Oh God, I hadn't thought about it like that . . .
It's like one of those Ray Bradbury horror stories; you reach out for the pint, but your fingers pass right through the glass . . . . aaaaaargh!
Hayseed Dixie? Oh yes, I sure have.
They're a Heavy Metal Blue Grass Fusion combo thingumy. They cover rock band classics in a Hayseed stylee including AC DC (Highway to Hell is a belter), Motorhead (they do a fabulous rendition of Ace of Spades, SP). Recently they've added some Led Zep and Eagles to their repertoire. The band toured the UK last year (I almost got to see them at Break for the Border in London) and appeared on the Chris Moyles show on Radio One. Simon Mayo interviewed them, too; they're a weird bunch of critters, that much is certain.
A bustling, hard-working effort this morning. The rain took time off to let the sun peek out as I left the house. My legs took their own sweet time to warm to the task of plodding uphill into a decent headwind, rustiness enforced by an extra days' rest. This was unplanned; despite Sundays' difficult run I felt good yesterday morning. I was just stretching my limbs in the haven of a nicely warmed duvet when the bedroom door opened to reveal Mrs S bearing a tray laden with a magnificent breakfast feast; heart-shaped eggs, rashers of lean bacon, chipolatas, cherry tomatoes and granary toast escorted by hot coffee and orange juice. Oh my! This well and truly put the kibosh on my dawn raid on the hills.
I ruminated on this wonderful gift this morning as I slipped and slid my way toward Blackcap. Progress was steady at best; if I'm honest more like the wrong side of pedestrian. I reasoned the return, complete with turbo-charged tail-wind, would see an improvement, and so it proved. Just after the summit of the ‘Cap heading east the track dips into a mini-valley then climbs sharply for 400 metres. This is probably the toughest section on the homeward leg; I flew up there today, light as a feather. I considered throwing a little Fartlek in, the thought instantly discarded like a flake wrapper in a high wind. I did manage to step on the gas for the last climb to the stables (about 200 metres or so), feeling suitably knackered at the top.
No run tomorrow then, just a sedentary plod on Friday before the Brighton Half. I reviewed possible tactics for the race as I scampered back today. If the wind maintains its strength and direction through the weekend my race will consist of an opening 4 miles into a strong headwind, a supercharged 6 or so eastwards with the final 3 hilly miles once again into the gale. If I purloin SPs Garmin - the return of Niguel - I'll have to build a healthy lead by mile 10 or the gig will be up. Food for thought indeed.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
That Ace of Spades video is a classic! Excellent stuff. Now if we could just have the SP -v- Granny Mud Wrestling video as well, my week would be made!
andy Wrote: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...
Yep, I'm afraid so. As I don't have an export license, you'll just have to watch me drink it all.
I'm beginning to see a pattern emerging as race day approaches.
I've always considered myself a robust sort, an all-weather ‘sportsman’ eager to embrace the Corinthian spirit come rain or shine. Just lately I've found myself complaining, whining, about illness in the week leading up to a road race.
True, there is an unusual amount of lurghie lurking in these Sussex hamlets; prolific stomach bugs have closed local schools, and two out of four residents of Chez Sweder carry streaming colds at any one time. But when I look back at this running year (starting in Almería in 2005) I see can see a tell-tale trail of pre-race ‘illness’. 12 months ago in southern Spain I had a cold; I even got up early on race morning to jog a couple of miles to make sure I’d be OK. Brighton and Reading halves were hampered by hamstring trouble; oh, all real enough, to be sure. I’d spent a small fortune on phisyo on February and March, but I always felt these untimely twinges were convenient excuses for mediocre performance. I’ve got previous, as SP will attest. I completely missed the Dublin marathon in 2003, wasting an air ticket and a hotel booking (not to mention several days of robust Guinness-testing) thanks to an autumnal bout of bronchitis.
