Another fleet-footed five this morning.
I'd like to have extended it to an eight or ten but pressures of work and child-care demanded a swift return.
Valentine's day/ night was spent nursing Phoebe through a virilant tummy bug, the nemesis of all type one diabetics as it means going without food, making blood sugar control extremely difficult. It was imperative that we keep her out of hospital; as wonderful as our local NHS team are I'd always opt for home care. Happily things are looking up this morning (children have the ability to plummet to death's door in no time only to soar back to rude health almost as quickly).
On the running front I have an apology of sorts for Brookes. Recent posts may have suggested that my Brookes Adrenaline GTXs are somewhat lightweight when it comes to mud-plugging. By way of a fair test I took my old Mizuno Waves out for a spin, only to find they were even less effective in tackling the slimy ascents.
Who'da thunk it :o
Ooh, almost forgot!
Sweder's track du jour: How Many More Times, Led Zeppelin. Wonderful.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Like Andy last weekend I'm having some 'home alone' time.
My girls set off for the delights of Camber Sands and the Len Goodman Latin and Ballroom dance finals, leaving the boys to run (ruin?) the house.
I'd scheduled a dark eight miles along the A27 last night. First I had to pick up a couple of ‘dinners’ from Pizza Express. I'm not generally a fan of fast food chains, but Pizza Express has always had a special place in my heart. Many years ago (circa 1982) my future wife lived at home with her mother who ran a large house, home to a variety of curious tenants. One such was Patrice, a mercurial, ruddy-cheeked French fisherman who liked nothing better than to sail across the channel from his stone cottage on the shores of le Breton, steal our fish, ravage our women and leave an impressive trail of empty red wine bottles in his Gallic wake. During passages of land-locked lasciviousness Patrice would take odd-jobs to fund his habits. One such assignment lead to him preparing and painting an entire restaurant-load of furniture for Kingston (Upon Thames)’s latest eatery, Pizza Express. The venture was new, exciting and promised great pizza (there was a dearth of quality Italian outlets at the time – imagine!). To poorly-paid youths the opportunity to dine well for relatively little, and in the case of Patrice’s close friends occasionally gratis, was too good to pass up. Many a sultry summer's evening was gently frittered away over a freshly-painted cast-iron table (complete with standard wobbly leg) on the outskirts of the burgeoning town (Kingston was still a Royal Borough in those days), with views of The Kingston Mill, a fine Real Ale hostelry, and beyond the majestic leafy banks of the Thames.
These warm memories kept me company last night as I waited at the collection desk in the Lewes branch of this now mighty chain. A variety of young Eastern European staff bustled about, brows furrowed, without seeming to achieve much. My pizzas sat on the counter, core temperature dropping as my anger rose at my apparent invisibility. I’d decided to take my supper and leave when a young man ill-equipped to handle the complexities of a credit card machine attempted to relieve me of payment. I left shaking my head wearily, vowing never to return and bemoaning the inevitable changing of all things beloved for the worse.
Of course, like the Terminator, I’ll be back.
By the time I got home, despite a long, dark run being just what the doctor would have ordered, I just couldn’t be arsed. I hurled Jake’s pizza in his general direction, scooped up a large glass of wine and hit the sofa, a quadrant of Pollo Ad Astra already gripped in my teeth. I punched the remote, at once relieved to be home, warm and comfortable, yet fighting the rising tide of guilt.
Oh well. I’ve stuck religiously to my schedule (such as it is) – a night off won’t kill me. There’s nineteen cruel miles laid out for me on Sunday, including a half marathon race towards the end . . . the justifications came thick and fast, yet on some level the self-flagellation continued. How so? Well, not content with sitting through Alien Resurrection* again in the vain hope I’d find some redemption for the Director in the final chapter (I didn’t), I flicked over to watch most of that well-known giggle fest, Platoon. Thank God for Rock Goes to College on BBC Four - ACDC at Essex College, Colchester, circa 1977 - pure gold.
No miles banked but a welcome night of lazy misery thoroughly enjoyed.
