Sun rise, wrong side of another day
Sky high, six thousand miles away
Don’t know how long I’ve been awake
Wound up in an amazing state
Can’t get enough
But you know it’s righteous stuff
Goes up like prices at Christmas . . .
Motorhead -
Remember me now, Motorhead
All night
The sun didn’t so much rise this morning as launch from behind the golf course.
An angled bank of cloud reflected morning’s glory like the wake of a rising rocket; the force of the light breaking through the early mist was almost nuclear.
Shuffling downstairs to prepare toast and honey and I pondered this morning’s run. Something approaching 12 miles, almost certainly a truncated visit to the Snake with a plummet down Wilson’s to finish. My first run in a week, the Paris taper tuning into a pre-race laze. Of course it’s amateur stuff compared with the effectual 4 month taper of my good friend SP. Like the captain of the Titanic, and with more opportunity for foresight, I just didn’t see that coming.
Parked at the toaster, two pieces of granary slowly tanning, I elected to pass on the peanut butter this time. I instantly decided against gels today, too. Let’s just say I’ve carb-loaded with a little too much zeal this past week.
‘D’you think that’s wise, sir’ John le Mesurier purred in my head.
Hmm. Motorhead and Dad’s Army in the first ten minutes of the day?
Should be an interesting run.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I should share the hilarity of last night before I set off for the Marina and my rendezvous with Rodge, Jo, Nigel, Jill, Remy, Sam, Lycra Tony et al.
Last night Steps School of Dance, home to waifs and strays of all ages with aspirations to leap the boards of Fame, held a special evening to present achievement awards to their star pupils. Phoebe, an enthusiastic dancer since the age of four, was sweating on the result of Freestyle Gold Star One and her recent Latin exam, a real nail-biter as Latin has only recently joined the curriculum and is very tough.
As an ice-breaker the dance teachers had concocted a sort of Generation Game style cabaret, for which two parent/ pupil couples were pre-selected. I had been warned by Phoebes that I was scheduled to take part. With nothing further to go on I agreed at the time, as usual pre-occupied with work or running or football or something far more important.
Listen well, dear reader, for there is a moral to this tale, and the moral is, listen very carefully when small children tell you that you've been entered in abstentia for any sort of public appearance . . .
Our opponents on the night, the lovely Val and her equally lovely daughter Haley, were, in hindsight, a tad more clued up than I. They exchanged nervous glances as the audience gathered, and when Val sat down at our table and whispered conspiratorially 'I'm going to have a couple of drinks before this gets started' I began to smell an unwashed rodent.
'Contestants to the stage!' bellowed the imposing figure of STEPS impresario Wendy Baker.
Ah, time to discover the nature of our folly. Phoebe took me by the hand, giggling, eyes sparkling; anticipation laced with uncontrollable naughtiness.
'You're going to love this Dad!'
I seriously doubted that.
On the stage, behind the main curtain, lay a scene from a very low budget horror movie. Two trestle tables, each laden with a bowl of white powder and a plate of what looked like congealed blood, stood centre stage. Behind these, two chairs stacked with Tescos loo rolls. On a third table, between the chairs, a terrifying collection of wigs, items of womens clothing and an impossibly large bra.
'I think I left something on at home' I mumbled as the colour drained from my face.
'Ha ha, good one!' grinned Wendy, turning on her microphone. A minion appeared at the curtain pulley, focused on La Baker. A nod, and the curtain parted to reveal in turn the stage, and, to us, a horribly packed looking dance hall. The excited chatter died to a whisper as Wendy welcomed everyone and proceeded to explain the nature of our fate.
'Val and Haley will play four games against Ash and Phoebe. The winner of each game gets to choose an item of clothing for their parent and then another for their opponents' parent. At the end of the last game they each have two minutes to get ready before a catwalk show to see who has become the most conincing professional dancer ... '
I felt a rush of something hot and nasty build from the pit of my stomach and rise up through my digestive tract. I swallowed. And again. Never have I yearned for Bruce and Anthea (well, definately not Bruce) as much as at this moment.
'Game one, each parent has to find six Chewitts and pass them or spit them to their assistant . . .' I started to feel faint.
