxygen began to weave its magic.
‘Well done’ offered a friendly voice.
‘Wow, that was tough’ I gasped.
‘Yeah, it was a lot tougher today. Must be the wind’.
A gentle murmur offered consensus, but I took no relief from it.
Perhaps it was a little tougher for everyone today, perhaps not.
There’s no doubt in my mind I’ve paid the piper this morning.
It’s back to hard graft next week.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yeah, I had a very tough 18 miler yesterday. The first 12 or 13 were fine, but after that it was murder. Made me wonder how many more marathons I have left in me. Will write it up later.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
On refelction it was always going to be a bastard today, considering last week's plummet from the wagon. I felt dispondant when I got home, asking myself similar questions. But it's just a bad day (or maybe week) at the office. Things will look brighter in a week or so; and there's a PB up for grabs on the 19th in Brighton
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A much better run this morning, partly due to the hard workout on Sunday but mostly to a massive release of stress and tension. The last 72 hours have been immense a major tender document occupied most of those hours, the remainder devoted to worrying over Phoebes new insulin pump.
Phoebe has worn a pump for the last week, but this was loaded with saline as a test to see how uncomfortable or otherwise it would be for her. Yesterday we went live, visiting the hospital to load up with insulin. As a precaution we have to test blood glucose levels every two to three hours for the first week to ensure the calculations for general delivery (the Basal rate) and the booster doses at meal times (Bolus) are correct.
I woke up this morning just after 6, having crawled into bed at 01:30. Mrs S took the graveyard shift, for which I am eternally grateful. Phoebe checked out fine, 9.4 mmols a tad high but infinitely better than she has been for some time in the night. Filled with a burning hope that the pump will make a very real difference to our little girls' daily life (not to mention reduce the chances of serious complications later) I scrambled down stairs for a shot of coffee and a return to tender. Id set myself a deadline to submit this 50+ page epic by 07:30 this morning. I read it through one more time, knowing as soon as I hit the send button at least three major cock-ups would start screaming at me.
Click. There, its gone.
Another coffee, Planet Rock on a little too loud and I felt a wonderful energy flood my weary bones. Time to run! I grabbed the hounds and head for the hills, steps a good deal lighter than theyve been for a few days. Despite the ache from Sunday I found the going easy. Uphill on the outward loop we ran into a stiff breeze, but frankly I couldnt care less. I got another surge of well being when I crested the first hill and saw no sign of sheep anywhere. The hills were free of dirty white cloud as far as the eye could see for the first time in months.
Planet Rock kept me company, old favourites mingling comfortably with the occasional younger upstart. Question: whats the connection between Peter Gabriel and Sham 69? I have no earthly idea . . . then David Lee Roth belting out Just Like Living In Paradise. I like Roth hes always been my favourite Van Halen frontman, all wild hair, massive ego and swollen cod pieces. But some weeks ago I heard this particular song shortly after 606 on 5-Live, a program dominated by irate Bolton fans bigging up their warrior manager Sam Allardyce.
Synapses popped and sparked in my head that day, and I ended up singing This must be just like playing for Allardyce all evening, much to the consternation of my fellow housemates.
I grinned and sang it again this morning. With the current outbreak of unashamed xenophobia in our Sporting press that song might have a chance of going national before long . . . personally I hope not. Best man for the job, and all that.
5 hilly miles, some decent Fartlek on the return.
No more caffeine today, though.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Synapses popped and sparked in my head that day, and I ended up singing This must be just like playing for Allardyce all evening, much to the consternation of my fellow housemates.
Personally, I've always thought that song could be easily adapted for Dundee United season ticket holders.
A stress-relieving Sussex hills chill-out.
Following another turbulent night I bit the bullet and took a day working at home. Not the tasty little scam it may at first appear; there’s plenty for me to do here. Not as productive as the brain-storming atmosphere of a vibrant office, perhaps, but useful for knocking out chores that require uninterrupted peace & quiet. And for avoiding unnecessary tantrum-throwing at the first sign of adversity (which is, for me, the moment I try to print something or open more than one application on my work-shy computer).
Following a late breakfast of toast and honey lunchtime arrived with indecent haste. I stared at the clock, then at the hounds, expectant, hopeful eyes watching in case I should stray towards the rack of muddy shoes and boots in the utility room. I buckled.
