Five Steamy Miles - [SIZE="1"]2nd July 2006[/SIZE]
'Another' struggle across the sweltering Downs tonight.
Carrying post-glug bottles of Duvel, Orvel and Leffe I head off with i-Pod and dogs to pay my dues. For details of the physical effort and subsequent unpleasant dripping, see the last run logged in June Bugs.
A year ago today I raced Haile Gebrselassie in the British 10K. It was the day before the dramatic announcement of a glorious British sporting victory – the 2012 Olympic games awarded to London.
My run today was somewhat less salubrious.
My canine companions suffered in the heat, managing the occasional spurt of speed as rabbits frolicked on the late evening, teasing the hounds with their bobbing bunny-girl bottoms. The i-Pod, set to 'shuffle', seemed to be on a mission, hell-bent on forcing me home for an early bath. I chugged up the first climb behind the house waiting for musical inspiration.
First up? In My Time Of Dying, Led Zeppelin.
In my time of dying, (don't) want nobody to mourn
All I want for you to do is take my body home
They’ll need some vehicle to shift my lardy ass if I peg out on this hill tonight . . .
I plodded on gamely, wheezing like a 60-a-day smoker. I thought of the heart-wrenching anti-smoking ads first seen last year featuring relatives of people serioulsy damaged by The Weed.
I imagined a similar scenario based on runners who've succumbed to the charms of their sofas:
(Cue small girl in dance costume twiddling her fingers looking upset)
‘I really wanted my Dad to be able to see me dance in this competition’ she tells the invasive camera. ‘But he can’t – he’s drunk so much beer watching football on telly he’s still out on his flippin’ run . . .’
Led Zep finished off the track with a rare end-of-song gag. Instead of singing ‘Oh don’t you make it my dyin’ dyin’ dyin’ day’ Plant sings ‘dyin’ dyin’ dyin’ Cough. Synchronicity, good people.
OK, I’m facing the hard part – the start of Wicker Man Hill, and this time I’m going to bloody well run all the way, dripping lard or not. I need something inspirational, up-beat . . .
Tom Petty, Breakdown.
Super.
Blink 182 did their perky best, belting out Another Girl, Another Planet.
I like Blink 182, much to the horror of my 17-year-old son who has ‘outgrown’ such nonsense.
It’s his loss.
Space travel's in my blood
And There ain't nothing I can do about it
Long journeys wear me out
Oh God You know we wont live with out it
Ok, maybe not.
There followed a good dose of back-to-back Girlschool, excellent driving rock n roll – this did the trick and before long I’d rounded the ‘Cap and headed for home.
I can’t say it was pretty or in any way a return to form, but it was a run.
Five steamy miles in fifty-five minutes; the first of a few this week, I hope.
Happy Independence Day for Tuesday everyone.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Whoa, let the sun beat down upon my face
And stars to fill my dream
I am a traveller of both time and space
To be where I have been
Another painful plod this morning.
I left it late – too late; I should have set off before seven, but thanks to the outlandish humidity the previous night - and the resulting lack of sleep - I failed to get up in time. Shortly after nine as the grass-heads brushed my legs I could feel the temperature rising, almost step by step. The freshness of the morning breeze evaporated as I climbed the scorched hills, replaced by an eerie stillness as the Earth braced itself for another blistering attack from Apollo.
I ran steadily, the i-Pod once more providing shuffled accompaniment for my sweaty labour. Wicker Man Hill rose before me, a daunting challenge at the best of times; this morning it seemed insurmountable. I reached the summit and gazed across the valley to Blackcap. Sheltering in the shade of a thornbush I looked at the hounds; four tongues lolled as we struggled for air. This was madness; there’s nothing to be gained by dragging them through the extra mile, nothing for them and nothing for me.
Reluctantly I turned for home a half-mile short of the Cap.
I hate quitting on a planned distance- it can be more habit-forming than a line of speed before breakfast. Under the circumstances I reasoned this to be a good ploy; save a bit and run again before the weekend. Chugging back down Wicker Man Hill I noted the desperate scrapings of juvenile rabbits alongside the well-worn path; looks like it’s not just human youngsters struggling for starter homes this summer.
A mile from home a familiar refrain started up in my headphones. How apt! As I surveyed the scorched fields around me, the rising haze adding a bizarre desert-like quality to the view, the rhythmic pounding of Kashmir carried me home. Carlsberg don’t make metronomes, but if they did they’d probably be set to the rhythm of Kashmir.
