Two visits to Blackcap this weekend, the first with an extended pack.
Joining me and the hounds were Andy, Niguel and Moyleman for a first-hand look at my local track. Showing off my beloved hills was a little like introducing your mates to a new girlfriend; a mixture of pride and concern, confident in your own choice yet eager for approval.
My day had started poorly with a recurrence of an old back injury, my prolapsed disc having apparently never fully recovered. This morning I'd been called into Large Spider Retrieval action by my terrified girls. As I reached for the fearsome creatures (house spiders, barely visible in their dusty den behind the drapes) I felt the all-too-familiar 'give' of a disc rupturing. There was never any question of not running - on today of all days! - but I'd be taking it ultra-easy.
With the team well met, coffee consumed and running gear pulled on, we set sail for the downs. In keeping with his dislike of slow running Moyleman took off at a fair crack, preferring to wait at the gates for our chugging group to catch up. He looks in fine fettle, on track for his assault on the Seven Sisters and Beachy Head later in the year.
Niguel has run similar hills in his native Surrey downlands but this was very much new territory for Andy, in terms of elevation and surface. I take it for granted that running on grassy hills is good for me; easy on the joints, gentle in the feet, springy and natural. But if you're not used to it the terrain must feel alien and not a little treacherous. Damp grass, slick flint, slippery mud, part-submerged tree roots . . . all offer plenty of opportunities for calamity. He seemed to relish the challenge though, claiming the haul was 'tough as expected' but enjoyable all the same.
Despite coming home in a leisurely 1:03 my Garmin revealed a fastest pace much quicker than Thursday's. Having recovered at the summit of Blackcap Moyleman had launched into a careering descent towards Wicker Man Hill, deploying the sling-shot technique to fly up the opposing face. I hammered after him, struggling to keep pace, my traitorous disc threatening industrial action as we flew up the flint-strewn track. The watch shows an overall average pace of 7:29 minute k's, with that section coming back off the Cap clocked at 4:06.
After showers and some quality re-hydration courtesy of Badger's Best at The Pelham and Harvey's at The Lewes Arms we set off for the Dripping Pan, home of Lewes FC, the Mighty Rooks. The home side were entertaining visitors from West Ham United, albeit very much a second (if not third) string squad from the Premier League big boys. Twelve months ago our brave lower leaguers had seen off Andy's QPR by two goals to nil (it should have been more
). Based on the turgid offering before the break today we'd've been happy to see so much as a free-kick; it was pretty rotten stuff. Andy suggested as the half-time whistle blew that Lewes had shown their illustrious opposition 'too much respect' - a footballing term that accurately describes the smaller team's players being trapped like rabbits in headlights in the face of allegedly superior opposition. He was spot on - we could only hope for better in the second half.
Steve King (Lewes Manager) must have borrowed Lord Ferg's hairdryer during the interval. Lewes came out a different side, eager, bristling with aggression and endeavour. It looked for all the world as if this brave attenpot to make a game of it would end without result, but following a few unpleasant altercations and sustained pressure along West Ham's left flank in the seventy-seventh minute Craig O'Connor fired the home side into the lead. The referee in (in my view) a blatant attempt to let the Hammers back into the match elected to dismiss a home team player for what appeared to be a number of minor offences accrued during the game. I needn't have worried; Lewes continued to show more skill and desire, pinning West Ham back until the inevitable - and beautifully crafted - second goal, finished off with aplomb by regular striker Paul Booth. Another two-nil then, and another illustrious scalp falls at the Dripping Pan. Niguel, a life-long Hammer, took defeat in customary classy style.
More hydration via The Landsdown and The Brewers before firing up the barbie for a mountain of grilled meat. The much-anticipated sausage cook-off ensued, Andy's delicious pork-and-leek monsters from Pangbourne up against Surrey's own Porky Whites and the Firle Farm shop’s finest Romany Bangers. Washed down with yet more Harvey's - kindly purchased on our behalf by Mrs S, Bright Beer (top of the barrel) fresh from the Brewery tap - we ate for England. Reclined, relaxed, bellies stuffed, thirst slaked we concluded that they were all pretty darned good.
It was a lovely day, one I hope we'll repeat some time soon.
This morning I awoke in contused agony. The back had spasmed in the night; it took a full thirty minutes to work my way off the bed and into a standing position. The dogs were waiting, taking my emergence as a clear signal that we were off into the hills. I didn't want to disappoint them, and I knew that flushing the offending area with fresh, oxygenated blood was probably an excellent idea, so off we scuttled. 48 minutes is leisurely my usual standards, but given my care not aggravate the disc I'm very happy. On the way back, just along the crest of Wicker Man ridge, the defective disc gave way with an alarming jolt. For a few moments it was all I could do to run-waddle in an horrific pastiche of Max Wall and Quasimodo, until eventually I regained my posture, managing a reasonable pace back to the house.
Once more the sofa beckons. And then there's still seven litres of Harvey's Best and a small mountain of sausages to negotiate. Happily Captain Tom's on his way round to give me a hand . . .
Footnote: We missed a treat later in the evening.
Lewes ladies took on West Ham ladies at The Pan. The Hammers took an early lead before the Mighty Rookettes replied in triplicate to bag a convincing win. Come on you Rooks!
