Eleven-fifteen on a warm, sunny Sunday morning.
I’m chugging wearily over the crest of Wilson’s Avenue, the splendour of the Brighton Racecourse grandstand hogging the horizon to my right, a shimmering English Channel below and ahead.
I am in pain. Muscle-burning, joint-mangling, teeth-clenching pain.
Behind me a shade over fifteen hard, hilly miles; somewhere below and to the east Chris and Welsh Paul are hammering along the Gallops and across East Brighton Park. They’ve been kind, these two; shown compassion, slowed to what to them must’ve seemed like a crawl to accommodate my cumbersome lumbering, finally free to finish in style following my Oates-like detour. Perspiration pours from my brow, down my already-drenched torso and across the sweat-slick fabric of my shorts to splash off my shuffling, battered legs.
Some two and a half hours ago I’d forseen this very moment. With the news that my only companions were to be a rapidly strengthening Moyleman and the horribly fit Welsh Paul came the realisation that I was in for a tough morning.
For the first six or seven miles I held my own, head down, arms pumping, breathing hard but controlled. We’d scaled Telscombe Tye, crossed the hogsback west towards the Snake only to take a forty-five degree diversion north across sheep fields towards Breaky Bottom Farm (real name) and the North Face. I’d even managed to keep relatively close up that unforgiving ascent, calf muscles burning, lungs heaving in protest. We’d stayed adjacent on the sheltered pathway behind the house with superlative views, running strongly into the exposed fields beyond, a cooling sou’ wester sweeping up the hillside and into our ruddy faces.
Somewhere on the endless, mind-numbing slog up the Yellow Brick Road I’d let them get away from me. I’d paused – oh folly! – to snap a shot of the two and by the time my cam-phone was safely stashed they were fifty yards ahead. The gap grew and I settled into my own rhythm, resigned to my fate. I trailed them up that long, straight concrete path, over the collection of false summits and around the corner to the top of the hills overlooking Kingston and the Lewes valley. The lads had paused, in part to let me catch up but mostly so Chris could point out the first section of the Big W. We loped across the ridge, Chris describing the rapid descent, the cut-back through the copse some three hundred feet below and the long grinding climb up the flint and chalk track.
‘Blimey’ – Paul – ‘I’d not noticed the spectacular views. We’re usually 'heads down' and going for it by now.’ The ‘we’ referred to would be Paul and the other super-fit swine, Irish Micheal. These two could easily race these hills for fun and not break sweat; it’s obscene when you think about it.
‘See what you hares miss’ I offered through gritted teeth, bent double, hands rested on grumbling knees as sweat cascaded off my forhead like water leaking from a cheap motel shower.
A few hundred yards further on we came to the second of the drops, the third stroke of the ‘W’. I offered a silent prayer of thanks that we’d decided against adding this particular feature to today's carnival of fun. There had been some crazy talk about including the valley and the Snake, too. The cloudless blue skies and relentless burning sun had fried such nonsense before we’d started, and again I thanked my lucky stars. By now, some ten miles in, my legs were showing signs of rebellion.
Chris and Paul pulled ahead once more and I let them go; no point in breaking something on a training run. On past the drop into Death Valley and up the gently curving spine of the range. My companions continued to pull away, now just blurred figures in the distance, one all in black, the other white. Past the entrance to the nature reserve that leads to the foothills of the Snake and on up the steady climb to the Snake’s head. I calculated that by missing out the drop through the valley and the Serpent’s two-mile track we’d cut around three miles off of the standard nineteen mile pre-Paris 'regular'. Up ahead the black figure had blurred slightly into the white figure, like a 1950’s version of a Mastercard ad.
The penny had dropped with Chris and Paul - they didn’t wait for me at the main road crossing, setting an impressive pace along the muddy track leading to the Racecourse. By the time I’d crossed the road and splashed into my first filthy puddle they were gone.
So here I am, thundering down Wilson’s, momentum more from the effects of gravity on my spent carcass than from any effort of mine. Although my legs ache, that dull, tired ache that demands hot baths and pampering, my lungs remain steadfast. I’m happy with this; usually I’m playing aerobic catch-up – I can live with (and work on) under-trained legs.
By the time I reach my truck Chris is already towelled down and half changed into his ‘civvies’. We take off for Mac’s café and a well-earned cuppa, to talk of the Jog Shop Jog and the challenges to come. I’ll sleep well tonight, no doubt dreaming of running from flowing, bubbling lava streaming down the steep, slippery slopes of some endless, violently-errupting volcano. And I'll smile in my sleep, coz it won't feel half as tough as those last few hundred metres at eleven-thirty this morning.
Something approaching sixteen miles in around two hours thirty.
More midweek hill fun to follow.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I'd planned a swift five to ease the crippling agonies in my post-Sunday pins this bank holiday Monday, but my girls had other ideas.