Now, 72 hours before the Brighton Half, instead of counting my blessings I’m totting up potential troubles; my AWAC system is on DEFCON 3, the first tingle at the juncture of nose and throat setting alarms a-whooping. My stomach is performing gastric aerobatics, gurgling and sloshing merrily like Pauline Fowlers’ perpetual motion Laundromat. What is it about the residents of Albert Square? No-one has their own washing machine. Must be something to do with the cost of white goods in the East End; perhaps it’s just that gangsters, pimps and lowlife scum are too busy dealing in death and treachery to tackle their smalls.
I’ve got to drive to Chessington this morning to visit our case-makers; gazing out of my window at cheery blue skies bordered by impressive stacks of cumulus I’ve a mind to delay the meeting by an hour and hit the hills.
See if I can shake off this bloody hypochondria.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
You have to wonder sometimes . . . not only did I fail miserably to embrace the day and hit the hills (work intervened with knobs on), I'm about to leave the house to meet SP for a 'couple of Guinnesses' in Lewes.
(sigh)
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thanks Antonio, your good wishes are much appreciated.
Sadly (happily?) my training this evening went exactly as expected; several pints followed by a small donner kebab on the way home . . . I guess at a pinch I could claim carb loading :o
The good news is Niguel is back in the frame, safely handed over pre-session by a most generous SP. My good friend and hydration coach suggested re-naming my VR partner Nigella; I guess 'Niguel' was of a time and place . . . we'll see. The forecast for Sunday is wet and windy . . . at least the conditions will be familiar if not exactly comfortable.
I'm off for what promises at this point to be an excellent nights' sleep.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Best of luck for tomorrow, Andy.
My good friends SP and Tim (Tom) did their level best to prepare me for Brighton in the traditional manner. I left the house last night full of steely resolve, determined to limit the damage to a couple of pints. I got home several hours later full of Guinness and mystery kebab meat. I suppose you could say I've measured my commitment to running and come up a few metres short; but there again, it's a lot more fun this way.
On a happier note my morning sojourn into town yielded a potential stylus source. Last year I inherited a marvelous old fashioned stereo from my Uncle Reg, complete with vinyl record deck. I'm scouring the nation to replace my forever lost collection of Stranglers LPs (particularly keen to find Black & White - my dubious claim to fame is my voice appears on the free EP that accompanied the first few thousand copies. One track, 'Tits', was recorded live at the Hope & Anchor, Islington, and my distinctive cry can be heard clearly amidst the 200 or so sweaty youths bouncing along to the track).
But this is putting the cart before the horse - what I really need is a new stylus. The existing item is, to quote the helpful chap in Octavia Records this morning, 'well and truly buggered'. He thinks he knows where I can score a replacement and has promised to reach out to his contacts.
This whole exercise could prove costly. As he scoured his dog-eared Stylus Library I gazed around the store, only to see a whole other room dedicated to classic vinyl. I shall return.
Anyway, the point of the post was to wish Andy (and all other racing forumites) a better weekend. May the wind stay at your back; it's certainly at mine this afternoon :o
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
As for matters stylii and vinyl, isn't this the sort of thing that eBay was invented for? I've not looked, but I'd suspect there's a large market for both these things there. Take a look.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Special thanks go to a group called 'Raceahead' - nothing to do with me, I assure you - for their thoughtful text message received at 06:32 this morning:
Ashley be ready to get damp, wrap up. It'll still be a great day Safe journey to Brighton start at 10:30 Race Warm Up at 10 See you -
Sussex Beacon
I f***ing kid you not.
As portents go this was not what I was looking for. Pre Almería Andy and I counted the positive blessings from the hotel to the start, and there were many, and we rejoiced and we did run well.
A wincing glance out of the window confirmed the race intel. Extreme dampness, wavering tree tops; wet and windy then. In itself no reason to fret - it's been wet and windy all 'season'. But todays race has two sections; a shade over 8 miles on pavements and promenades laden with wandering civvies waiting to lurch across the stream of runners as they flock towards the seafront, topped off with 5 miles of hilly cycle path and off-road mud.