Leggings, sweatshirt and DAB radio for me, leads and wagging tails for the dogs, we left the house and stepped into breath-taking winter sunshine. The horizon spoke in hues of blue with a smokey ridge, reminiscent of California mornings without the warmth. Thoughts queued up in my addled head, but like Nan’s home-made Fairy Liquid bubbles from my youth, vanished as soon as I reached for them. I can see her now, my lovely old Nan; head thrown back, laughing fit to burst as I leap in vain to capture my soapy quarry.
The hills stretched out before us, bleached by the strongest sun of the year. A nor-westerly wind did it’s best to slow us but speed was not my aim this early afternoon. My goal was simple, to plod, unfettered by the stresses of life, to drink in nature in the raw, suck down a lungful or two of crisp, clean air. To plod.
To live; to feel alive.
Rounding Blackcap I felt renewed, refreshed. A glance at the time; why not?
I pushed on past the hilltop and through the gate onto the South Downs Way.
An hour later, warm, sweaty and very happy, our merry band of travellers returned home, somewhere close to 10 joy-filled miles behind us. We’d hailed cyclists, waved/ wagged at sheep and been buzzed by a pair of majestic gliders, swooping down from thermal heaven over Plumpton College and racing along the edge of the downs, silently strafing the indolent grazers.
Sometimes you just need to get out and run.
Your worries and troubles will be waiting patiently for you when you return, but they might find you in somewhat feistier mood.
Afterward:
I’d always thought this particular lope was around 8 miles, but when I reached the Ditchling Road (half way point today) I paid close attention to the walkers’ signpost there. It said ‘Houndean Farm 5 ½ Miles’. Well, Houndean Farm is just before my house on the return so I’m booking in 10.
[SIZE="1"][COLOR="RoyalBlue"]Pictures:
South Downs Way/ Ditchling Beacon looking west; Homeward Hounds with eastward view of Blackcap & stables; View from Blackcap looking east over the Ouze valley[/COLOR][/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Lucky you for getting out there at midday. I was at a meeting in Milton Keynes, painfully aware of the sunshine outside, but unable to take advantage.
Running has been very patchy since Almeria, partly through beer and apathy but mainly through a painful lower back. I'm gambling on it having faded enough to go for a club run this evening. 5 chilly miles in the dark streets of Reading won't match the aesthetics of your outing but it will at least tell me if I'm likely to be lining up in Wokingham for the half on Sunday.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Good luck old boy.
I'm a fully paid up member of the Slipped Disc Club, so you have my deepest empathy. I was very lucky though - even at its worst my back never stopped me from running or playing golf, but I could never somehow use a ladder, carry heavy loads or bend to fill the dishwasher . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Brutal.
A harsh westerly wind cut across Sussex early this morning, driving spiteful barbs of freezing rain into the thirsty soil. Dark portents mingled in the skies over seas bereft of pleasure craft, the hills to the north blending with mist and cloud at their peaks.
Today’s route took in all the usual Sunday sites with the added bonus of the North Face and the Yellow Brick Road. 5 miles into our huddled plod we broke with January’s route and set off further inland towards the village of Kingston. The biting west wind swirled through the valleys, sweeping up the hillsides to dump its wet cargo. Every step involved a tiny slip or a mini slide, the soaked topsoil giving way easily under my heavy tread. On through a couple of gates to the foot of the North Face, a 250 metre sheer climb. Much to my surprise I managed to ‘run’ all the way to the top, passing Sam as he hauled his mountain bike up the muddy track.
‘OK, you lot carry on up the Yellow Brick Road, ‘round the top of the Big W and keep on past the drop into Death Valley. Take a left at Castle Hill, back into the Valley and join up with the others at the Snake’ growled our outrider. ‘You lot’ turned out to be a band of 5 of us who’d eased away from the main pack. Our reward for showing enthusiasm on this foulest of days was to add two miles (and a couple of tasty climbs) to our planned 16 mile loop.
The Yellow Brick Road is a gentle 2 mile ascent to the downland summit. At least two thirds of the section is concrete pathway, the eponemous tint caused by an odd pigment in the cement. The entire length of this path is cruelly exposed, the downland dropping away to seaward (our left). The wind stopped swirling and focussed its attention on a steady howl, sweeping up from the seafront and battering my left side. A mile up the YBR my hands were blocks of ice. Excess mucus streamed from both nostrils, thin tendrils of snot whipping past my right shoulder. I bent even lower (a smaller target?) and concentrated on moving my fingers and thumbs, squeezing and releasing them to tease warm blood into the frozen extremities. I cast a thought towards my family jewels, but relaxed when a quick internal check found them cowering somewhere near my kidneys.
