March On

[Sweder]

I was woken by the rain, a million nails hammered into the bedroom window all at once. Oh joy. Six fifty-five Sunday morning, the best part of three hours slog through slippery Sussex hills ahead. The duvet clung like a selfish lover, wrapping its warmth around my wobbly frame. Resistance, as the Borg will tell you, is futile, so I dragged myself downstairs in search of honey toast, hot coffee and orange juice. What I got when I opened the dining room door was the strong stench of dog’s bottom. The (mercifully) tiled floor was home to a series of ‘gifts’. Willow, our lovable spaniel, had evidently eaten something that disagreed with her. There are times when a good old-fashioned hangover can come in handy.

Thirty minutes later I leant on my mop handle and surveyed the sparkling floor. I had, for the tiniest fraction of a moment, thought about grabbing my gear and heading out, but of course my good nature kicked in and I got to work. I’d left the girls upstairs, sleeping soundly after a day out at Move It!, 'the event for dance people'. They’d arrived back at Lewes station laden with all manner of dance-related goodies. Their return cut short a visit to the Royal Oak with the Mighty Plodder and Captain Tom, and to rub salt into that painful wound it appeared I was now considerably less well off.

My ‘home alone’ Saturday, sprinkled with top-rate sporting fare surveyed from my sprawled position on the sofa, had become a Lofus Horribulus. First up the Rowdies conspired to miss a bovine rear with a southern stringed instrument, going down to plucky, redoubtable Pompey and out of the FA cup. Lord Ferg's rant looks set to get him into a world of trouble, perhaps rightly so. To the scamps who called in to complain about his losing with bad grace I say show me a good loser and I'll show you a loser. Next up the inept band of goons known as the England Rugby Team showed me that, no, United had actually played rather well and were a trifle unlucky and yes, they could have played with a good deal less belief, application and skill. I abandoned Chelski’s nailed-on demolition of Barnsley, hacking a few chores off my honey-do list before heading for a commiserating pint or two with the aforementioned rogues. The evening ended rather well. Half-way through the first pint of Guinness Captain Tom received a text message from a colleague that read ‘Ha ha ha, poor old Chelsea!’ No! It couldn’t be . . . but it was! Barnsely, I love you. To a man you have lifted this low grey cloud of sporting gloom. Of course the English cricket team were waiting for me, ready to wave a wet stick of rhubarb at the all-conquering might of, er, New Zealand. I hate Sky; I really must cancel my subscription.

Back to Sunday. Bleary-eyed, breakfast consumed I drove off to the marina where record numbers loitered. Sam must be chuffed; we’ve not seen crowds like this since forever. The skies over the eastern ridge had cleared, the rain abated, wind firmly shoving us outward on our warm-up miles. Chantelle, she of the boundless energy last week, joined the Serious Runners for a stiff 20 miler. The main pack would extend last week’s course to take in North Face and Yellow Brick Road and I was happy to act as lead hare. With only two midweek outings under my straining belt I felt rested, pushing on up Telscombe Tye with a few of the nippier Newbies in tow. Emma joined us. I remember Emma from last year, not only because she’s a lovely girl, bright and bubbly, but mainly thanks to her impossibly whacky gait. Imagine you're running along and either side of you people are passing footballs to you. You play them back by flicking your foot out to the side, alternating left and right as you run. The visual effect from behind is that of a cat’s cradle. It looks wholly ineffectual, a sure-fire energy–burner and almost certain to cause injury. Yet Emma is proof of 'each to his (or her) own'; she’s one of the strongest runners in the group, invariably leaving me and others for dead in the run-in.

We scaled the North face and YBR without mishap. I felt great, full of bounce, pushing hard. We took the right fork at the top of the YBR, bounding across to the top of the W. I could see Remmy, Chantelle and Simon heading into the valley at breakneck speed. They looked like skydivers in free-fall, getting smaller and smaller as they dropped off the side of the world. We continued along the ridge and hooked left down the rock-strewn path to Death valley where the wind screamed like a ghostly express train rushing through the hills. On across exposed ploughed fields to the foothills of Old Snakey.