'Three are hidden in a bowl of icing sugar, the other three in a plate of jelly. Contestants ready . . . GO!'
It started badly and, believe it or not, got a whole lot worse.
We lost the Chewitts game, and the next, a mercifully swift audience participation involving sealed envelopes, coloured tickets and another item of clothing. Two down, we'd been handed the unfeasibly large breast hammocks and a fetching polka dot skirt.
Game Three, however, had our name on it.
'OK, OK ...' the partisan yelling and merciless tittering subsided. 'Game Three, Make Your Mummy!'
I won't go on. You know it involved the loo rolls and yes, the children had to cover as much of their parent as possible in a mummy-like fashion in the allotted two minutes. I had a strategy for this game, convinced that we could win at least one and select the less humiliating of the two, vile hair-pieces on offer.
What am I saying??? Least humiliating? There was no 'least' to be found anywhere in this nightmare, this dark dream from the corners of hell. Surely I'm to emerge any moment, Bobby Ewing-like, from a steaming shower . . . it's all a dreeeeeam . . .
The toilet rolls were being hastily prepared by two smirking helpers. I grasped fora strategy; we had to win.
'Phoebes, hand me the end of the first roll, put the roll on your fingers and I'll spin round. It'll wind round me really fast and we'll win!' I'm certain I must've looked entirely bonkers. My daughter's face had gone from giggling imp to grave concern. I knew my face bore a fair quantity of icing sugar and jelly, a hideous mask from which my disturbingly maniacal bugged-out eyes now protruded.
'Just do it Love; theres no way we're getting stuck with that curly red wig!'
Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men . . . these rolls were not, of course, Tescos 'finest', but an impossibly delicate Value brand. They fell apart on first contact. After two long and uncomfortable minutes I looked like an Egyptian Mummy that had barely survived two hours in a cage full of starving lions. My dressings, along with the last trace of my self respect, were in tatters. Like the boxer who's taken a fearful beating but is somehow still on his feet at the final bell I awaited the verdict. Remarkably this verdict had become intrinsic to my immediate future; if we could win just one game and avoid that bloody red wig . . .
'And the winners are' . . . winds howled, worlds turned . . . 'Ash and Phoebe!'
Bellows from the darkened hall, wild applause, a few whistles. I grabbed the almost human headpiece, offering the Ronald McDonald wig to Val with my best attempt at a sympathetic smile. The face I got back said so much more, and none of it repeatable.
As the curtains closed after a third loss out of four, we surveyed our 'winnings'.
A monster bra, a polka dot skirt, a brunette wig and a safari hat smothered in embroidered flowers. What, no microwave, no cuddly toy?
'Come on Dad, weve got to get you ready for the catwalk!'
For the love of God . . .
I made silent offerings to the all-powerful that whatever grievous sin I'd committed to get here I would make amends. With bells on. Handily the mammoth boob-cage was black, to match my shirt (not counting the generous sprinkling of icing sugar), so we started there, stuffing industrial quantities of shredded loo roll into each cup until I had a chest to make Madonna in her Vogue phase seem positively concave.
Finally dressed and ready, Phoebe had words of advice for the final act.
'Stick your boobs out, arch your back, and dont forget to wiggle!'
There comes a point during any torture session where the victim switches off. The pain is so great, the loss of human dignity so profound that a sort of peace, an ocean of calm, washes over them. They simply no longer care, taking a distant, detached view of their predicament. I came to this place now, arriving with the sense of relief one feels on stepping off a plane at the start of a long holiday.
I gave it, to use the dancer's vernacular, large.
The cacophony of sound that met my performance - step through the curtains, stage left, a spin, stage right, a high kick and exit with a final flourish of my polka-dotted hips, told me all I needed to know.
I was a star!
The evening took an upward lurch in class thereafter. Where else could it go?
Some of the senior dancers treated us to a cabaret of near-professional standard, with latin, jazz and street dances performed with aplomb. The grand finale was, of course, the awards. Phoebe received her Freestyle Gold Star One (with honours) with a nonchalance that would make Jose Morinho blush. But when the Latin awards were announced she became deathly still and pale, eyes fixed ahead, hands clasped in her lap. This one meant something.
Wendy, centre stage once more.
'This year marks our first performances in Latin dance, and everyone has worked incredibly hard.'