I slowed to take a gel on board, and the group that had been no more than 40 metres ahead appeared to race into the distance, their struggling silhouettes fading in the mist like an old Star Trek boarding party beaming down. I chased them for several miles, off the top of the YBR and around the treacherous top of the Big W. Peering over the ridge, watching the rainwater cascade down the chalk/ flint 'downstroke' of the W towards the woods at the foot of the hills, I offerd silent thanks we weren't taking that on today.
Keeping the group ahead in sight I passed the entrance to Death Valley. This is the way the following runners would take, a fairly direct drop from our lofty perch into the V between the hills just scaled and the Snake. I was sorely tempted to dart left and take this ‘easy’ option, but I’d closed the gap on the guys ahead and despite the onset of hypothermia I was still running well. 5 miles later, having slithered my way up a hostile, rain-lashed snake & picked my way gingerly through the puddles & slick flint boulders lacing the descent into Rottingdean, the creeping vines of regret crept up my hammered legs. Frozen, soaked, continually flogged by wind and rain and rapidly running out of will to live I gazed up at the mud slide that was the near impossible climb to the windmill. As my soused Sauconys lost grip for the thousandth time I gave up the struggle, walking slowly to the summit, sucking the dregs from my Nathan water bottle.
The last two miles, headlong into the teeth of the unrelenting gale, were amongst the hardest yards I’ve ever run. Thoughts of hyperthermia, flippantly discarded back in the hills, returned. My knees were blue, fingers white and lifeless. I felt at least 30 lbs heavier and my pace had dropped to no more than a brisk shuffle.
In the depth of despair a small voice spoke, clear in the gathering gloom; you’ve made these yards before. You’ve run this section home too many times; you can do it with your eyes closed. Keep on keeping on, don’t worry about speed, just bloody finish.
And of course I did. The few finishers who arrived in the minutes I took to stretch my battered limbs had covered the shorter course, a shade under 16 miles. They were, to a man/ woman, shattered. The lads ahead of me, with whom I lost visual contact on the twists and turns of the Snake, were nowhere in sight. Safely wrapped in their cars, heaters full on headed home if they had an ounce of sense left. I hobbled off to my car, cranked the heating and exchanged a sopping, icy rag of a vest for clean T and sweatshirt. Driving home was hideous, every gear change sending pain shooting through my thawing ankles. I glanced in the rear view mirror – blue lips, blanched, hollow cheeks leered back, an apparition to frighten the hardiest horror buff. I stopped outside Macs’ café. Chris, one of the guys who’d zoomed off ahead, was tucking into his cooked breakfast.
‘Any idea how far we went?’ I asked, teeth chattering like Joke Shop Specials.
‘Nah – I bailed at the top of the Snake – had enough,’ he confessed.
‘Reckon if you did the lot must be somewhere between 17 and 18 miles.
'That’ he jabbed his fork in the direction of the downs - ‘was bloody hideous.’
Not hideous, I thought.
Brutal.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Arriving home, legs stiff, socks and runners fused black with mud, lips as blue as a day old corpse and teeth still dancing involuntarily, I felt near death.
I'd love to share the restorative joy of my shower, feeling flooding back into my shattered frame under the stinging, steaming torrent, but the moment was so moving and personal I'm going to keep it to myself.
Suffice to say it made the preceeding three hours of hell seem worth it.
It really was that good
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
'Blimey' is right my friend. This morning I've still not regained feeling in the tip of my right thumb, although the rest of me seems OK.
Something I left out of my tale of woe was meeting Terry Tullet on the outward 3 mile warm-up. We left Brighton heading east across the cliff tops and I was joined by a sturdy fellow sporting a platted pony tail. He told me he was headed home (he lives near Saltdean) and asked what we were up to. I explained our planned route and he smiled.
'Off with Sam, eh?'
'Oh, you know Sam?'
'You could say that - we've run together for over 30 years'.
I sensed an excellent opportunity. It turns out Terry is no shrinking violet in the running world.
