A return to Sunday running - long overdue - and the ample bosom of the Jog Shop Joggers.
How good to see those familiar faces - Stevio, Gillybean, Ade, Cam, Steepler, London Mick, Isabelle - assembled above the marina this morning. Steve, having just returned from a mammoth pasta-fest in Italy, was proudly displaying something close to a belly wrapped in his skin-tight running shirt. I was tempted to ship up my RC Vest and, in a true Crocodile Dundee stylee, proclaim:
That's not a belly:
Now THAT's a belly ...
Lucky for the others I thought better of it.
3 miles in we'd reached the toilets at Saltdean in a comfortable 30 minutes. I felt pretty good, although seemed to be working harder than usual to keep such an easy pace. Another 3 miles in we'd climbed the Tye and were running west across the ridge, heading for Old Snakey, and I was most certainly getting worried.
Now you might wonder at the folly of a man who's managed a mere handful of five mile outings in the past month taking on the thick end of thirteen hilly miles, and you wouldn't be alone. Several voices kept jabbering away at me, all of them from dark corners of my own tortured mind, suggesting amongst other things that an early cut-back through Rottingdean might be for the best.
Undeterred by such idle and unwanted chatter I ploughed on. We reached the farmer's field, the perilous plummet down a now dry, heavily rutted slope covered in scrub and rocks. Having spent the previous 30 minutes trailing at the back of the group I took advantage of my downhill prowess and launched full-tilt to embrace the drop, passing everone else as Stevio muttered something about 'bloody downhill specialists.' By the time I'd ridden the sling-shot up to the gate I was shot, my legs bulging with lactic acid, lungs somewhere near my throat and any gameplan for finishing this run in good order in tatters.
A brief rest, a gulp of juice and we were off, heading north towards the foothills of the snake. I ran a systems check and was horrified at the results. Little to no energy left, heavy legs, rapid, high-chest breathing and a heart-rate to match Jenson Button's heading flat out into a blind hairpin. I pondored the nature of human folly and the consequences of battered confidence as the doom-clouds gathered. Funny how the mind stands ready to trip us up in our hour of need. Just when I needed some positive thinking all I could focus on was what an almighty struggle it was going to be getting through the next five miles, the first two of which were mercilessly uphill. The sun emerged to turn up the heat and my shoulders sagged a degree or two more.
Cam lingered at the back of the group. I told her I was struggling and she said not to worry, I could go at my own pace. I knew then that would mean a walk-break and ushered her onward. On the Snake proper I watched the coloured vests of my companions climb the hills ahead, getting ever-smaller as I lumbered heavily up the track. Finally I succumbed, slowing to a fast walk, working hard to regulate my laboured breathing and loosen my limbs. After a while I heard footsteps behind and turned to see Irish Micheal thundering up the slope.
'Whatcha doing here mate?' His greeting was filled with great energy and enthusiasm which only served to further dampen my spirits.
'The others are just around the corner' I waved feebly in my best impression of Eeyore, and he set off with a wolfish grin to chase them down.
For ten minutes I marched myself up the serpent's bone-dry back, the wind whipping at my drenched vest and sweat-stained legs, sun throbbing down to burn into my bare shoulders. I glanced up into the branches of the occasional tree, fully expecting to see a cluster of vultures replete with bibs tucked in and drooling beaks. At the final twist I broke into a jog, determined to find a gentle loping gait to get me home. Up ahead I could see the others, gathered gallantly at the gate to wait for their wounded commrade. Touched I stepped it up again, reaching them at something of a gallop but it took all my effort to squeeze a painful grin of thanks as I slumped across the fencepost at the top.
The remaining miles were mostly flat or downhill as we head for home through East Brighton Park. Cam kindly kept me company, as did Steepler who stopped to greet any number of dogs (out with their owners), remove his shirt (bloody hell no need for that!) and to chat to us about his aspirations for the 2010 Brighton Marathon. He vowed to get cracking now rather than wait until January before realising it's too late to make a decent run at a PB.
'I want my finishing time to start with a 2' he announced boldly.
I crawled to a stop at the Marina, breath coming in dainty gasps. My legs sang of lactic acid and pain; I felt broken, like a discarded puppet who's strings are inextricably tangled and who's joints have rusted. Despite the rough ride it was good to do this, to find out where the bottom of the barrel is, lay down a marker from which to move forward. Thanks to all for a great morning; I'll be back, and I'll be better.
19.84 kilometres in 2:11.
Now to walk the dogs and get the Sunday roast on ...