Oh-oh. 'Performances are marked by percentage based on the standard expected in each class. Average marks are around the seventy percent range, which will give you a guide as to how well youve done.' Now I was getting nervous.
Phoebes name was read out, followed by the words 'passed', 'highly commended', 'eighty-nine percent (Rumba) and Ninety percent (Jive).' Now thats what I call a star.
Right, now I've bared my soul (and no, there are, nor ever will be, pictures of that catwalk moment) it's time to return to the Sussex Downs and see if I can locate a shred or two of dignity.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
9 am on a blustery Sunday in April. A group of colourfully clad runners gathers atop Brighton Marina. Two outriders decked out in bright red weatherproofs and cycle helmets circle the group, maintaining balance before the start.
Across the road a stout man in his forties locks his pick-up truck, fumbling with keys, water bottle, shades and carry pack. He glances towards the pack as they depart, running easily to the east, the cyclists holding station to the rear. The latecomer dashes across the road, puffing hard to catch the peloton. He reaches them on the first hill climb, moving through the pack to reach his friends. Once he’s regained his breath the man starts chatting with the group, finding out who’s doing what today. Most of the runners are London-bound and will complete a minimum of 19 rugged miles in a shade over three hours. Just one man, Chris, a tall, accomplished runner, is a Paris man. He will ‘do the wire’, the good Good Friday friday circuit; 4 cliff top miles out, 4 back. The latecomer decides to settle for this; there’s little to be gained in pushing too hard seven days before the Big One.
They run as if on air, the strong wind at their backs pushing them up the climbs. Life is good. The chatter extends to travel plans; trains, planes and automobiles, hotels, meals, pubs to visited, re-hydration strategies, all are covered and re-covered as the grassy hilltops slip by.
Above Saltdean, the Lido behind them, the two Paris men bid farewell to their London brothers, the pack crossing the road to head up Telscombe Tye and turn into the teeth of the prevailing wind. The two plod on, reaching the eponymous fence, pausing to swig water and take in the sunlit sea below.
Moments later they’re heading back, the blast of April’s breath ruffling their shirts. They’re grinning, still chatting easily, soaking up this easy morning. Their long miles are behind them, banked after weeks of icy, wet, windswept battles on the naked Sussex hills and in the muddy, rock-strewn valleys. They swap opinions as to just how tough will be the grind of the Yellow Brick Road today, full-on into the unrelenting gale. They laugh unashamedly, no sympathy for their London brethren; their dues are paid. The long climb up from Saltdean and into Rottingdean passes gently. Both men dislike the hill, but today it is no more than a bump on a log, a minor inconvenience to be discarded under steady, even paces.
The Marina appears in the near distance, a shade under seven miles after the start. The wind blows harder, the gods giving full vent to their anger at the disrespect shown by these two lazy lopers. The men grin wider. They are comfortable, running easily. They are happy, they are feeling good, feeling strong.
They are ready.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
My 4th Marathon in as many years - you'd think I'd've got used to this by now.
Fat chance. I'm stuffing my face at every opportunity; chocolate bars, wine gums, service station sandwiches, the occasional beer . . . embracing all those bad habits that got me into a Lardy state in the first place. I know this is all part of the process but it still feels alien.
Planning a very gentle plod with the hounds on the Downs later today.
As much to relieve the tension as to spin the legs. I'm off work for the rest of the week now; lots of 'Honey Do' items on the agenda - clearing the first pond weed of the season, re-potting a few pond plants, getting in a stock of summer fish food, helping Phoebe prepare for her SATS, finding something nice for the Memsahib for her birthday. All worthwhile distractions, but every now and then my mind wanders off towards the weekend. Travel plans are set (I still don't have a hotel room - that'll be sorted out today :o ). I secured the required Doctor's letter on Monday.
The Doc welcomed me in with cheery grin, expressing admiration when I told him why I'd come in.
'You know, it's very hard to say if you're fit enough to take part in a marathon. You've obviously been training, but if you set off like a hare you could blow up after ten miles.' Helpful.
'There again you could be extremely unfit, walk the course and finish fairly easily.' Hmm, yes, well, if you could just write the letter . . .
