January 2009

[Sweder]

Back in the black numbers on the temp. gauge – a hearty plus 4 as I set off for the marina rendezvous. A vicious wind rattled through the town and I wondered if we’d actually find it tougher out there as a result. At first it looked as though others concurred, there being just a handful of well-wrapped runners huddled at the start a few minutes shy of the 'off'. Lycra Tony had made an effort to warm us up, donning a dazzling set of electric blue leggings. Steve asked if they were new.
‘No, they’re an old pair’ he grinned.
‘Like, mid-1960’s’ I offered, helpfully.
With barely a minute to go runners started pouring out of cars, swelling our number to over thirty. The newbies would be making their first excursion inland, heading up Telscombe Tye and into the Famous Residences for a hilly nine plus miles. I felt sure I’d repeat the straight snake run for the third week, er, running, but fate, in the shape of Nigel, had other ideas.

The first three miles passed easily, sociable chatter in abundance during a leisurely lope aimed at keeping the pack together. The expected wind had vanished and I soon came to regret two layers of gloves and a headband, warming quickly in the almost balmy conditions. At the rest point Nigel announced he’d be hitting the North Face and Yellow Brick Road before heading on into Woodingdean. As is his wont he didn't hang about, stomping off up the stairs and away, leaving us to shiver and use the facilities in turn. I know the route of which he spoke, though I’ve only run it a couple of times, most recently pre FLM 2008 with Stevio when he’d suffered calf-knack half way through a full Jog Shop Jog circuit. I didn’t think I’d go with him, but within ten minutes I’d changed my mind. Stevio led a bouncing, buoyant group up the Tye at what felt to me like a fair old rate of knots. They raced away from me, my legs labouring badly, unresponsive to my silent pleas for more thrust. It’s OK; as Van the Man'll tell you, you get days like this. It’s far better to have a shocker on a training run than on race day. When it's your turn in the barrel . . . OK, you catch my drift. I swallowed my disappointment and settled into my own pace (which wasn’t far off the leading groups' now), resigned to a slow, steady plod in the unexpectedly warm conditions. I figured a couple of the newer runners who’d joined our long-route posse might come rolling on back to me; it would be good to guide them home.

At the top of the Tye I spied Nigel loitering at the second sheep gate. He kept looking up, as if trying to spot someone. I realised that someone might be me and chugged up to him, muttering darkly about Stevio's apparently effortless hard pace, and he grinned.
‘Best jog along with me then.'
And that seemed like a perfectly reasonable option. I’ve run with Nigel a few times. He can be very competitive, but on the whole we’re well matched. Besides, a longer, slower run would be better for me (today, at any rate) than a breathless chase after Speedy Gonzales and his new disciples. I nodded agreement and we slowed up, letting the Snake group go. At the turn-off along the ridge I felt good about my choice, even though my legs still felt dissapointingly heavy. The melting mud wasn’t helping. Frost-bound trails had thawed over night to leave a sticky carpet to suck and claw at our feet, clods of earth collecting on our shoes until we were running in ugly moon-boots. We chatted amiably about friends, family, Christmas and plans for the year, until the time came to stop talking and start sucking some serious wind.

The North Face offers a formidable challenge. 62 metres of climb in less than half a kilometre on a heavy, churned-mud staircase laced with chalk and flint. It took everything I had to keep going from bottom to top, elbows pumping, feet dancing over the rough ground, breath rasping until my throat appeared to be filled with over-inflated lungs. At the top, gasping like fresh-landed fish, we grinned at one another, agreeing between gulps that we’d probably both have walked part of it had we'd been alone. That’s the great thing about running with others; there’s this unspoken challenge, a code of honour that says if you keep going I’ll keep going. It helps you push on where you might otherwise not, and in the wider scheme of things helps you develop your running by pushing your own personal envelope. Of course there's a down side, as demonstrated by my debilitating efforts to keep up with the quicks, but on the whole and with a little sensible mediation, and as in many things in life (chess, golf, tennis) 'playing' against a better opponent will occasionally get you thrashed but will generally improve your understanding of the game and, just now and again, give you a glimpse of your true potential. It can be used in races too; you find your pace well-matched to another, perhaps unknown runner, and you develop this secret 'bond'. If they drop back you pick another; if they push on you go with them. I've tried it with attractive bottoms and it works a treat :o

On then to another old friend, the Yellow Brick Road. First there’s a couple of tasty, Somme-like cattle fields, heavily scarred, full of yet more soft, clinging clods and a collection of incontinent calves ambling around a large feed dispenser by the far gate. Through that lot and onto the YBR proper, the concrete path that stretches away over the horizon for almost three kilometres. It’s eyes down, elbows out again for a steady hump up the never-ending road. Try not to glance up too often, the disappearing strip of gold-flecked hardcore can break a man's spirit faster than you can say 'bastard.' Finally that cruel wind popped out from wherever it had been lurking for the past hour to race up and into our faces. At first I was grateful, my over-heated body cooling in an instant. After ten minutes of constant battling into the icy blast I began to change my view. My face numbed, tears, dragged from my squinting eyes, ran horizontally around the sides of my face, the sweat on my shirt chilled and I started to shiver. Still, a bold effort on this first return to the Jog Shop Jog heartland and I felt surprisingly fresh at the summit in spite of myself. We turned right at the top, briefly facing the Ouse Valley, Kingston Village far below, Lewes, the Racing Stables and Blackcap off in the distance, before bearing left along the ridge across the top of the Big W. The turf was treacherous, slippery rocks nestling amongst smooth mud contriving to trip or slip us up. At last we reached the long haul up into Woodingdean, Death Valley and the Snake away to our left, soft turf yielding to our tramping tread as we climbed, climbed, climbed for what felt like forever.

I was feeling stronger on this second half of the run. The legs were still heavy but my breathing had settled down and critically there were no persistent niggles. Like last Sunday, when I’d felt compelled to tear up the Snake like a rat out of a drainpipe, I stepped on the gas, taking on the hills to get them behind me. Nigel worked hard to keep up, expressing generous admiration for my hill work. A gentle jog in from Woodingdean down through the park, more slippery, mountain-goat footing inducing some manic, high-wire arm-action, much to the amusement of the well-wrapped, roll-up-smoking dog-walkers. I even managed a few half-hearted stretches back at the marina, though in truth the bitterness of the now prevailant wind drove me into the warm sanctity of my truck long before I'd finished my routine.

22.61 kms in 2:10:30 – a good effort on a less-than top-form day.

[SIZE="1"]Top: route with North Face in red. Bottom: Elevation/ distance (NF marked)[/SIZE]