Minus one on the temperature gauge in my shivering, quivering truck as I left home at eight forty-five. Dark clouds rose from the hilltops, a smudged plum-grey bruise on the brightening skyline. I was wrapped like a (large) babe in swaddling clothes – leggings, two layers of vest (long and short-arm), gloves and for the first time since I received it my Almeria open-ended hat, a sort of giant blue bandage around my head and – mercifully- over my ears. Lycra Tony did a double-take before declaring 'It's official - it's effing cold!', a reference to my usual preference for shorts even when the sun don't shine.
Unsurprisingly a modest gathering waited above the marina. Ade, Stevio, Soft Al, Chris, a selection of the FLM crowd and, belatedly, Steepler, who went through a remarkable OCD-driven seven-times locking/ unlocking of the van ritual. As he finally lumbered up, adjusting white baseball cap and bronze mirror-shades, I assured him I’d seen the lights flash one more time as he’d jogged away from the vehicle, but he wasn’t taking the bait. We set off at a modest pace, Lycra Tony on foot, Sam, sans Tash, mounted and wrapped against the bitter north wind. Whilst fully appreciating the ear protection I cursed the elongated, floppy nature of my Almerian headwrap. It felt for all the world like I was running in Marge Simpsons’ hair. Thirty minutes later we reached the Saltdean rest point, five kilometres from the start, a collection of stretching, steaming bodies grinning and swapping stories. The long boys declared a seasonal homage to old Snakey and I was happy enough with that. Almeria looms large. I need a minimum long run of twelve tough miles for the next three weekends or so, at least according to the arbitrary schedule floating about in the dark, dusty recess of my subconscious.
Stevio promised to keep the pace honest yet relaxed, then proceeded to hammer up the tough climb out of Saltdean and up onto the Tye, where the icy dragons’ breath raced down to meet us. My chest felt like it was pushing a large block of ice up that impossibly long hill, numbed beyond redemption, flogged ever-onward by stubborn, over-worked legs. Chris flew up the slope, taking a hundred metres out of us with little apparent effort. I was working hard to stay with them, rasping breath snatched away in great vapourous clouds as my elbows pumped and I assumed my standard hunch against the slope. Across the summit ridge the wind abated, a welcome respite from Mr Freeze's ice-blast, allowing us to relax into something approaching a comfortable pace. Until Stevio, taking heart from what he perceived as a tail wind (but what was, I assure you, nothing of the sort), stepped on the gas and stretched away across the furrowed track towards the ploughed field plummet.
So hard and potentially deadly was the ground I couldn’t make up the distance on the perilous drop, using my considerable weight as a jarring brake on the frosted, ruptured ground, wondering just when my footing would give and one of my legs would shoot out sideways to surely snap clean off in this interminable cold. After a brief pause for a slurp - damn, I forgot to put ice in my drink! - we head north once more and on to the frosted foothills of the Snake proper. The old serpent was clearly in hibernation; slippery scales dulled, ubiquitous cloying mud chilled to a rutted mat under our thundering hooves. I stuck with Steve until the very last knockings when once again he left me for dead without any discernable change of gears. It must be fabulous to run so easily.
On over the top into East Brighton park, dodging several mutts of dubious pedigree, owners huddled under several layers of wool and weave, fag smoke mingling with last nights’ pub breath in the crystal clear air. Finally my two companions – Steepler had succumbed fully to seasonal indulgence and dropped some way back – opened their legs and showed their class, streaking away across the sloping hillside. I could only watch in awe as my own battered legs carried me home in a new PB for the route – 1:49 and change. It’s a great result for me, due entirely to the gentle cajoling of Steve and Chris. Once again I caught a glimpse of what could be before the lactic acid rose up to throttle my ambition. My right calf, finally at rest, blood cooling at a rate of knots - I almost expected to hear that pinking sound you get with a recently thrashed race engine - announced a ‘little discomfort’ before going into gentle spasm.
19.86 hilly kilometers in the bank, a half by any normal measure, and a great way to kick off the run-in to Medio Marathon madness.
[SIZE="1"]Elevation; Pace; Drop into Saltdean; Chris and Stevio with Cows[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
