It is the month of June,
The month of leaves and roses
When pleasant sights salute the eyes,
And pleasant scents the noses.
[SIZE="1"]N P Willis[/SIZE]
You could have fooled me.
The only scent assaulting my proboscis this lunchtime arrived courtesy of my baked-bean laden cooked breakfast, prepared by Mrs S in honour of my return from Hamburg.
Luckily the warm day assured by the BBC Weather folk last night failed to materialise.
My plod up to BlackCap was all the more bearable for a cool and fairly strong wind (in addition to my own in-house propulsion). I'm happy with the run, tough as it was. A couple of late nights supping ale (and various debilitating chasers) in dubious company should have taken a far greater toll; yet this 'less is more' mantra I've been running to lately seems to have legs.
Five hilly, windy miles in a shade under fifty minutes - as 'quick' as anything I've managed post-Paris. Will June be a month for stepping things up a notch? Don't be silly. Yet I feel if I can just string a handful of outings together without the occasional heavy session I will make decent progress.
Fat chance then. Happy June everyone.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Another gorgeous sunrise early on a Sunday morning.
I've just realised that BB embarked on his epic mountainous journey along the Travesía Integral de los Montes Aquiianos yesterday. This makes my worries over this mornings’ slightly bumpy 21k somewhat churlish; none-the-less my hypochondria swims to the surface like a malevolent beast from the deep.
I made my mind up a day or so ago to have a crack at the Seaford Half this morning. Since then I’ve suffered a runny nose, sore throat and all manner of intestinal rebellion. It’s probably self-preservation, the last week being more like an end-of-term student junket than a taper, yet still I’m excited at the prospect of waddling along to the Seaford Rugby Club to pin on a race number in the next half hour.
It’s going to be a very warm and rather hilly excursion.
Good luck to Rog, Chris, Mike, Sue and everyone else stepping out in the Land of the Plodder this morning.
Who knows, we may even catch a glimpse of the Great Man
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A warm, hilly half marathon is just the sort of run to find you out if you're out of form.
On a scale of one to ten I’m about a five – not hopeless but far from my best.
The NPS Lions (Seaford) Half Marathon is a cracking local race.
Just over 400 entrants (more than half of those on the day) make this a cosy little adventure. I’d heard tell of this race from my fellow Sunday runners, rolled-eyed talk of steep hills and stunning valleys, of a high quality course with room to run. My preparation had been tardy to say the least; a week on the lash in Hamburg following similar pursuits in Glasgow and Houston. I’d managed to squeeze in the occasional plod but I knew as I gazed into the bathroom mirror this morning this one was going to hurt.
One of the many pleasures of taking part in a local event is you recognise some of your fellow runners. I’d arranged to meet up with Rog and Chris and was delighted to see Remy and Jill arrive, closely followed by another Sunday whippet, Mike. Sue, a recent convert to running at whose house I’d enjoyed fine hospitality yesterday evening – Paella, Guinness, Rioja – strolled along with her fit-looking training partners.
Somewhere close to 9 am the starter appeared on the Rugby Club steps.
No electronic gizmos here – he simply bellowed to the assembled runners.
‘Make your way to the start – it’s just along the road a bit. I’ll see you there.’
We drifted off en mass, the chatter rising easily into the cloud-streaked blue of a beautiful June sky. Visitors speckled the sea-side path, bemused by the shuffling procession of numbered souls ambling west as if called by the Moorlocks in the Time Machine. Another brief yelling session from our starter, a blast on his ref’s whistle and we were away.
I’d resolved to start super-slow, to build gradually and see how things went.
Why is this so hard to do? Men of greater mental strength than me confess to failure in the heat of the run. It’s so annoying, and potentially so destructive. A mile in I found myself chugging along at a decent pace, Chris and Rog either side of me, already climbing from sea level into the downs that would be our host for the next two hours. The route continued up, growing steadily steeper without respite. Some of the early hares had already started to walk up the narrow trail, causing a traffic-jam. Chris dropped a cog, accelerating through the long grass along side the path. Rog followed, as did I, passing a great number of walking runners. We reached a gate, the cause of further congestion, Chris vaulting the adjacent fence. Again Rog and I followed, and for the first time today I wondered what the hell I thought I was doing. A mile later, still ascending, I realised I’d have to stop. My breathing was ragged, too fast and ineffective. A loose lace offered me an easy out, and I took my time to secure my right boot as my mind raced.
OK, let’s start this again.
I could still see Chris and Rog moving steadily towards the summit. I shook my sweat-soaked head, staying down on one knee; I’d have to let them get right out of sight or I’d be trying to catch them for the next ten miles, a fruitless mission with one likely, unpleasant outcome.
I stood up, noticing the 3 mile marker just ahead.