Oh, all I see turns to brown
As the sun burns the ground
And my eyes fill with sand
As I scan this wasted land
Four sweltering miles.
Enough to get a decent sweat on, followed by an indecent stretching session.
Another handful of these and I’ll be back in the groove;
I just might need to run them at midnight.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Banked another hilly five this lunchtime.
Once again I struggled, but I’m much happier with the effort. Allowing myself no walk-breaks on the outward circuit, I paused only to suck down some fluids on the homeward summit of Wicker Man hill.
My regular run starts and finishes in fields now used for sheep-grazing and dog-walking, known locally as Landport Bottom. The name is significant in British parliamentary history, for it was in this very field on the 14th of May in 1264 that the armies of Simon de Montfort and King Henry III shed rivers of blood in the fight for the right to rule this land.
De Montfort’s men suffered brutally under the mounted attacks from Henry’s cavalry, losing the entire left wing of their rebel force. However, spurred by the belief that man should have a say in his own government they fought back, driving the King’s men into the town of Lewes, putting hundreds to the sword even as they turned tail and fled.
The King was forced to call a council of Lords, Churchmen and Merchants. This council, also known as ‘parlement’ (meaning ‘speaking place’, forms the basis of what we know today as the Westminster system of government by Crown, Commons, Bishops and Lords.
Strange to think that here am I, plugged into Led Zeppelin and ACDC, pounding across land soaked with ancient blood shed for the future of our nation. I suspect that any evidence of this struggle – swords, shields, daggers – has long since fallen into the hands of the armies of anoraks with their metal detectors, heads wrapped in large headphones, bodies bent studiously towards the earth.
I set off for home, my own modest earpieces safely affixed, in my bent-forward, loping style. I wondered at the sense of it all on this most poignant of days: 7/7 2006.
Like many who had the opportunity to do so I observed the two-minute’s silence this lunchtime to remember the slain and the maimed from an all too recent battle beneath and on the streets of central London. Once more government, and in particular foreign policy, stood at the heart of the matter as the lives of many were shattered by fanatics dedicated to a cause we find hard to comprehend. So, wherein lies the difference between these modern barbarians and De Montfort’s colourful rebels? Each fought for their heart’s desire against perceived oppression without thought for the human cost in reaching their goals. It seems the moral high ground is held by the victor, yet today such definitions are blurred by ubiquitous media; the lines of battle ever-more smudged in the melee of modern life.
War, in all its forms, is hell; face-to-face with knives and swords or sneaking bombs onto public carriages, t’was ever thus. It seems that in all this time as man has quenched his thirst for knowledge he has in truth learned little about his fellow man. My heart goes out to all affected, injured or bereaved by that most atrocious, indefensible act 12 months ago. My anger turns to those who would rule us with scant regard for the blood-soaked pages of history.
Five hilly miles, overcast, a little rain in the air.
Much improved performance, yet can (and will) do better.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:My anger turns to those who would rule us with scant regard for the blood-soaked pages of history.
And there's the rub....
I agree with just about all you say. We also respected the 2 mins silence today, and your sense of history chimes with mine in most respects. We feel put upon, we feel aggrieved. Why don't they just leave us alone?
And rightly or wrongly, that's what the Palestinians think about the Israelis. Er, and what the Israelis think about the Palestinians.
Why don't they just leave us alone?
It's what the ordinary Iraqi thinks about 'the insurgents', and it's what 'the insurgents' think about US and UK troops.
Why don't they just leave us alone?
It's what the ordinary Afghani thinks about the Taleban, and what the Taleban thinks about the US and UK troops.
Why don't they just leave us alone?
And so on.
We're all chasing our tails, outraged by it all. And our outrage creates anger which causes outrage which causes anger......
On a sad anniversary, let's also mourn the demise of statesmanship, and of humility.
To the feeble-minded, humility equals weakness. The truth is that humility, used wisely, is a very powerful weapon. You can get what the hell you want with it.
The trouble is this: the deployment of humility requires courage.
Our leaders are powerful, but tend not to be courageous. Some people (particularly those very same leaders) get the two things mixed up.
Mahatma Gandhi...... Where are you mate?
---
Well done on your run, Sweder.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Great news from the home of Harveys Best Bitter.