*Fear not, dear reader, I shall refrain from the traditional lament
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Don't worry Sweder, I'll happily say it for you - Alien Resurrection was crap. It was as bad as the original Alien was good. In fact, Alien Resurrection was so bad it made Alien -vs- Predator look good. And that's saying something...
But something's missing from your post. Hmm, music, movies, boys' night in, reminiscences about past decadence, um, pizza ... ah. That's it. No beer...
The Late Mr Swede
How is it with the ladies of the house away, my son off in Brighton at some hedonistic teenage rampage and (for me) an indecently early (and sober) night I end up scrambling around this morning desperately late? Perhaps it was the false sense of security; no tea to make for the missus, no cocoa to make for Phoebe, plenty of time to enjoy some Match of the Day with my coffee and toast.
I made it to the Marina at nine on the dot, cruel and unfortunate demises wished upon any number of dawdling Sunday drivers along the way. A small group gathered at our starting place, most people opting for the Sussex Beacon Half Marathon (starting at 10). Moyleman and I had arranged to do a six mile cliff top lope before the race as a prolonged warm-up/ to add much needed mileage. The first part went pretty well, though we kicked off a good ten minutes after the planned start. Conditions were perfect; cool, overcast, very little wind, the turf dry yet receptive. We ran easily to Saltdean (exactly three miles), returning along the Undercliff, the sea rolling in to throw spray against the beach wall, dog walkers and recreational joggers enjoying the salty morning air.
The Wrong Shoes
Back at the car (to change into clean/ dry, numbered-up shirts, and swap off-roaders for road-runners) I discovered that vital component that, inevitably, I’d left behind; my road shoes. Bugger! The Brighton Half is now entirely on hard standing. Oh well, nothing for it but to run in my Adrenaline offies; that’ll teach me to start the day with my head up my derriere (although why change the habits of a lifetime I hear SP asking). We loped off down the cycle track, both slurping on Hammer Gels, on to Madeira drive and westward towards the start.
‘Pretty quiet up ahead.’
‘Yeah – reckon they’re long gone.’
Our time calculations had not allowed for a late start or the tog-changing. By the time we reached the start/ finish the clock already showed 29:53 elapsed. Sporadic cheers went up from the volunteers preparing the barriers for the finishing straight as the two sleepy-heads chugged into view.
‘That way boys!’
‘Hurry up, you’re well behind!’
‘Come on lads!’
Sam Lambourne turned from his Jog Shop stall to great us with a growl.
‘Where the hell have you two been?’
‘Er, long warm up’.
For the first half mile we were clapped and cheered by the café-dwellers lining the wide Madeira Drive pavements. I have to say we enjoyed the attention – and the open road ahead. The roads had already been re-opened to traffic leaving us to weave along the busy pavements and rely on the remaining marshals to halt traffic to let us cross major roads, but there's a lot to be said for setting off after the main swarm has left. We passed the Brighton Pavilion and St Peter’s Church, Preston Circus, the Duke of York Picture House (one of the finest independent cinemas in England) and the Fire Station before the route doubled back through the lanes. Well into the second mile we caught the first stragglers, a couple of girls running (strolling) for a local hospice.
‘Come on ladies!’
‘We’re not last you know!’
‘You are now!’
Onto the prom proper I felt the race had truly started. Moylesey set a fair pace but I managed to do my share of front-running, my speed solid but not super-fast as we overhauled an increasing number of back markers. Along the front through Hove, past the King Alfred Leisure Centre and into a slingshot turn around Hove Lagoon we continued to overtake runners, offering encouragement/ appreciation where required/ appropriate. I must say there were some quite lovely female forms to admire and I offered a small prayer of thanks for this unexpected late-start bonus.