Nice and easy, steady pace, run to your breathing pattern.
Mercifully the blistering heat, the cause of much concern this morning, had yet to materialise, the hazy high cloud doing a sterling job of blocking out the sharpest rays. I took advantage of each drinks station, sipping water for much of the journey. The circuit took us across from Bishopstone to the South Downs Way along the Greenway Track. Here, around five miles in, the undulations settled. We approached the Cuckmere River along the SDW, the riverbanks bedecked with tall lush grass and burgeoning shrubs.
Despite recent record rainfall the riverside path remained cracked and dry, uncomfortable for those who selected road shoes for what was to be a dry run. A regular on the downland tracks I’d pulled on my Addidas Climacool Adventure Team Series offroaders – slogan: Destination Anywhere. They coped admirably with the twists and turns of the rutted track, and finally I felt my body settling down to a steady rhythm.
The Cuckmere Valley is a veritable wonderland of natural beauty, teaming with life. To either side the Sussex Downs loomed above us, great guardians watching over our colourful procession. I realised we’d have to climb the hills to our right before the finish; the last mile and a half would crest the Eighth Sister, Seaford Head, before dropping dramatically alongside the 18th at the municipal golf course, described by no less a connoisseur than Peter Alliss as one the most beautiful golfing views in England.
A detour through the gorgeous village of Alfriston brought us into momentary contact with the world of Man. Buses squeezed through the narrow streets, pedestrians dicing with trouble as they wobbled along the constricted pavements. The scene had me thinking that everyone and everything was holding their/ its breath as traffic jousted with people for the right of way. Our strung-out band of puffing runners wormed our way through, thankful for the brevity of our visit as the route returned us to the peaceful riverside.
Shortly after the 8 mile mark I caught up with Jill and we chatted about the day and future races. Jill and Remy have committed to taking part in the Windmill Marathon, a brutal hilly 26 miler held in the potentially debilitating month of July. There’s a Fifteen that literally runs alongside the race; I suspect this might be more my cup of tea. We zig-zagged across the A259, passing that great tourists favourite The Golden Galleon pub. A handful of walkers, no doubt ready to set off for a pre-pub lunch stroll, scattered gentle applause as we wove through the car park.
The climb up the Head was short and steep, though much less so that the fearsome western ascent. Back on concrete for a few hundred metres I recalled the Yellow Brick Road of our long runs in March. I applied the same approach today as I do to that tough section; head down, chug along, never look for the end (which I knew would appear way too far off until I actually got there). At the summit we turned left, heading for the perilous cliff tops. To our right golfers meandered along fairways kept tight by local rabbits, their cheery, relaxed countenance at odds with our puffing, sweaty endeavour.
Another right hand turn along the cliff top path, the trail rising once more.
As we approached the end of this elevated section it occurred to me we’d be hammering down a severe drop to sea level any time now. My left achillies, a constant source of niggle all day, issued a timely reminder that a fell-runners descent was not on the cards. As Jill put the hammer down, embracing the chance to blast down the slope, I reigned in, taking great care to keep a steady footing on the rutted ground.
Below me Seaford seafront stretched out to the west, heading for Newhaven and Brighton beyond. This truly is a breathtaking view, one that is very hard to do justice in pictures. I snapped a couple anyway as one or two brave souls plunged past me, hair flying, arms waving wildly to maintain an illusion of balance.
The last few hundred sea level metres took me past the new beach huts, wooden constructions replacing the ugly pebble-dashed concrete blocks resident for as many years as anyone can remember. I know this stretch well – this is the home of Seafront Plodder, the flat, sea-breeze-cooled pavement that he and I first tread in the January of 2003, our first London Marathon still four months away. I’d looked for SP today to no avail. No doubt off beating tennis balls to a pulp somewhere, or maybe wallowing on his sofa contemplating the first beer of the day.
Finally, the finish line, and a purple-ribboned medal offered by no less a dignitary than the Lady Mayor. Thank you, your worship; where’s the bloody bananas? I’m famished!
Finished in a shade over two hours, but to be honest very happy to have got round at all. Chris was waiting, fully recovered and grinning manically. He and Rog had come in well under two hours, Rog already headed for the car and a change of togs. We followed suit, in no way deterred by this early Sunday hour; we would find and consume Guinness! And of course we did, with grateful thanks to the (cough-cough) public house for granting early sanctuary to thirsty lost souls.
A huge ‘thank you’ too to the wonderful marshals and helpers at the numerous water stations. The course, as you might imagine, rambles a long way from habitation, yet the fine folks of Seaford hauled and dragged water containers to all parts of the circuit to ensure our hydration. We salute you.
