January 2008

[Sweder]

Another wind-lashed outing to the East Brighton hills. Around 40 hardy souls turned out to take on a wide variety of courses.
Sam and Tony took the bulk of the Newbies up Telscombe Tye for an extended (nine-and a-half mile) Wire loop. Moyleman, still suffering back twinges elected for a strict Wire-and-back with Soft Al. I was unsure about how far I'd go so waited until the three mile re-group at Saltdean before choosing a straight Snake (twelve point 9 mile) run. Stevo, Remmy and a few adventurous types were throwing in the North Face and the Yellow Brick Road for a fiesty fifteen but I was never close to tempted.

Our group peeled off at the top of Telscomb, a mixed bag of regulars and a sprinkling of Newbies. One fellow had covered thirteen miles before but only in London parks. I assured him of a new and exciting experience.

The wind, whilst relentlessly lusty, proved most kind by prevailing from the exact point on the compass that offers most asisstance for the tougher climbs on the route. This came as some relief to me, my recovering lungs feeling like they'd been on sixty a day for the last week, feeling about as large and effectual as a couple of dried walnuts from Christmas past. The ground, having soaked up a generous porion of rain over the past few days, greeted us with dlightfully sticky wetness for most of the journey.

We gathered at our usual stops to slurp fluids and guzzle gels. Another newbie, a lithe, energetic sort who almost bounced on his toes whilst we waited, was keen to follow Sam's final instructions at the earliest opportunity. These had been barked in that familiar gravel-on-gravel tone as we'd separated at Saltdean.
'Take it easy out there, get into the last couple of miles then give it all you've got - flat out, all the way home.'
My new companion seemed keen to take off the handbrake and was more than a little crestfallen when Jill pointed out we'd just passed half-way. Jill, Terry, Jane and I, all veterans of the slippery Serpent, hung back as the others slithered through the boggy foothills. We exchanged knowing grins, continuing at our modest pace as the slick mud sucked at our feet and legs. As we neared the the last turn, about four hundred metres from the summit, we spied the London parks fellow, head slumped, trudging along on his own. He must've heard us coming as he broke into a half-hearted trot. We offered encouragement and escorted him up the final climb where the hares gathered, looking a little less full of vim and vigour.

I explained that the moment to let off the shackles and go for it was soon at hand; just another mile along a filthy, rock-strewn path, across the main road, the race course and then we could fly down the cinder tracks of East Brighton park as fast as our mud-splatterd limbs would allow. We set off to negotiate the treacherous Woodingdean trail, juming dirt-brown puddles, hugging the grassy fenceline in the search for solid footing. It was a blessed relief to reach pavement, to run without fear of tumbling or rolling an ankle. Once we'd crossed the road Terry and I dropped the hammer and struck for home. My lungs complained bitterly at this thoughtless demand on their depleted resources but my legs countered, rejoicing in the freedom to scamper helter-skelter down the narrow path. Terry was hot on my heels, my bloody-minded competitive spirit refusing the slightest respite. By the time we reached the end of the park, passing the empty, deeply ploughed football pitches, I was all in. Terry too, but also exhilarated by the reckless plummet, his face shining red.
'That was great! Dunno about you but I was flat out!'
I could only nod, hands on knees, trying to suck air through my skin.

The first of the Newbies rounded the last bend back beyond the pitches. He looked distressed. By the time he reached our stopping point Terry and I had jogged across the road. We glanced back as he slumped onto the road sign, head between his knees. They'll all be fine in a week or two, leaving us old'uns for dead once they've adjusted to the terrain and learned to pace the run, but for now this was the old dogs having their day.

I caught up with Moyleman at the Café, doing my best David Blane with a mug of coffee and a fried egg sarnie, expressing my hopes through impolite mouthfuls that this might be the start of a full recovery. El Moyle was more circumspect, his back having complained on the return leg. Fingers crossed for the Mighty Moyle. More of the same next weekend and we might just be ready for Almería. Just.

A shade under thirteen, around 2:20.

PS. I could almost hear the ironic chuckles of the Geordie Nation this afternoon. Having just turned down the opportunity to manage 'such a massive club' 'Sir' 'Arry Rednapp's charges took an unsightly beating at the hands of no less than Newcastle's bitter local rivals, Sunderland. 'We didn'a want him anyweer like' came the cry from fifty thousand naked-torsoed Magpie supporters. I say give Shearer the job. let him cock it up and be done with it - then the club can get on with making a sensible appointment and build for the future without 'Sir' Alan's leering countenance haunting them from Gary Lineker's sofa.

And for those Black-and-White-striped followers who truly believe their club is so huge it has some devine right to be managed by Lord God Almighty and win a shedload of shiny trophies, you should pop down to Elland Road and have a chat with the boys at Leeds United. Or, to save time, just have a chat with Alan Smith.