July

[Sweder]

Nirvana.
No, not that mop-haired bunch of thrash-metalheads from Seattle.
The state of euphoria following a moment of unsurpassed wonder, or as my on-line dictionary defines it (after reference to a state of Buddhist attainment) a place or state characterized by freedom from or oblivion to pain, worry, and the external world. Yep, that just about covers it.

We met at Birling gap, a popular South Coast tourist gathering place, four intrepid souls seeking solace in the hills. Jill, The Remster, Nigel (not that one) and Sweder, well met after a long gap. It's been over a year since we four ran together, this reunion long overdue.

The start was as hard as you could wish; out of the car park and straight into the ascent of the first Sister. The trail was unrelenting; steep climb, perilous drop; steep climb, perilous drop . . . you get the picture; rollercoaster running at its finest. If I had a complaint it was that my lungs were somewhere back on the Seaford road, yet to enjoy their first full intake of fresh sea air. Whilst I appreciate that the Seven Sisters marathon hits this section at mile twenty, and therefore offers a brutal hammering to racers reaching the toughest stage, I'd still rather have tucked a few miles away before starting out. The sun beamed down, burning our backs out of a clear blue sky, my shirt laden with sweat in no time. At the top of the forth Sister I paused to slurp some fluid and take it all in. Below and to our left the English Channel danced in to shake hands with the bepebbled shore. Ahead the cliff tops undulated westward; in the far distance the outcrop of Newhaven and on the smokey, smudged horizon Littlehampton.

On-on (what a Hash route this would make!) across Sisters five and six. Seven loomed over us, by far the tallest. Beyond lay respite, Cookmere Haven, the glorious valley with cool breezes drifting up off the lazy waters of the Ooze. My lungs had settled and I skipped up the rough-cut downland steps, Nigel alongside, Jill just behind. At the top I turned, looking for Remmy. Alas, the Hill Muncher had succomed to a repeat of his calf injury, limping painfully up the slopes. Rem was done for; he'd walk-run the rest but dismissed my gallant (ahem) offer to hang back with him, much to my dismay.

We three survivors chugged north along the eastern edge of the valley. The promised breeze arrived, washing gently over my fevered brow. My legs felt great - this would be my longest outing for several weeks - and I caught up with Jill as we reached the main road and crossed to enter the Seven Sisters Country Park and an entirely different world.

Parkland trails lead us deep into dense forest, delicious shadows cast by deciduous giants, the pathways soft underfoot. We clambered around tree roots and scampered up steep climbs, happy as children to be out of the sun. Electing to take the purple run - the entire park is criss-crossed with a variety of cycling and running trails of varying degrees of length and difficulty - we stormed off up a long steady ascent. I felt fabulous, loads of fuel in the tank, so I pushed hard, accelerating away, arms pumping. The climb continued for about a kilometre, at which point the trails merged, my options disappearing into dense foliage. Jill arrived and indicated the way. Again I though how wonderful it would be to lead a Hash run through here - so many false trails! So much cursing of the hares! - I leapt after her with a whoop and a committed cry of 'On on!'

At last we emerged from our shady course, crossing the road at East Dene and taking the church land route through the village, back to the road to Birling Gap. Nigel flew past me, taking full advantage of the downward slopes to finish strongly. Jill and I chugged in together as we had at the Seaford Half last month, very hot and very, very happy.

Nigel: 'What d'you think?'
Sweder: 'Bloody fantastic!!! I have to come back; really, a wonderful run!'
And it is. Wonderful.
Cliff-top challenge, river valley paths, woodland trails and a gentle downhill road run to finish. I'd like to do a mile or two beforehand so as to be able to enjoy the start a little more but otherwise it's as beautiful a run as I've done - and I include the best bits of the Two Oceans in that.

The icing on the cake though was Remmy's famous cafe.
The man himself limped in not too long after us, obviously in pain but still managing a knowing smile. I thanked him for inviting me, truly grateful for the introduction.
'Now for the cafe!' he grinned, steering me towards a dilapidated shack near the cliff edge. The decor matched his claims; gaffer tape sealed ancient gashes in desolate leather? plastic? upholstery, the (definitely plastic) table-tops worn from decades of tea-mug rubbing.
'D'you do breakfasts?' I enquired of the scrawny youth behind the till.
'Only what's in the 'fridge'.
Nuff said.

A corking run, a must for an RC outing (once we’ve done Lewes and Brighton perhaps) and a dead cert for a repeat.
Around 9 miles in 1:25.