I didn’t stop, chugging ever onwards, head down, determined to take respite only once we'd reached the summit. Twenty minutes later I leaned on a gate, sucking air into my lungs between greedy gulps of water. I spied a familiar blue windcheater moving up through the strung-out field below.
‘Hey Chantelle, what happened? Don’t tell me you’ve left them all for dead!?’
She explained that the bent-double clamber up the flint-rock path of the V had badly ricked her back. Sam, parked at the top of the V on his mud-splattered mountain bike, had growled for her to follow us and take it easy. We doubled back to the drop behind the Snake, turning right across the sheep fields towards the Reservoir. Newborn lambs were everywhere, sheltering behind or under their mothers, bleating in alarm as we thundered towards them. A gang of six leapt to their feet and scampered across the trail, little black socks going nineteen to the dozen as they raced away. We passed the reservoir and hit the road to Rottingdean, running well three abreast, looking for all the world like real runners.

About this time I got the first hint of an unwelcome and unexpected horror. In my haste to leave the still-airing house I’d grabbed an old pair of running shorts. These were purchased some time ago when I'd been infused with a good deal more optimism about weight-loss. An ominous glow now emanated from my inner thighs. Oh great; three miles to go and I’ve developed a nasty case of crotch-pot cooking. Short of ripping the shorts off my torso, a scene too ugly to allow into your head, there was little I could do except tug surreptitiously at my steadily warming groin in an attempt to alleviate the damage to my undercarriage. This activity could easily be misconstrued and with two fair maidens for company opportunities for a crafty fiddle were few and far between. I gritted my teeth and, in true British bulldog fashion, bore it. Up Windmill Hill (which I was delighted to ascend without pause) and across the top to St. Dunstans where the wind howled like a mad dog. I got us into the tunnel under the main road but as we emerged onto the cliff-top trail the chaffing stepped up a notch.

‘Great stuff you two – why don’t you kick on and finish strong. I’m going to jog it in from here, see who’s coming up behind. ‘ The girls bought it and before long had opened a gap of a hundred metres. I slowed, assuming a sort of John Wayne/ Max Wall stance, waddling for home, dignity in tatters, praying to all the gods that SP didn’t drive past. Ten minutes later I hit the drop to the finish, relief flooding though me. My inner thighs were surely alight. I hoped they hadn’t started shedding claret as this would be difficult to hide. A quick glance reassured me and I limped in to collapse on the grass next to Chantelle who was busy stretching her ailing back.

We exchanged sympathies, my own heartfelt as I’ve recently been suffering from a recurrence of my own ruptured disc, an injury that has put paid to my plans to travel to Shanghai this month. It’s one thing to sit on a cramped plane for an hour two, quite another to spend half a day strapped to a seven-forty-seven whilst your lower spine turns itself inside out. Montreal is in doubt too, though I’ll seek further advice from my Witchdoctor before pulling the plug.

Eventually the searing pain in my groin subsided, a combination of me lying still and the influence of the cool grass. I realised there were two immediate problems to be faced. One, I’d have to get up soon. The sun had broken through the blanket of cloud and it was really rather nice just lying here. Two, I’d have to walk. I shuddered at the prospect. Another couple of runners came swooping in, one bearing a Garmin.
‘Hey, seventeen point six – not bad!’
‘What? Was that seventeen and a half miles?’
‘Er . . . yes, seventeen point six. Two hours fifty-two.’
Blimey, a little further than I’d figured. I’m chuffed (or should that be chaffed?) to have covered that distance, especially given my recent lack of mileage.

The time came when I had to stand up. Remmy cruised in, his nineteen point six tucked away without any apparent effort. You can go off some people. I hobbled over to my car, changed tops and drove the four hundred metres to Mac’s. Forty minutes later I revisited my Bob Hoskins/ Long Good Friday shower moment, standing under the cascading water, wincing as the heat found my glowing parts. I stayed there until the water started to cool, reluctantly clambering out of the tub to carefully towel down, finally letting out a sigh of relief as the cool Sudacream brought succour to my battered flesh.

A good outing despite the thigh-grating. No sign of that nasty calf strain either. I’m missing out next Sunday – the joy of freedom from the slavery of a race schedule! – so expect to come back stronger in a fortnight.
Tomorrow’s recovery run could well be a b*tch.