Tis The Season

[Sweder]

Funny that this race should feature the word 'mince' in the title. Around four miles in a portion of the three hundred starters were offering a fair impression of Larry Grayson teetering off to measure an inside leg as they negotiated slimy, treacherous terrain. Our Spartan forebears would've been less than impressed.

A week of self-flagellation in the bars of Amsterdam was always going to add to my burden. As often happens after a week off the plod I started well, feeling full of vim and vigour as the thunderheads gathered before the off. Seeing SP at the start was a bonus, the Mighty Plodder gazing wistfully over the throng of runners affixing race numbers, buttoning down windcheaters and pulling on gloves. I remarked on my burgeoning passion for these local races and the Old Boy confessed, for the first time in quite a while, to missing the thrill of the race. Where there's life, there's hope.

Conditions underfoot were frightful. After a mile or so on slippery hard standing, where my brand spanking Brooks Cascadias had me sliding around like a drunkard on ice, we hit mud. Serious, incontinent mud, more slurry really. It slurped across brick-strewn paths and infiltrated what little grass was left above the mire, splashing up from the feet in front to turn my modest black leggings into Lycra Tony look-a-likes. Aware that I'd find the going particularly tough today I hung back, letting the hares have at it, chatting easily with one or two familiar faces from Brighton & Hove. Remmy was here too, but he'd taken station at the front of the pack as is his spritely wont; I'd not see him till the finish.

Our course took us on an unusual (for me) approach to Telscombe Tye, a landmark familiar to JSJers. As we approached across open fields rain lashed in from seaward, filling the skies with thick slanted pencil strokes lead by wicked barbs that lanced into cold wet flesh. It actually stung, leading me to think that 'Stinger' would be a more appropriate moniker. I turned my thoughts to another race where the rain had lashed in and battered our collective will: the Steyning Stinger. And what a cracking race that was!

One of many heroic marshals told us we'd reached half way. I had no sense of time or distance, my primary focus being on survival and safe foot placement, so I wasn't sure if this was good or not. I decided it was, more to keep my spirits up than anything else. At six miles we met a cruel climb through an urban area, the ridged pavement rising to meet us as we dragged our weary bods towards the broodingly dark, relentlessly disgorging heavens. Even as I reached the summit, relaxing in an effort to encourage blood flow to my frozen fingers, I felt the even colder hand of fate on my hunched shoulder. I'd stopped passing runners some time ago. Now I could hear the rasping breath of those behind coming ever closer. I tried to respond but the legs were leaden, synaptic instructions lost in translation. As first one then two cruised past me I felt my trusty rucksack of resolve slipping off my back, weighed down with ugly Amsterdam excess. Sweat, rain and mud ran off my shoes to mingle with the brackish trail puddles as I hung my head for the hard slog home.

The last couple of miles offered the very worst in underfoot treachery. Wide shingle paths pockmarked with water-filled craters promised a zig-zag safe route only to lead us into ankle-deep filth. My shoes filled with freezing water, feet each gaining at least fifty kilos in no time. I started to run like a man shot through both legs. The BBC aired Platoon after MotD last night; Sargent Elias did a better job of making for the drop zone than I did of that last, hideous mile. And he really had been shot in both legs.

Finally the torture ended. Cold, wet, exhausted, my will to live battered into submission, I staggered through the finish in 1:31. At the entrance to the Leisure Centre I was invited to remove what masqueraded as my shoes before claiming my goodie bag and, of course, my bloody mince pie. Remmy was already there; dry, changed, looking like he'd never left the place. He took one look at this horrible, haggard wreck lurching towards him and flashed a commiseratory grin.
'That was pretty tough' he offered, a thinly disguised attempt at making me feel better.
I grunted in reply, slumping onto the bench next to him, digging through my goodie bag like a man searching for an answer.

The answer wasn't in the bag. It lies in the hills, in the sodden, soggy, wind-lashed hills. My TOM dream officially went into hibernation this morning, to be taken out and reviewed for 2009. I'm in Shanghai for work two weeks before TOM, an unfortunate diary clash that conveniently provides the nails and the hammer. My dismal performance this morning helped seal the deal. There will be any number of quirky local runs this winter. There's Almería with the excellent half and the mountain plunge, plus a series of local races and off-road adventures, every one of them filled with unmatched pleasure. I shall enjoy them all without the pressure of a big race on the books.

And who knows; something may yet come along.