March On

[Sweder]

I hate short races. I'm using the word 'hate' here.
An eyes out, full-on upper-chest heart-pounding scramble over six kilometres into a viscious headwind is not my idea of a fun afternoon. Still, it has to be done at least once a year, and that day was today.

Sussex had basked in the glow of a lovely Spring day. High white clouds flitted between the sunrays in a picture-perfect blue sky. I'd walked the dogs at lunchtime before taking the Grannies down to the Rainbow for a couple of pints of Harvey's and some excellent Easter fare. At the end of the afternoon, huddled above the Marina with thirty hardy souls, I watched a monstrous black fist clench above the western shoreline, moving inexorably towards us dripping freezing rain from its malevolent fingers.

A straw poll revealed a unanimous desire to get going. This race is an outward four mile plod at leisurely pace, turning at The Wire before a start under gun and stopwatch sets off a helter skelter free-for-all back to Brighton. About a mile out someone hit the dimmer switch just as the rain lashed into our backs. Damn! We hunkered down in a close group, pressed together to eek out the last modicum of bodily warmth trying to keep ahead of the weather. Ten minutes later the lights came back up and the skies cleared. The black foulness had scuttled inland dragging its heavy load to leave clear blue overhead. Hoorah!

The blast back was painful. I ran for thirty minutes on the verge of a heart attack, expecting to collapse in a nasty steaming heap at any moment. The hares - Remmy, Steve, Prawn, Gary, Moyleman - were over the immediate horizon in no time, the thunder of the chasing pack pounding in my ears. A fierce cold wind tore into us head-on as we fought hard until finally, blissfully, the Marina hove into view. Thirty minutes forty-one seconds for six hilly kilometres represents a good effort for me. The thought of a slow but tough twenty miler on Sunday offers little comfort but for now I can sit back in a comfy chair, warm laptop thawing my frozen thighs, and look forward to a cozy evening in from of the George Melly with Mrs S and a bottle of fortified grapejuice.