My delimma? Footwear, dear reader, footwear.
As one who suffers from pavement pounding the immediate and obvious choice is the Addistars. They served well on the wet streets of southern Spain last month, and retain a smidgeon of cushion despite being well past the 300 mile mark. But the thought of emulating Shelley Rudman, sliding ingloriously face-first in the Sussex dirt on that final section . . . (shudder)
I'm fairly sure I'll go with the Sauconys. They have a hint of cushion about them being new for Christmas (though I've clocked 150 or so miles in them since then) and will eat those slippery hills for a brunch.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The shoe selection was vindicated.
The decision to run without a nose-cone was not.
I pottered about the house, sipping coffee, checking SP’s Garmin and pinching safety pins from my daughters’ dancewear case. Faffing. At 9:45 I started to panic; we’re 45 minutes away from race start and I’m still in the house. Finger out lad, let’s get cracking.
25 minutes later I’m jogging easily along Madeira Drive, rucksack slung over one shoulder, feeling good about the day. The wind seems benign at this point; it should be full on into my face as I head west, yet nothing. I glance at the steadily falling rain, and the penny drops; the wind’s played its Joker; it’s an easterly. OK, a quick revision of the race strategy as I plod towards the bag drop; out quick, build up a healthy lead (I estimate I’ll need around 0.2 miles) on Nigella, fight back from mile 4 to mile 9 through the headwind and aim for evens at the final turn. It’s a basic plan, but one I can stick to. Or at least try . . .
I peel off my trackie bottoms and several layers of sweat and T-shirts. I’ve gone for the double skin running vest – capped over long sleeved – for added warmth. All too recent memories of blue lips and chattering teeth remind me that even running as hard as you can for 2 hours is not always enough to keep your core temperature out of the danger zone. A swift re-lace of the left boot and my chip is in place. I glance nervously about – there seems to be a heck of lot more runners than last year! And again the smallest coin hits the bottom of the tin; there’s two starts. My race number has a fetching pink backdrop, which I learn means nothing more serious than I’m to start in the lead pen (the sub-2 hour group). Buoyed by this ‘seeding’ I bounce into the appropriate pen, a mere 5 minutes before the off. Turns out there’s over 4,000 starters today . . . wow.
The rain falls steadily, dousing the enthusiasm of spectators lining the upper tier overlooking the start. Tannoy Man tries to raise the tempo, calling on those present to raise a cheer of support. Sadly the inclement conditions have sabotaged his microphone, and we’re treated to a Norman Collier-esque burst of crackle, half-words and intermittent silence. I peer up at the huddled masses, well wrapped in Gortex, huddled under communal brollies and to a man shivering for all their worth. I do appreciate you turning out, folks, but you must be wondering about your choice of entertainment.
And we’re off! At least, the usual shuffling towards the overhead start/ finish line begins. All around me runners wish each other ‘good luck’, friends hug each other or slap one another manfully on the back. Nigella is already awake, prepped and waiting for my signal. We pick up pace as the bleeping of priming chips grows louder, and I let her lose; blip! The crowd ahead thins as we reach a wide stretch of road and I start to run easily. 400 metres in I glance at the Garmin; I’m ahead of the pace. Good enough.
As the Palace Pier looms on our left I’m startled to see the body of runners weave around the roundabout, into the road and off into Brighton proper. The route’s changed! What will this do for my strategy? Not much, really – we’re still running with the breeze, so I’ll keep the pedal to the metal and see what happens. Blip! A mile in, Nigella tells me; 7:49 for the first mile. A little quick, but it needs to be. I’ll need three more just like it to reach my goal at mile 4. We run through the one-way system, past Venus Hair Design, an establishment I once frequented when there was enough raw material to warrant a stylist. These days it’s the 5 minutes Buzzzzz of the clippers and ‘that’ll be seven quid, ta very much. Going to the match later?’
