There’s a chilling scene towards the end of David Twohy’s The Chronicles of Riddick. The Purifier, a Furian disgusted at his duplicity in serving the Necromongers, a despotic Nazi-style race of well-armed nasties intent on eradicating all homo sapien life in 'the Verse', delivers a gentle, soul-dredged soliloquy. He then strolls to his death, stepping out into the full force of the firestorm perpetually sweeping around Crematoria, the fire-planet used to hold a selection of highly dangerous prisoners. As we watch him walk slowly into the white-hot maelstrom we see his robe catch fire before it's shredded, charred tatters ripped away by the violent storm. As he stumbles then stands stock still in a final act of defiance his flesh is torn from his bones before his skeleton succumbs, blasted particles swept into the glowing hinterland.
So it was for much of this morning. Impossible heat replaced by bone-chilling cold, airborne fire by knifing ice-rain. The winds remained, tearing in from the west, racing across the downs as if to rip life from the ravaged surface of the hills. We’d met at nine; Stevio, Ade, Simon, Gary, Fiona, Hootsboy and six or seven others. One wonders at the collective insanity of turning out in these conditions yet here we were, huddled above the marina waiting for Outrider Sam.
‘Blimey Ash it must be bad if you’re all wrapped up!’ this from Steve, his own ubiquitous shorts eschewed for leggings. Wrapped I was. From the moment the first flurry of sleet hit my bedroom window in the half-light I’d realised a more pragmatic wardrobe to be the order of the day. Two vests – long sleeves under short; leggings, baseball cap, Mizuno offies and Thierry Henri gloves, all topped off with my hard cheese FLM windcheater.
Within ten minutes all of the above were drenched and cooling rapidly. The pools in my shoes squished between my toes, threatening frostbite and prune-skin in equal measure. The trouble with single-skin gloves, I found out, is when they get wet they stay wet. With a wind-chill well below zero this would prove uncomfortable later.
The wind helped at times. It shoved us up the Tye in a friendly enough manner but once we’d turned hard left to crest the ridge towards Old Snakey the arctic raider flailed into our faces, hammering freezing nails of sleet and rain into cold flesh. My cap, another nod to the conditions and something of a climb-down having declared after Two Oceans that I’d never wear one again, kept the lashing rain out of my eyes. I struggled manfully to keep pace with the quickies and did so until Stevio stepped on the gas towards the end of the ridge. His group pulled away to slip through the gate at the top of the Farmers Hill plummet. But I’ve been spending some quality time with Joss Naylor and Kenny Stuart and, in the spirit of a true fell runner, threw myself helter-skelter down the leg-breaking slope. I made up a good hundred yards on the whippets, feet flying, breath coming in violent gasps as I careered into the valley.
Class will out though and they left me for dead on the slippery scales of the Serpent. The wind howled as we ploughed through the foothills and I suffered, managing simply to put one foot in front of the other as the others kept their form. Once on the twisting climb proper I got myself together, finding and keeping a steady rhythm as I climbed the sticky track. Quicker than the slower runners but not up to staying with the Hasting contingent I travelled in a limbo all my own. As I crossed the road at Woodingdean the weather took a turn for the worse. The relentless wind, having apparently taken a short breather as we ascended the Snake, stirred once more, building to an impressive finale, driving an ever-increasing stinging deluge into my face.
Emerging from the road section and the relative shelter of houses left and right I felt the full force, the anger, of the gods. Across the main road and into East Brighton Park they thrashed my wilting body with flesh-stripping ferocity. Again I thought of Feet In The Clouds and the heroic tales of indomitable spirit therein. As I did so a strange thing happened. I started, in my head, singing
Ain’t no stoppin’ us now, we’re on the move
Ain’t no stopping is now, we’re in the groove
Where do these things come from? I don’t know, but it lifted my spirits and I bared my teeth, a grimace/ grin hybrid, feeble defiance in the face of the apocalypse. The gods responded, raging louder as if to bellow stow that McFadden and Whitehead shit; you’re goin' DOWN, sucker. Why Norse weather gods should speak in the style of Mr T I have no idea. The gale smashed into my chest and legs, driving me to a virtual standstill. I was running down hill but barely making headway, my usual ease-up jog-in reduced to mere survival. The refrain in my head wouldn’t quit so I carried on grinning, shaking my frozen fists towards the darkening skies, a tiny grey dot on a blasted landscape railing against the storm.
The last lap of the park was surreal. My legs were on automatic, a sort of end-of-marathon run-shuffle. At the time it felt like the hardest run of my life; of course with hindsight, having thawed out in my heavenly shower and laced my frozen innards with hot coffee and carrot cake, I can denounce this for the obvious tosh it is. Steyning Stinger was a full four and a half hours of much hillier struggle in equally cruel weather. Two Oceans almost reduced me to a sobbing, crawling wreck. But I was fitter then, battle-hardened. The miles aren’t in my legs yet and that made today all the more of a trial.
12.8 miles in around 2 hours (my Garmin flatly refused to spark up).
To paraphrase the DJ at Port Vale when the home side hit the back of the onion bag, I’m glad it’s all over.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