Mile 6 and Chris had the hammer down pretty well. I started working hard and realised I’d need more fuel, taking advantage of a water station to squeeze down an Espresso gel – lovely! We hailed the Peace Statue at Hove, waved to the breakfasters at the Meeting Place, a popular al fresco eatery right on the promenade, tables shielded from the offshore breeze by large yellow windbreaks. The course stayed at sea level taking us across the cobbles and past any numbers of cafes, bars and shops. The usual collection of ancient couples and new parents tempted fate with suicidal dashes across the stream of runners. Back to the Palace Pier, a short, steep up-ramp and across the entrance to Madeira Drive before the long climb out of Brighton. I started to struggle here, and by the time we’d crested the rise Chris was a few yards ahead. I let him go, deciding to knuckle down to a more manageable pace, and I started thinking about possible finishing times.
Feets Don’t Fail Me Now
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about a PB. Despite the extra six miles at the front end conditions were perfect and the course if anything was a little flatter than in previous years. We’d avoided the Pamplona-style madness of the official start and maintained a committed pace throughout. Oncluding the thirty minutes for our late start I figured 2:15 was my clock time target. Trouble was at this point my legs were none too interested in times. They were rather more concerned with pains, aches in my upper thighs, complaints from my knees and an almost inaudible high-pitched whine from my ankles. The jumble of synaptic e-mails arriving in brain central translated into requests for hot showers and comfy sofas. Too bad, legs; we’ve not far to go, so shut up.
I’m none too pleased with the organisers for the next change in course layout. Instead of plodding along the top to the marina as we had last year we took a sharp right-hander at Duke’s Mound to join a bizarre Disney-esque, maze-like routing system complete with barriers and hazard tape. At the bottom of the slope we turned right, ran for several hundred metres only to hairpin back east, opposite and alongside the way we’d just come. To seaward the finishers occupied a third lane heading west, straining for their finishing bursts, the end for them very much in sight. From above the whole thing must have looked like a 1970's arterial flow chart on the BBC's OPen University; at ground level it was far less amusing. For us there was still the joy of the climb through the cycle tunnel, the lope along the cliff top (the first half-kilometre of our normal Sunday run and for me a great opportunity to run on soft mud for a bit – I could almost hear my poor battered feet sigh with relief) before the plummet down the slipway onto the Undercliff. We turned west once more, onto the (very long) home straight. At the ‘800 metres to go’ sign I felt a tiny surge of energy and dug in for a hard finish, passing a few more runners as the race clock appeared above the sea of bobbing heads. 2:09omething. Bloody hell! That can’t be right!
I kicked again, almost (I said almost) sprinting for the line.
2:09:34 as I crossed. Less 30-odd minutes . . . blimey, a new PB - 1:39.
I was delighted, if not a little dazed and confused. Sue Gorringe, preparing for her first London Marathon, an old friend and one of the Jog Shop newbies, waited in the finishing area, grinning madly above her silver foil wrap before offering me a hug. I must’ve looked a bit odd, knackered undoubtedly but equally (and genuinely) non-plussed at my time.
Beer - A Reformed Beer Monster Writes
Strolling back to the car, a mile walk which did wonders for working the rusted iron out of my legs, I thought about something that MLCMan mentioned and I have – until now – managed to ignore. Beer. There hasn’t been a lot of beer about lately. OK, putting Almería gently to one side. Now I love a beer – in fact the only thing I enjoy more than a pint is two pints. But just lately I’ve also enjoyed running without an ugly flap of fatty skin hanging over the front of my leggings. Like it or lump it there is a connection, although to assuage all fears of long-term abstinence I shall crack a few tinnies during the footie this afternoon.
After a coffee with Chris (he struggled to get the grin off his face at my continued incredulity – ‘I crossed in a net 1:36. I knew you’d smash your PB’ I drove home to harness the dogs for a post-run warm-down on the hills. Strolling along in the beautiful peace I mulled the morning over, deciding there’s neither rhyme nor reason to life sometimes. Wrong shoes, six mile warm-up and a massive PB . . . it’s a funny old game, Saint.
Stats:
19 miles – 2:40 (run time)
Sussex Beacon Half 13.1 miles 1:39:41
Roll on next Sunday when we’re off on a full Jog Shop Jog – 20 miles including the foulness that is the Big W. Can’t wait.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
All that running up and down the mountains of Mordor had to pay off sooner or later... just incredible!
