What a contrast to last Sunday! A beautiful winters' day, sunny, bone-chillingly cold, a harsh wind knifing in out of the east. Downland grass crisp and dry yet with enough yield to give the hillside loper the perfect bounce.
A small band of shivering souls gathered above Brighton Marina. My companions of two weeks ago, Steve, Sarah and Andy were joined today by Gary and El Rog-Air. Sadly Moyleman was unable to join us, having suffered a nasty back injury during a particularly violent yoga session
The Old Boy is in a back brace awaiting further news from the docs - we wish him a speedy recovery and hope he doesn't balloon to impossible proportions whilst incapacitated.
I've been studying the FLM sub 3:45 thread on RW lately. The shared wisdom there is that one's long runs should be 'limited' to 9 to 9:15 minute miling. Well, this is pretty much flat out for me in this hilly terrain so I expected to stay well within those loosley prescribed confines. Once again I tickled my fellow runners by announcing I would restrict today's course to The Wire, the eight mile out-and-back cliff-top run. I had this in mind from the moment I creaked out of my pit for in truth I was still suffering the aftershock of the Mayfield Golfing Society AGM. The post-meeting Guinness/ Vodka-Red Bull marathon lasted well into the small hours of Saturday morning. I shan't name names but one regular visitor to these halls (with 'previous' a-plenty) performed particularly well, transforming into a human pinball machine on the stagger home. A jolly good time was had by all.
As regular readers of this column have no doubt surmised it didn't take much arm-twisting to pursuade me to join the longer run. It was the right thing to do; nineteen and a half kilometres over a quite gorgeous Christmas landscape, frosted forests, frozen puddles, shining blue skies and a white winter sun providing the perfect Yuletide backdrop. Like a lycra-clad, slightly disconbobulated train we six long-haulers puffed and steamed our way across the countryside, chatting easily, revelling in our collective solitude; for we saw no one or no moving thing, save for the occasional soaring seagull and a squadron of low-flying pigeons racing home after an early morning sortie. How remarkable these creatures looked as they swooped low over the hedgerows, bellies thrust out rather like Colin Montgomery after an especially satisfying approach shot. They reminded me of Mosquitoes, those legendary fighter-bombers from WWII, stars of the quite wonderful warflick
633 squadron. I've no doubt this will appear in the deluge of repeats about to assail our seasonal television schedules.
Sarah and Steve put the hammer down up the Snake. I held back, determined to keep this as leisurely as possible. Right up to the point when El Rog battered past me, elbows pumping, steam trailing of his lime-green shoulders and sweat-jewelled bobble hat. I dug in and caught him, working hard to keep pace with my fellow Tom-finisher. A glance at the Garmin revealed the mad truth of this assault: 8 minute 30 pace up the Serpent. Madness! Still we hammered on, Rog finally pulling away over the last hundred metres; the old fellow is in fine fettle, having ditched the demon drink at the start of the month.
We waited for the others before loping easily towards Woodingdean and the plunge home through East Brighton Park. Sarah had other ideas and again upped the pace. Steve and I followed, wondering aloud what on Earth had gotten into her. Half way through the park, as I breathlessly announced that we were now below 7:30 miling, she half-laughed and apologised.
'Sorry chaps, I was thinking about my presentation on Tuesday. Was I going a bit quick?'
Our gasped replies, hands waved in a vain attempt at casual dismissal, brought a big grin to her face. She then turned and once more hit the gas. We fair flew over that last mile, not once getting above 7:25 pace. It was an exhilarating way to finish the run, and to my great relief I didn't entirely collapse at the end.
A perfect day for running. With one mid-weeker under my belt I'd have to say I'm walking a thin line between less-is-more and bugger-all, but with strong outings like this, for now at least, it's paying off.
19.69 kilometers, 1:57