What I miss most about my rather more expensive visits to Venus are, in no particular order;
- the offer of a glass of wine or ChocaMochaccino;
- the extremely sexy and friendly lady snippers and their equally sexy/ friendly assistants;
- the wonderfully soothing music;
- and, of course, the fabulous head massage that comes with the hair wash.
I rarely survived the latter without nodding off . . .
. . . No time for that now; I’ve a race to run.
Where are we? Ah yes, Brighton Theatre Royal. A real old-fashioned theatre, perilously steep seating, a circle touching the clouds, truckloads of red velvet décor and flickering wall lamps. I saw the Blues Brothers show there some years back, a romp which ended with half the audience on their feet bopping merrily to Jail House Rock. Must get back there soon . . .
A wiggle here, a sharp turn there . . . and we’re back on familiar ground, crossing the road and onto the promenade. Spectators huddle in bus shelters as we bound past. Blip! Mile 3, another sub 8 minute effort, and I’m 0.12 miles ahead of Nigella. So far so good. It’s so hard to gauge the strength of the wind when you’re running with it. I watch a couple struggle with their brolly, but that doesn’t really help. This is Brighton on a Sunday morning; they could be heading out after a late night, or a morning of burning passion in their seafront hotel, or they could even be still out, having just emerged, blinking, into this apocalyptic scene, from the Zap Club or one of the many nefarious private establishments around these parts. Thousands of people adorned in garish lycra, bin bags and hats, all running stern-faced into the west; could be very scary if you’ve been in a very dark room for the past umpteen hours.
Or, it might just be a hellish day to try and put your brolly up.
The Peace Statue peers down as we pass the crumbling west pier, its rusted, shattered hulk slumped to its crippled knees in the foaming surf. I’m still running well, feeling strong, no niggles or complaints as yet. My breathing is steady and I’m relaxed. After all, this is about as easy as its going to get. Past the King Alfred Leisure Centre, another smattering of well-wishers clumping gloved hands together as we splash on through the ubiquitous puddles. We zigzag, moving alongside the Shoreham road. Last year Sir Paul and Lady McCartney wrapped up snug and left the cozy comfort of their beachfront mansion to cheer on the masses. No sign of the wrinkled crooner this time; he’s probably still on Copacabana beach with Mick and the boys, watching the sun rise after last nights free concert.
Back to the business in hand, and its unlikely we could be farther away from the Copacabana. We loop around Brighton Lagoon, devoid of windsurfing students on this bleakest of days. On up the narrow alley in the shadows of the brick-built bouncers that make up Shoreham Harbour, the hulking buildings rubbing shoulders, glaring down at our soaked procession. Then it’s round the corner, back onto the prom . . .
. . . and now I know exactly how windy it is.
I’m hit by a blast of ice-cold air, stinging rain slapping me full in the face. I hunker down trying to reduce the target area; OK, there really isn’t much point, but I feel better. I grit my teeth, determined to keep the pace going, but it’s a losing battle. Equal if not greater effort yields inevitably slower progress and I can barely bring myself to glance at Nigella. We turned just shy of mile 4 with me 0.18 miles ahead. It’s not enough, but I’ve had to weigh my early efforts against the demands of the 6 gruelling miles to come.
Head down, keeping pace with those around me I push on, heading left to take a little respite offered by a row of beach huts huddled on the prom. I notice an odd slapping sound, then feel a sharp sting on my left ankle. I look down and there it is, my right shoelace, whipping around like a frenzied serpent. I keep going, not wanting to yield vital yardage to my wrist-mounted nemesis, but there’s no avoiding it. I’ll end up arse over tit, probably on the filthy climbs around mile 8, if not before. I pull over into the lea of a beach hut, frozen fingers grappling for the slippery laces. 10 seconds later I’m up again, swigging from my Nathan and cursing the set-back. Nigella tells me she’s reeling me in; 4.5 miles and the deficits down to 0.16 miles and closing . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I push again, regaining ground on the runners who passed me, but I cant sustain the burst for long. The wind is relentless and Im forced to relax into a steady cadence. The gap closes steadily, and by the time the Peace Statue passes on my left its dropped to 0.14 miles. I consol myself in the knowledge it was always to be thus; thats why I pushed hard on the out. Its about mental strength now, allowing Nigella to reel me in but on my terms, to give myself a fighting chance come the final turn, the run for home.