According to a race-time calculator-thing I have, if you can run a half in 1:39, you could theoretically run a full marathon in 3:15 or less. You are now potentially a Boston qualifier my man!
And as you mentioned beer ... your effort in last year's Sussex Beacon Half inspired me to create a special batch of Sussex Beacon Sweder Brew, and it just happens that yesterday I started a new batch of the same beer. I'll have to dub this one Sweder Brew II.
1:39, eh? If that doesn't shake SP out of his complacency...
anlu247 Wrote:Enhorabuena, Sw. Congratulations. it´s wonderful. If you go on like this, you will do Almería half under 1 hour 35 minutes next year.
I don't know about that Antonio.
Funnily enough I was telling Chris today that my goal for next year was to work on my half marathon speed to get as close to 1:40 as possible. Maybe I'll just work harder at my post-race re-hydration instead
MLCMan Wrote:. . . Sussex Beacon Sweder Brew, and it just happens that yesterday I started a new batch of the same beer.
I'm not sure that's entirely fair - you drank the whole batch yourself last time.
Must be some way we can get our hands on the stuff :mad::p
MLCMan Wrote:If that doesn't shake SP out of his complacency...
Times don't float SP's boat. But a barrel of Sweder Brew II might do it
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Wow! What a great race you had. I'm very impressed. You're making me think that I should be running more hills instead of just flat runs. It obviously makes a huge difference. Good for you Sweder!
suzieq Wrote:I should be running more hills instead of just flat runs.
Better, try to go running on snow. You can buy you a dog as well (not a caniche, one with long legs). But the real secret of SW is simply: try to drink one or two pints of Ginness from breakfast to dinner daily. It is hard, but look at the results!
Where’s February gone?!!
There’s only eight days left; it was New Year’s Eve the other day . . .
Grey mizzle for an early morning backdrop as I lumbered into the hills, Blackcap’s peak shrouded in thick fog. Haunted by aches and pains from Sunday my bones creaked and groaned as if in desperate need of some 3-in-1. But like Manchester United of seasons past and the current Arsenal team these rusty runs get better as the game goes on, often finishing in style. So it was this morning, reanimated feet rejoicing in the damp conditions, bounding over velvet turf, through yielding mud. Even my shoes seemed happy to be back in their natural habitat, the recent concrete battering a fading nightmare whipped away on the blustery, rain-filled wind.
No dogs today. Willow's had a virus over the weekend (induced by pining for the absent girls) and I let them enjoy a leisurely stroll with Jake. It was nice to get out on my own, something I rarely do these days.
Five miles in ze bin.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
So how are you shaping up for TOM? Feeling confident yet?
[COLOR="RoyalBlue"]Not really. I'm not sure you can feel 'confident' about a new distance.
I'd feel confident if it were a City Marathon, but 35 hilly miles still looks like a tall order. The true test will come in two weeks. I'm in for the Steyning Stinger, a full 26.2 off-road with four lofty peaks to climb along the way. Reckon that'll tell me what I need to know.
For now I've got an altogether stiffer challenge to face.
A day golfing with the Mighty SP tomorrow, followed by . . . well, best not to say it out loud really.
The Beer Police might be listening . . . [/COLOR]
The lingering fallout from yesterdays eight-pinter (it could have been worse - SP was on the leash rather than the lash so I had to sup ale solo for most of the afternoon/ evening) was swept away by weather most foul. Dehydrated wretchedness gave way to creeping anaesthesia, starting in my windward limbs to spread inexorably across my slightly wobbly, increasingly frozen and very much soaked torso. I didn't stop for my usual breather on Blackcap, choosing survival over recovery, staggering homeward down the slick slopes, splashing through an ocean of saturated mud and into the stinging caress of a piping hot shower.
Another five tucked away with a possible minor injury to report.