[SIZE="1"]Photos LtoR: Chris(Mike)Ash; Starter; Early climbs; Cuckmere; Last descent; Rehydration: Rog/Chris/Jill/Remy;Ash for Remy[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
andy Wrote:Crikey. You need a night out with SP to feel better about yourself
He's having one soon Andy, there's no need to worry on that score!
I would have come down this morning Sweder, but today's my sister's birthday so it was all over to hers for a barbie and a grin. Early start and all that.
Well done on the race though. I know the route well, and many of the (crampons required) climbs are indeed extremely long and steep. Your time shows that you've not really lost anything since Paris, despite what you may say.
Yes, MLCMan, I too was concerned. But I reckon there's an off-set in evidence - study those two photos one more time . . .
You're right about the crampons SP. Sadly I do know how tough it was for me compared with Rog. We usually run well together but I couldn't keep up with the old scrote yesterday I should also mention that Sue G came home in 2:25 which I thought was an excellent achievement. She trains mostly on reasonably flat road runs - the first and last few miles in Seaford must have seemed like a new circle of hell for her.
Roll on the 16th!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Looks like my perceived hyperchondria was nothing of the sort.
Summer grass-heads have conspired with a mystery bug to put the kaibosh on my notoriously weak chest and by default my training
Hopefully back on track by the weekend.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Still hampered by this most annoying and stuborn cough.
Of course it's pure coincidence that this unexpected lay-off should coincide with a large football tournament and copious amounts of beer.
I just can't wait for that first red-hot hilly plod to Blackcap . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
No, not a campaign against hippies.
I need to get back out there for fear of never running again.
It'll be hot, sweaty, wobbly . . . not one for the purists.
But it has to be done
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
As expected a tough return for the Sussex native this lunchtime.
Five obdurate miles. It took until the half way mark for me to realise that the wind had sneaked round to gently nudge me along on the outward section. This was all too apparent as I set off for home, struggling in a portly fashion along climbs that seemed a little longer and a little steeper than I remember. With unkempt hair, hunched style and fuller figure I must have cut quite a dash on the hillside, an overweight hybrid of Ian McKellen and the mop-headed founder of Live Aid The Lewesian Wizard: Bob Gandalf.
Still, its five miles, and as were so often told, a win is a win.
Ill perform better, thats for sure.
At least I, unlike others, have plenty of time to improve.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Cheers SW.
Yep, Seaford Half is annual (June) - they held a hilly 10k two weeks ago but I was left clutching my inhaler around that time and missed out. Planning The Comeback part Deux this evening. All this World Cup beer testing has added serious bulk to an already comfortable frame; time to pay up
Bad luck to the Sheileroos this afternoon.
I spent the entire match on a combination of the M25 and the M23 in the company of Five Live. Sounds like yet another refereeing effigy for the Lewes Bonfire - what a shame the officials are hell-bent on ruining what could well be the best World Cup tournament for some time.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Do you hear that?
That cacophony of flapping, squawking fowl . . . ?
Chickens coming home to roost. Loads of ‘em.
Sat in The Rainbow pub (excellent eatery in Cooksbridge, all old wooden tables, stone flag floors and subtle wall lights) last night with Mike, an old friend from the States, chomping on Ditchling Lamb and supping Stickleback Cab Sav, it dawned on me that June is almost gone. I’ve recorded one significant run in June, having vowed (silently) to return to ‘full action’ in July.
Stood in front of the bathroom mirror this morning the full impact of the first two phases of World Cup slobbery was all too evident. Well-ah, when reality bites you have to respond, so I threw on the gear and head for the hills. Hot, airless hills they were, unforgiving, dressed in full summer finery. Grass-heads waved lazily, taunting my huffing, puffing frame as I lumbered through the early miles. A prolonged walk break to the peak of Wicker Man Hill helped to slow my ragged breathing. Drops of sweat splashed from my brow onto the unwelcome veranda around my middle like summer rain on an old abandoned tyre. The dogs shot me sideways glances, unsure if they should encourage me to go on or just turn tail and head home. It’s a big carcass to drag back.
I did manage to complete a Blackcap circuit (in a shade over 65 minutes) but rarely has five miles felt less accomplished. I’m grateful to my neighbours for keeping a low profile as I hobbled through my front gate.
A lot of work to be done here, and it starts now.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A fan of TMS in its pomp (circa Jonners, Trevor bailey et al) I adored Trueman for his gnarled dismissals of Englands bowling attack. 'Fiery' Fred was the nemesis of many an ambitious batsman, bowling with genuine pace and hostility at a time when most county cricketers were little more than fast-medium by today's standards. He certainly didn't suffer fools (or anyone else, really) gladly.
'In ma day . . . line n length . . .' I can hear his grumpy, grumbling voice as I type. God bless you Fred.
I'll be raising a glass of Spitfire to you this afternoon, old boy.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