Sensing my impatience he took out a piece of Practice letterhead and started to scrawl reference numbers, the date, my name and address.
'Of course, it plays havoc with the knees and ankles. You've had some trouble with those in the past, yes?'
He knows the answer of course. My recent medical history, details of the repeat syringing of my hammered right knee (Sunday league ending tackle) and ligament damage to both ankles (Five-a-side) no doubt now flashing urgently on his computer screen.
I explained my training strategy, all off-road, grassy plods, kind to the joints, good for the heart and lungs. He agreed, a wise choice – except for the dangers of rabbit scrapes and the occasional hidden ankle-trap. I drew a steady, deep breath, resisting the urge to leap at him screaming just write the sodding letter you stethoscope-weilding moron! You don’t know me from Adam, how could you possibly know whether or not I’m OK to run 26.2 miles? Write the letter, take your fee, next patient please, move along! Nothing to see here . . .
‘Yes, ha-ha! Guess that’s why I’ve developed a stoop, watching out for all those hazards . . .'
What on Earth possessed me to say that?? Please, just sign the paper, I’ll fill in the rest . . .
Scribble, scrawl, slashed signature.
‘Better use the stamp, the French like stamps’.
Yes, please, use the stamp.
'If you keel over half way round, we never had this conversation, right?'
He's grinning - this is humour. Grin back.
'You ain't seen me - roight?' I tap my nose in the manner of the Fast Show character.
In the end, no fee, a hearty ‘good luck’ and I’m on my way.
Let me share the contents of the letter. I have no idea what the Parisian authorities will make of it.
‘I am the medical attendant to the above.
He is fit to run marathon races.’
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
5 gentle, easy miles this evening across the sunlit downs.
What a contrast to my last outing here just ten days ago, when visibility was down to a few metres (see photos below).
Planet Rock provided an almost flawless soundtrack to my journey. Born to Run took me up the steepest outward climb, That's Entertainment strummed away as I surveyed the magnificence of a bright Sussexscape basking in the late spring sunshine, scattered white clouds casting lazy shadows across the plains.
Homeward bound off the Cap I ran a quick systems check. Everything seemed in good working order. I felt full of beans, bouncing along the dry yet yielding grassy trails; plenty more gas in the tank, exactly the feeling I was hoping for. Rush covered Cream (in turn covering Robert Johnson), offering an excellent and hitherto unheard (by me) version of Crossroads. I thought it would be pretty hard to top that. I opened the gate to the last sheepfield, Lewes shining below me under the white chalk of The Cliff, the Ouze river wandering off towards Newhaven, the lofty perch of Firle Beacon climbing in the distance. The first silken strains of Stairway to Heaven filled my ears. I smiled; thank you, Gods of Rock, this is some send-off.
The hounds joined me for the last mile, trotting happily, tongues lolling as we set off for home. Bonham joined Page as Plant pondered the bustle in the hedgerow; I picked up the pace to match the musics' mood. By the time we'd passed the water station, into the descent to Hawkenbury Way, Zeppelin were in full flow, the power of the finale the perfect soundtrack to my pounding tread. Still I held back, resisting the urge to lengthen my stride and sprint the last few hundred metres. Round the last corner, onto the tarmac and the crescendo began to fade, the final soft intonation floating through my head as I reached the gate.
A beautifully timed finish to one of the best short runs I can remember.
A few stretches, a couple of glasses of water and a change of togs. Now, the Masters preview, Arsenal to turn over the Old Lady in Turin and a good night's kip.
I might just slip on Lou Reed's Perfect Day before I turn in.
[SIZE="1"][COLOR="RoyalBlue"]Two from last week, two from today:
What a difference a week makes.[/COLOR][/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I had a short run yesterday that also went well. I didn't end up quite so jubilant as you, but it was about as good as I could have hoped. Nothing today, but I plan to have another brief round-the-blocker tomorrow morning, and that will be that until Sunday.
Weather forecast is pretty perfect for Paris on Sunday, I see (according to the BBC). 10 Celsius, 1mph wind, dry, cloudy but with a little sunshine. Sounds just right. Zurich is shown as rainy, no sunshine, 7 Celsius but no wind either. Not too keen on the idea of rain, as 4 out of my last 5 races have been teeming. Let's hope it holds off till the afternoon.
