June

[Sweder]

Did I say hot one? That was an understatement.
The NPS Lions Seaford Half Marathon may be roughly one third the distance and slightly less broiled than the Two Oceans but it proved no less gruelling in some respects.

This was my second outing on this beautiful downland course. \as in Cape Town behind beauty lurks a fearsome beast. Last year I’d trailed in Moyleman’s impressive wake, carving a route through traffic congestion over the first four relentlessly uphill miles. This had seen several wheels falling off around mile 5 and a desperate struggle home. I had no intentions of a repeat this year. If anything today was warmer, what breeze there was so slight as to be impossible to discern a direction. The forecast was for twenty five degrees and, as we gathered just before nine a.m. on the seafront (that same strip of concrete and scattered shingle that the Mighty Plodder and I trod on our earliest foray into running) the heat was well and truly on.

So many familiar faces flocked to the start. The Jog Shop Joggers well represented by Stevio, Oirish Micheal, Moyleman, Jill, Remmy and Sue (with husband Tom in tow) corralled by the Mighty Plodder himself (on photo duty only alas). Then there was Rog with his wingmen from the Habakkuk Harriers, nicely turned out in their team colours. And behind them Matt and a bunch of gym fanatics from LA Fitness in East Grinstead, chattering nervously, doing that little pre-race shuffle we’ve all done so many times.

I slipped deliberately to the back of the pack, making a conscious effort to slow down, letting the masses flow around me like a rock protruding from a stream. I soaked up the ambiance, enjoying the cheery waves and cries of encouragement from the well populated esplanade. Half a mile in we’d crossed the main road and head for the inland hills, climbing steadily through leafy lanes and alongside fields flush with crops. Bottlenecks accrued at each style but I worried not a jot, happy to take part in the orderly queue.

My race plan – start slow, get slower – turned out just fine. I paused to take snapshots, sumptuous backdrops provided by the South Downs Way, Alfriston and the Cuckmere Valley. I paid careful attention at the water stations, sipping in a most unusually refined manner, exchanging good-natured banter with the marshals and fellow runners. Around mile 7 I noticed one or two stragglers, offering them words of encouragement as I wondered in what other sport do competitors continually and genuinely wish each other well.

By now we’d zigzagged through the picture-postcard village and taken up the Cuckmere riverside trail. Having put in the hard yards over the first four or five miles then negotiated the steep drop into Alfriston I’d been looking forward to a nice flat section along the river. Recent rains and a proliferation of domestic beast traffic had conspired to churn up the path, forcing us to skip across dry mud-ruts and the occasional puddle of slime. The heavy slip-slap of a couple of hundred runners ahead of me had the desired effect, the ruts eventually pounded down and I finally got my easy ride. Stinging nettles stood as high as an elephant’s eye, providing plenty of nature’s hurry-up at ankle and knee level.

Across the bridge at the mile 8 marker I felt comfortable. I chewed down a precautionary espresso gel but in all honesty I felt good, chugging along at what seemed like a very comfortable pace. The sun beamed down as hard as it could and I chuckled at the inferior effect when compared to its ferocity in the southern hemisphere. For sure I had a sweat on – who didn’t? – but the heat simply didn’t soak up the oxygen as it had down there.

Pride, as we all know, usually precedes a fall. Just as I was nestling into my new-found smugness a stealth-root curled out from the river bank and took out my right toe in a head-on hit that would have warmed Laurence Dallaglio’s heart. I hit the deck like a fallen redwood, a cry of surprise and alarm escaping my lips. As I lay in the dirt, a fresh cloud of dust settling around my prostrate form, the bloke in front half-turned.
‘Alright mate?’
‘Yep, yes thanks’. The only discernable damage, a few scrapes and scratches aside, was to my dignity. The fall seemed to produce a spurt of adrenaline and I soon overtook my concern co-competitor, eating up the next two miles at a rate of knots.

We reached the main road again, this time at the Golden Galleon pub. I ignored the hostelry (it was still a good hour short of opening time) and braced myself for the next mile. Just around the next bend sat a marshal, beaming broadly and pointing to his home-made sign.
‘It’s All Up Hill From Here’.
Gee, thanks.

Quite a few opted to walk the first of a series of brutish inclines. I passed them with my old man’s shuffle, head down, arms pumping. A sharp left turn took us onto the concrete track leading straight up to the top of the cliffs and Seaford Head golf course. Just about everyone walked here, but I still felt good so chugged onward. At the crest of the hill loomed a large figure, silhouetted against the blazing sun like a spaghetti western villain. There was no mistaking that outline.
‘Sweder!!!’
‘Laaard!!!’
The Mighty Plodder (for it was he) stood, camera poised, in the middle of the road.
‘Chris has just gone through’ he beamed. ‘He looks f*cked.’
‘So am I!’
Just past the plodder Captain Tom paced up and down retrieving plastic cups from the hedgerows, filling in time until Sue came through.
‘Looking good’ he lied as I smouldered by.

High-stepping through the thick grass alongside the fourteenth fairway I spied a familiar vest in the distance. Red with black hoops, Brighton & Hove AC – but it wasn’t Moyleman . . . it was Jill! How bizarre – we’d met up at this very point in last year’s race and run home together.
‘Déjà vu or what?’ she grinned as I pulled along side.
We chugged across the cliff tops together, gazing out over an English Channel doing its best impression of a mill pond. Seaford and the Newhaven Ferry Terminal beyond stretched out before and below us. What a sight for sore eyes (and legs)! I never tire of this view whether running or golfing; it’s simply fabulous, a panoramic feast that all should see at least once before they die.

Aware that Jill is a seasoned hill runner I decided to test my newly-strengthened quads with a hurtle down the steep drop to the beach. I opened my stride, leaning forward, committed to the descent; wow! Dancing across a series of streaky trails I banished all thoughts of turned ankles and savage cliff plunges, giving it the gun all the way to the bottom. The last half mile along the prom, past the ludicrously priced, tastefully decorated new beach huts, seemed at least twice that distance, but eventually the finish appeared. Just before the line I stopped, doffing an imaginary cap to Jill as she crossed.

2 hours 9 minutes. Blimey – a PB on this course by some 6 minutes or so! Funny old game, this. I greeted my comrades at the final water station and waved in the direction of the ocean.
‘I’m going in chaps.’
Moyleman came with me – he’d had a tough one, his calf playing up over the last few miles. Poseidon’s ice-bath awaited and, bizarre cramp-like sensations aside, it was pure heaven. I wallowed in the surf, praying that the small group of concerned children wouldn’t try to roll me back in, letting the breakers pound my legs with surf and churning pebbles. I really cannot recommend this therapy too highly. Within a half hour I felt fully recovered. Of course by then I’d wrapped a paw around my first pint of Extra Cold . . .