He won the Beachy Head marathon, said to be one of the toughest in the UK, in 1986 in a time of 2:54; he took first place in the London to Brighton 35 mile road race in the same year, one of only two runners to complete the course in under 6 hours and the first son of Brighton to win it. He'd come in second, but the first place athlete, a South African, was ruled ineligible and a stunned Tullet was awarded the race. Hauled off to meet the Lady Mayor, he recalled the moment as we chugged easily towards Rottingdean.
'I remember looking up and seeing this smiling lady in all her gear, then I was face down in the trestle tables. I just lost it, fell flat on my face!'
He kept chatting away, even as we climbed the escarpment out of the small town, rain and wind pressing into our backs and helping us up the steep slope. Terry had got together with two mates to take on the Lands End to John O'Groats challenge. This colossal venture involved a relay run, with one runner always on the road at any one time. Not content with the excessive mileage the trio elected to take in the UK's three highest peaks. One of their number was a renowned peak runner, and rotas were calculated based on handing him the toughest climbs. The British Army laid on a support team, and Terry reveled in the memory of worlds colliding. At one stage Tullet had taken a wrong turn, running several miles into a dead end. The squaddies following in transport could not understand why he refused a lift back to the correction point.
'They didn't get it' he chuckled. 'The whole idea was one of us stayed on the road all the time.' The exploits made an edition of the Army in-house magazine in which the officer in charge of the support team referred to 'one or two problems' with 'the civilians.'
Terry's last tale as we crested the high point above Saltdean concerned an epiphanal moment during the expedition. One of the staff sergeants approached him at the end of a particularly grueling stint.
'We've managed to sort out a detour for you that involves a hot bath, a hot meal and a couple of hours kip in a bed.' Tullet had spend the previous 'rest' sessions shoe-horned into the back of a crowded minibus. Gratefully accepting he'd fought back tears at the mere idea of a bed.
2 hours later, clean, warm, fed, he pulled crisp clean sheets over his tired bones. All too soon came the gentle shake of the shoulder - time to rejoin his companions on the road. Terry lay there, wrestling with his inner demons; could he really leave this haven, this fabulous bed?
Of course he could, and off he went.
Our time together was up.
'This is me' he announced, unable to hide the glee in his voice.
'You'll have fun up there today. Nice running with you.'
'Likewise.'
We shook hands and exchanged names, and he was gone, pony tail bouncing on his shoulders as he peeled away. Sam cycled along side and I realised I'd not asked Terry about Mr. Lambournes' own exploits.
'Nice bloke that Terry' I offered.
'Yup, yup' growled Sam, 'good runner that one.'
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Kind of you to say so, SW.
I suspect collaboration between Andy and me would lead to, well . . .
quite a few trips to the bottle bank, that's for sure. A book? Far too much application and restraint required for a book, I fear. My 'thing' is to shoot from the hip as the mood hits me . . . very often I look back and shudder at what I've written, but it stands as a reflection on how I felt at the time.
I think my level of spontaneity and unabashed enthusiasm might drive a considered man of letters such as Andy to distraction. Or drink.
There's more grim stuff arriving on the weather front.
The gorgeous pouting young lady on South East Today delivered the news with a cheery smile and a light toss of her Venus on the Halfshell hair. 'Prepare for more crap' was the gist of it.
Bring it on - the threat of more apocalyptic weather takes the heat off for the Brighton Half this Sunday.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Happy to report that the inaugural Sweder Brew Black Lager is undergoing its primary fermentation (see pic). This is an evil looking dark brew specially concocted to have the appeal of an Irish stout, but with plenty of flavour and guts. Quite apt, given that last run in foul conditions, methinks.
It had a slightly troubled start, beginning its ferment rather too quickly, and then stopping for a few hours. However, it regained its composure and is now happily bubbling away at a good clip.
That looks about enough for me, MLCMan . . . I do hope you weren't planning on inviting guests
The fermentation process sounds like a typical Sweder run; over eager at the off, giving itself a good talking to after a while followed by much steadier progress. If that analogy continues the imbiber will definitely end up weak at the knees . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Wow, what a terrible thought.... a series of pics of MLCM monitoring the brewing of your beer, and the eventual gradual consumption thereof.... vicarious pleasure, look but do not touch, sort of like internet porn (I'm told)...
One day boys, we will have a big party.
As in, all in the same room.
Mark my words.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