Good luck.
Andy
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
andy Wrote:Weather forecast is pretty perfect for Paris on Sunday, I see (according to the BBC). 10 Celsius, 1mph wind, dry, cloudy but with a little sunshine. Sounds just right. Zurich is shown as rainy, no sunshine, 7 Celsius but no wind either.
Way too cold for me. Brrr. Good luck guys - keep warm.
Sheesh, no wonder you people drink so much Guinness.
Thanks chaps.
I don't mind the rain . . . Or the cold . . . Or the wind.
Just not all together. Conditions sound good, but based on the Beebs' forecasts for my last few outings I'll pack for all weathers.
One more plod on Friday afternoon, a couple of street miles in Paris.
See y'all next week.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Big cities seem to generate their own body heat, never more so than in the dark shadows of the night. Off the main arterial routes capilliaries feed the heart of the city with the invasive pulse of Willy Nelson's beloved Nightlife. Vehicles tear-arse up the narrowest of avenues, horn-honking drivers shaking clenched fists at the unsteady nightclub flotsam peppering the cobbled streets. 26 hours before the official start of my quest the City of Love delivers a nocturnal cacophony to my sweltering boudoir.
It's 5am and I lie awake to ponder that in life you often get what you pay for, and in my case, what you deserve. I've been so laid back about this trip it's a wonder I'm here at all, much less enjoying the safety and (relative) comfort of a room a mere casual fling of Asterix's flint axe from the Champs Elysee. L'Hotel Elysee, one of no less than ten boasting in full or in part the name of that fabled boulevard, nestles cozily at 100 Rue de Boitiel. It's cheap, cheerful and delightfully Old Parisien, blessed with a magnificent carpet-walled verticle torpedo (room for one only) masquerading as an elevator. One enters via a solid cast-iron swing door and automatic folding glass partition. I expect the floor to drop out just as I approach the highest point, a la James Bond; I plant my size thirteens at the edges to be safe. This is also a building entirely devoid of climate control. My room, perched high above the aforementioned rue, enjoys exceptional double glazing; great for noise reduction, hopeless for circulating cool, breathable air.
It's no use. I'm scheduled to rendezvous with another two Muskateers at 07:30 under the Arch de Triumph, yet another in a long list of arrangements hastily agreed in the late, dark corner of a pub. My two eager companions are Kader, our glorious French-Algerian leader, and fellow Sunday hillrunner and former 3 hours 10 man, Moyleman. There's no time for more zeds, so it's up and at 'em at this witching hour. I scribble some notes on the journey and our early experiences en Paris, but the fine balance between silence and sauna has once again tipped; time to hit the shower and to see what this Saturday morning has to offer.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A very brief update from Paris.
Good conditions (sunny with a gentle breeze) unruly mobs along the route and by far the most chaotic and frenzied start and finish areas you could wish for. Alive and happy and in search of a cool dark pint to celebrate with my fellow Brightonians.
Unofficial (finishing clock) time: 3:57 (if confirmed a PB by around 9 minutes) News just in . . . official chip time 3:52:06
A PB by 14 minutes then. Full Paris report here - pack a snack and a sleeping bag, it's a long'un . . .
Barman . . . doubles all round.
Let the re-hydration commence . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Wow! What a great race - at least your time was great, still waiting to read your full report. That is so fantastic...you must be feeling pretty good. All those hills in training paid off. Way to go.
I bet you're enjoying a few pints right now! You deserve it. I look forward to reading all about the race, but again, Congratulations!
Thanks Suzie. The report will take a couple of days to sort out.
N'er a drop has passed my lips . . . I'm still hoping for good news from Zurich.
If that comes in, boy it's gonna be a hot time in the old town tonight . . .
Thanks again. Looking forward to cheering you on in London
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
...and the record books have been ripped up - nay, vraiment détruits - in Paris as well.
What an incredible achievement, Sweder, to improve so much in your 4th marathon.
Perfect vindication of your training strategy and the final proof that less brawn and more shrewd brain really can and does mean so much more.
Many Congratulations. That was an incredible run, and I look forward to reading all about it. and to re-living yours and Andy's great PBs in a suitably supplied venue very soon ...