'Lets go for a cycle ride to the Anchor pub . . . blah blah blah blah . . . '
Pub. That's all I wanted to hear; pub.
So we set sail, a convoy of three, for the five mile pedal through Offham, into Barcombe and on down to the riverside haven that is the Anchor. A small, cottage-style hostelry serving Harveys from the barrel and the usual pub grub fayre, the Anchor offers boats for hire - four to six-person skiffs - on an hourly basis. Families, loving couples, unloving couples, people of all ages rent these mottley craft for an hours' paddling before getting stuck into an afternoon on the pub lawn. We sat alongside the moorings, giggling cruelly as each adventurous crew got to grips with the operation of paddles and the appropriate distribution of ballast.
'No Mum! YOU sit at the back - you're the heaviest!'
'Oi! Watch it or you'll get a clip - ooeer!'
'Steady! Sit down, woman! Boys - keep quiet! Sit still!'
Ah, the calming pleasures of messing about on the river . . .
A couple of swift pints and a Chilli Gone Barmy later we re-mounted and pushed off for home, traversing hilly, tree-shaded pathways through sunlit Sussex fields and villages. It's been a while since I cycled anywhere, let alone ten miles. Quite apart from tired legs screaming at the effort required to climb some of the hills it was my derriere that suffered the most. Bicycle seats must have been invented by the Marquis des Sade; they are clearly designed to inflict maximum discomfort. Frankly I'd much rather run. Let the record show that we passed no fewer than six pubs to get home. I almost wept . . .
And so it was back to running this morning, taking advantage of a cool, partly cloudy start to the day. What relief to have my feet back on terra firma. Despite the expected soreness in the calves and thighs I enjoyed myself, embracing the steady thud of heavy footfalls on the rain-softened turf. Woolly grazers were everywhere today - I spent several minutes shackling and un-shackling the hounds - and, as is synchronicity's wont, Planet Rock provided the perfect soundtrack. Pink Floyd's Sheep was followed by Gensis and The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. I couldn't help but smile as I chugged up WMH. I paused at the summit, warm and breathless, staring across to Blackcap. Yet more sheep scattered librally across the hills, ground-hugging dirty four-legged clouds peppering the route. Perhaps we should turn back? Four miles would be OK after Sunday's punishment . . .
Beware the Siren Song! I banished such weak thoughts; there's nothing to be gained by taking shortcuts.
Back on the leads went the dogs and together we clambered up the escarpment to the Cap, sheep scattering ahead of us. My thighs burned towards the summit but I grinned (grimaced?) through it, enjoying a recovery moment overlooking the plains of Sussex and Kent. With the breeze at our backs the homeward trip was a blur. Untethererd the dogs knew the score, showing admirable restraint as fluffy balls of temptation cavorted and scampered across our path. Lost in music, subconsciously scanning the trail for treacherous rocks, I let my legs dictate the pace, even managing a burst of speed up the final hill to the stables.
Home in around fifty hot, sweaty and happy minutes.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder, as I mentioned before, your ongoing commitment to weekly runs well into double figures, come rain or shine, is admirable. Are you going to follow a training plan for the Two Oceans? How far do you expect to go in training runs for a 35 miler?
Good question, Dan.
Basically I'm currently training for the Jog Shop Jog - that's a twenty miler, hilly and tough in mid-October - not far off a marathon in terms of effort required. Once past that I plan to keep going into the winter with long runs in excess of twenty miles. Rather than extend the long runs I hope to include one or two ten mile-plus midweek runs. If I stay injury-free I'll look to up the long runs from February onwards. The longest I can envisage would be around five hours - something in the region of thirty miles.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
If the JSJ is hard 'n' hilly then it sounds like you are wise to treat it with respect, rather than "just" a 20-miler (20 miles seeming to be around the magic distance that separates marathoning from just normal running).
Long runs over 20 miles is the territory of the serious serial marathon runner rather than the once-in-a-lifetime Hal Higdon acolyte. Getting up to 30 miles means training runs that wipe you out for a whole day. Heavy shit, man. Good luck!
A so-so five this morning. The conditions were perfect - cloudless skies, a strong, cool breeze from the west, dry but yielding underfoot. Just a bit of a dull run, really. I'd expected a battle into the wind and I got one, but reciprocity went AWOL when it came to the anticipated wing-heeled hammer home. Oh well, maybe next time. Tomorrow's a day off from the hills, so perhaps Friday will yield a more encouraging result.
So ends a pretty good month, running-wise.
Injury-free, a few toughies, a race and plenty of stock runs to build up the leg miles. September brings its own dark clouds; travel looms large on the horizon, with long-haul trips to Asia and the FSU in the second half of the month. I need to cram as much quality running as I can into the next two weeks without risking burn-out or injury. A fine but necessary juggling act; experience shows that despite best intentions running whilst working on big overseas events goes all back-of-the-bus.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