After thawing my right knee displayed signs of a mild twist with some slight swelling around the kneecap. I'll keep tabs on it but may trade in my hardtop eight on Friday for a morning offie just to be safe. There's a full-on 'unofficial' Jog Shop Jog planned for Sunday, Big W included, 20 heartless hillside miles; best not to take chances.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Speaking to my good friend and fellow Guinness afficionado SP yesterday I found myself in disagreement with him. Well, not so much with him as with a mutual associate, Lycra Tony. SP mentioned that I was in for the Steyning Stinger (first Sunday in March), a full off-road marathon with 4 'stings' - or hill climbs - along the route. Tony insisted (to SP) that he'd travelled the course and there was 'only one hill, and then it just goes back down again'.
I sneaked a peek at the (excellent) race website (complete with interactive maps) to assuage fears that this might not be the test I'd hoped for.
For those who'd rather not get involved in the detail here's the elevation view of the course.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
You forget important variables, such as light, sound, electricity, magnetism, basic atomic properties, photosynthesis, ecosystems, structures of plants and the real sole where you run.
According to logarithms, quadratic, trigonometry and inverse functions, their tangents, cosecants, cotangents and roots makes the probability distribution different. Your calculation is not very certain.
You can calculate your force and motion, in regards with gravity and rotational kinematics of planet motion, according to particle physics in all states of energy. Also heat and thermodynamics, trying to conserve the energy momentum. Do not forget exponents, quadratic equations and basic geometry of the Earth.
But the only real Law is that running so much is almost a miracle
Congratulations on your Brighton race, Sweder. Simply astonishing. No wonder I couldn't keep quite up with you when you sprinted on the Paseo in Almeria, and no wonder, too, that you proved much easier to match in Molly Malone's than I had feared.
After the outstanding success of this new approach, I can only assume that you'll now be applying the same philosophy at the TOM of squeezing in a quick six miler just beforehand to warm up ? Yes ?
Actually, as I recall, that's more or less how the race pans out. Cunning psychological preparation, then. Well done !
Ana's right. You can analyse it all you want, but at the end of the day it is simply physically impossible to do what you do...
:mad: Mr.Jealous :mad:
[COLOR="RoyalBlue"]Hardly. My hilly ploddings are aided and abetted by younger, fitter folk who drag me along like a team of huskies might lead a snow-blind, frost-bitten explorer. I seem to recall a truly heroic effort recently in the Southern hemisphere involving a man told he would be lucky to walk straight ever again hot-footing it up a mountain in short order. And he brews his own beer
To be honest I'm less than sure of my preparation for the TOM.
A full Jog Shop Jog on Sunday (and a wet and slippery one at that) followed by the Stinger might take a bit of getting over. The good news is there's only a couple of long ones after Steyning and then we're into a three week taper. I usually loathe tapers; all that energy and enthusiasm apparently going to waste. But I reckon I'll be savouring this one.[/COLOR]
Slipped a crafty hardtop eight in this evening.
It was tempting to repeat the slothful sofa retreat of seven days ago, but I needed the yardage tonight. It's been a tricky week with car trouble and work-related aggro, so a mindless dance down the dual carriageway was prescribed.
A less eventful outing is rare to find; little in the way of wind and rain, not too much traffic, not even a cyclist with whom to joust on the dark, lonely Falmer road. Plenty of good rock n roll on the i-pod though - Dr. Feelgood (Baby Jane), Deep Purple (Highway Star - how appropriate!), some Blink 182 (underrated IMHO), it all weaved its magic, taking me out and back with minimal effort in legs, lungs or brain.
As I said, just what the doctor ordered.
An hour and ten on the pavement then.
No more knee-jarring 'til next Friday
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
:o
omething. Bloody hell! That can’t be right!
I drove home to harness the dogs for a post-run warm-down on the hills. Strolling along in the beautiful peace I mulled the morning over, deciding there’s neither rhyme nor reason to life sometimes. Wrong shoes, six mile warm-up and a massive PB . . . it’s a funny old game, Saint.
![[Image: full_profile.gif]](http://www.steyningac.co.uk/stinger/images/full_profile.gif)