March On, March On

[Sweder]

Just a perfect day,
Problems all left alone,
Weekenders on our own.
It's such fun.

No Jack Bower update, this, rather the latest instalment in the Two Oceans preamble.
What a pleasure it was to run on semi-dry tracks, through fields which behaved like ordinary farmland rather than pan-dimensional people-swallowing quagmires. All this under the welcome gaze of a sun emitting real heat from a cloudless sky as it soared unhindered to its lofty perch. Four hours in shorts and vest and I can honestly say the only time I felt at all chilly was waiting at Saltdean for ten minutes to see if any other Jog Shop Joggers might show up.

Moyleman had charted a course for today's adventure. This included starting an hour earlier (no bad thing with the prospect of a dawn gun in SA), loping three miles out to Saltdean, nipping off for a tour of the Famous Residences (including the infamous 'Somme-on-the-hill' leading up to Rottingdean lane) bringing us back to Saltdean for a potential rendezvous with the main group at 9.30. We hadn't counted on flying around the extra five mile loop, however, finding ourselves ahead of the game by at least ten minutes.

We did see Barry, he of the recent Reykjavik marathon and in seven days time taking to the streets of Rome to race around that wondrous citadel. We wished him well on his gentle eight-miler, figured everyone else had gone to Hastings for the half and set off as a duo. This time we took the Jog Shop route (Telscombe Tye, North Face, Yellow Brick Road, top of the W, Castle Hill, Snake, double back to Rottingdean, St Dunstans and home). Just as we bounded eagerly across the fields towards the North Face a familiar voice rang out behind us.
‘I recognise those bloody leggin’s!’
Paul the Goat, running solo, steamed past us like we were standing still, elbows set at a sickeningly jaunty angle, back straight, legs kicking high to spray clotted mud behind him like some manic lycra-clad rotovator. Turns out Paul should have been at Hastings but a severe case of shin-splints had him in fear of the hard standing. He scorched ahead, flying up the near-vertical escarpment, his muttered aside about the ‘blasted heat’ lingering in the air. By the time we reached the top and turned towards the YBR he was a mere dot on the horizon. We’re hoping for a sub-three Paris from him next month; just a shame there’s so few hills for him to enjoy.

All-in knocking on the door of 24 miles, and, aside from a mild grumbling from slightly sore calves, relatively painless. Moylesey offered me the option of heading straight on at the top of the Snake, cutting a couple of miles off the route. Although I’d been labouring (noisily) through the valley from Castle Hill into the serpent’s foothills, by the time we reach the summit I’d convinced myself that shortcuts get you nowhere in this time-on-your-feet game, so it was on, on in the finest hash tradition. Chris put me to shame in the last half mile, kicking for home as I looked on, more than content to jog in a minute or two later for a noon stretch above the marina.

23.78 miles in bang on four hours; good work on a perfect day.