On Friday 4th August, as part of the Lewes Guitar Festival, none other than Hayseed Dixie will play as part of the Mighty Hoedown (together with the Curst Sons and The Von Trolley Quartet).
Might I suggest a possible gathering of RC forumites for a little hillside action followed by an evening of fine ale and bluegrass heavy metal covers? Here's the link for more details . . .
The Gods of running slothdom smiled upon me today.
Resigned to joining the Jog Shop Joggers I awoke before 7, scarfed some toast & honey and a cup of instant coffee – add water; makes its own sauce!* - and waited for the fear to rise.
Three mediocre slogs to Blackcap – well, two; the middle one fell victim to extreme lethargy – er, that is, temperatures – had somehow convinced me I could hang out with the big boys once more. This morning I received a welcome boost, a gift from the gods – wind and rain! How wonderful – a full-scale bluster danced across the hills as I shuffled out to my truck just after 8.30. Light rain lashed the parched ground, weeks of oily residue bubbling up onto the surface of the road.
A small band of adventurers gathered atop the marina – two Pauls, Chris, Steve, Gary and one bloated Sweder. I got my excuses in early, swallowing hard before enquiring of today’s route. The Famous Residences – classic path (that means concrete climb rather than ploughed farmer’s field) a shade over 17 k’s. OK, I can do this.
And I did. It was tough at times, the climbs were brutal, none less so than the hamstring-busting windmill climb two miles from home. But I ran it all, trailing the peloton by a couple of minutes. At times, alone, adrift of the main group, I pondered the earlier exchange with Andy and MLCMan regarding poetry and how Under Milk Wood can be heavy going. Huh, I thought. If you think that’s heavy try some Ted Hughes. Or better still, Vogon. Vogon poetry is, depending on which series you view as definitive, either the second or third most horrible poetry in the universe. Personally I don’t mind it in its written form; I think most damage is done in its recital.
Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits
On a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangle me
with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon
See if I don't.
I finished, exhilarated by the bracing weather and the buzz from the steady effort required to get round. A stretching session followed, then coffee, egg and beans on toast at Mac’s and a soggy ride home, during which I reflected that if pushed I could have squeezed a couple more miles in.
Which is handy, as next Sunday we’re doing a 15 miler.
Including the Snake.
Bring it on.
[SIZE="1"]* Frank Zappa, Joe's Garage[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Keep me posted on the Run, cum getting pie-eyed event.
Should be on holiday that week - holiday @ home that is, revising and what-not.
So it will make a nice end to the week.
Today’s five miler felt a lot like a recovery run.
Heavy legs, aching muscles, tired lungs . . . anyone would think I’d just completed a marathon, not an eleven-mile dawdle. Still, it was always going to hurt a little after weeks of couch-hugging and beer-swilling.
I’ve set myself a ‘bare minimum’ goal of two mid-week runs and a weekend long ‘un. This means a base level of 20 to 25 miles per week on which I am at liberty to build as fitness returns and/ or the mood takes me.
Race-wise I’ve committed to the Jog Shop Jog, a brutal 20-miler in October; otherwise the world’s my lobster. For now I need to work through the niggles and whinges, stay out of trouble (and out of the fridge) and get some in.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Ive set myself a bare minimum goal of two mid-week runs and a weekend long un. [...] For now I need to work through the niggles and whinges, stay out of trouble (and out of the fridge) and get some in.
That's what I call a training plan! Maybe you should write a book...
Yes, but will the plan come together???
I love it when it does . . . (chomps cigar, prepares to sedate Mr T)
And Dan, many congratulations on the arrival of the latest addition to the Marathondanclan. Great pictures, though I'm not allowing the wife to see 'em for obvious, brood-related reasons . . . if she should suddenly get 'inspired' in that direction I wouldn't need an airliner to get to Cape Town . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Legs a little less stiff and painful than Tuesday, but a slow start none-the-less. I managed a full circuit without stopping, though the climbs could accurately be described as pedestrian. Managed to put the foot down for the final mile and a half, coming home in just under 55 minutes. Musical accompaniment from Pink Floyd, Girlschool and the Chilli Peppers run or no, thats no bad way to start the day
A heavy Friday night looms large on the horizon, to be followed by a punishing fifteen on Sunday morning.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
, forms the basis of what we know today as the Westminster system of government by Crown, Commons, Bishops and Lords.