Another detour takes us off the prom and down to sea level. Brighton seafront between the piers offers a colourful collection of playgrounds; skate parks, basketball courts and toddler climbing frames all backed by cafes and restaurants. Theyre silent now, the happy sounds of summer frolics locked away til Easter. To my right dinghies and sailboats rest on the shingle, leaning to one side as if pondering the folly of these human sloggers. A strange sound catches my ear; an odd, mechanical jumble of clinks and clicks. Where have I heard it before? The sound is made by the wind slapping the cables against the boats masts, different thickness of the cables and the various densities, height and construction of the masts producing this unusual yet familiar symphony.
Where have I heard it before?
Why, its the ticking clicking clocks from Dark Side of the Moon; Time.
I wince at the irony.
Time indeed. Time, for me, is running out, and theres not much to be done except get my head down and redouble my efforts. The problem facing me is this; its OK to focus, grit your teeth and push hard; its something else to keep this going mile after mile knowing that youve got some pretty tasty hills laced with slick mud-slides on the horizon. The effect of this continual re-focussing, this rousing of the troops in Sweders soaked and battered army, is akin to having a large sheet of 6mm plywood smashed into your face every 400 metres. It gets old after a while.
Another bloody detour! Past races saw us head back down Madeira Drive, past the waving, screaming hoards (and the by now mildly irritating Tannoy Man) and up onto the cliff tops. Today were waved past the entrance to the Drive, up around the roundabout and into the long, steady climb eastwards towards the Marina. I glance down to my right to the start/ finish point. How tempting to just drop down the next set of steps and wander across the line . . .
Come on son, back on track. A light tap on my left shoulder announces the arrival of Chris, a fellow Sunday hillside loper and a darned good runner. Hes sporting the red & black hooped colours of Brighton & Hove Athletics Club, perfectly offset by a grumpy countenance.
This is bloody horrible he chirps as he moves smoothly past me.
Itll be nice when it stops I offer towards his back.
He raises an arm, a sort of rear-view Shearer, and works his way through the struggling throng. Ive been avoiding Nigella for a while but the time has come to bite the bullet. This climb is taking its toll, the unforgiving headwind stronger than ever. Nigella stares back, the difference between us a mere few hundred metres. Shes impassive, heartless, unaffected by the elements, oblivious to my Herculean struggle. She will finish her session in 1:45:00 even if the ground should open up and swallow us both in a final embrace.
At least Id be out of this bloody wind.
Were above the Marina now, the very spot I start my Sunday expeditions.
I look ahead, the undulating cycle track bobbing and weaving into the distance.
Oh joy, I tell myself; this is the bit youre supposed to love!
I feel a surge of sympathy for Marvin, the Paranoid Android in Hitch Hikers Guide; I can understand the true depths of his misery, flogging my exhausted carcass into this never-ending wind tunnel.
An older gentleman takes to the grass verge, overtaking the pedestrian procession up a particularly steep incline. Just as Im thinking this might be a tad reckless the poor fellow lets out a mournful cry, sliding head-long into the mud. By the time Ive thought about stopping to help two runners behind have hauled him up and hes running again. In a matter of metres hes past me, wearing his muddy badge of courage with pride.
Blip! The 8 mile marker says Nigella. You just about ran that last one in 8:22.
Oh, and youre behind. By 324 metres. Blip!
Im having a movie computer medley moment. Is she HAL, the homicidal Spaceship Brain from 2001? Or Mother from Alien, the padded room full of Christmas Tree lights prepared to send her human crew to certain death and almost finish off Sigourney Weaver thanks to an anal obsession with the Nostromos' rule book? Shes all three, I decide. Her voice is Marvin (Marvette?) but shes definitely bent on my destruction. Im tempted to switch her off. Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do . . .
Several mud-splattered runners fly by to my right headed home, the leading group still hammering full tilt, wind at their backs. I tell myself that whatever happens from here on in Im going to finish and Ill do so with this infernal wind at my back. Cheered by this I push on again, eagerly scanning the horizon for the turning point. The various changes in route have shortened the hilly section by a blessed 500 metres, and we turn for home atop the long drop into Rottingdean. Nigella has moved comfortably ahead (0.12 miles) but frankly I couldnt give a toss; that bastard with the plywood has finally stopped smashing me in the face. A new challenge awaits us though; having transferred from the cycle track to the hilltop grass we face an altogether different, potentially more perilous foe; slick mud.
Extreme care on the slopes! bellows a race marshal, swamped by her bright yellow Sussex Beacon cagoule. The runners in front, having failed to weigh up the pros and cons of footwear this morning, slow to walking pace. Aha! My chance to regain some ground! Except, wait . . . theres no bloody room! Oh, come on! Just because youre all running in your sodding slippers . . . make some room, people! Runner coming through . . .
These cries of derision remain trapped in my head. Im too weary, too knackered to raise a yell; besides, as my old mate DT used to say as we worked trade show venues across the southern United States;
Everybody likes a tight ass; nobody likes a smart-ass.
I bite my lip and enjoyed the breather, vowing to kick on when the passage widens.
Of course, I dont; my legs are shot, theres nothing left to kick with. I chug as best I can, sucking air, watching the parade of pink faces flogging their way up the slopes to my right, the middle of the race just now reaching its cuel, blackened heart. God have mercy on em.
We zigzag down the perilous walkway to the ASDA car park, every runner using the balustrade to sling-shot around the sharp corners, and up a harsh, leg-burning concrete climb. At last were at the top end of Madeira Drive and into the home run. The last couple of miles Ive managed to hold Nigella in check, but shes still 0.12 miles ahead. Even as I think it a final, triumphant BLEEP BLEEP announces the end of our private battle. I sneak a peek at the watch, afraid it might scream LOSER! or something equally soul-destroying; but all it says is your session is ended. I leave well alone and strike for home, barely lifting my pace but at least lifting my head for the official photographer. I doubt the snaps will make pleasant viewing, judging by the haggard fizzogs around me.
The race clock shows 01:48omething as I cross the line its a PB for this race by around a minute. Given the conditions I allow myself a rueful grin. I grasp my medal, the ribbon suitably soaked, my goodie bag and a banana and head straight for the bag drop, finally putting Nigella to bed some time after Id crossed the line. She tells me I lost to her by 46 seconds, but as she finished her race some way before the line I dont really have much clue as to my actual finish time.
No doubt the good people at Raceahead will be texting me any time to let me know.
Clothes bag recovered I withdraw to the relative warm, dry haven of the covered walkway to stretch out and pull on dry togs. As I kick off my runners whisps of what looks alarmingly like gun smoke drifts from their murky depths. I chuckle, giggling and coughing as the shoes continue to smoulder.
I was right; it really was nice when it stopped.
A couple of hours later, belly full of hot coffee and sandwiches, my mobile bleeps.
Raceahead have indeed sent me a message:
Ashley Head 995
Congratulations on finishing the Sussex Beacon Half Marathon.
Your position was 1016.
Your chip time is 01:47:16
Whadaya know . . . a Half PB by around 40 seconds.
Reckon that calls for a Guinness . . . or two
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Oh God, I hadn't thought about it like that . . .
omething as I cross the line its a PB for this race by around a minute. Given the conditions I allow myself a rueful grin. I grasp my medal, the ribbon suitably soaked, my goodie bag and a banana and head straight for the bag drop, finally putting Nigella to bed some time after Id crossed the line. She tells me I lost to her by 46 seconds, but as she finished her race some way before the line I dont really have much clue as to my actual finish time. 