November

[Sweder]

November tore in like a biker gang on a drug-fuelled rampage. I awoke to find our newly-planted flowering pear bowing frantically to the neighbouring privet hedge, adjacent tall grasses similarly supplicated. Rain lashed in from the south giving everything a pencil-sketched look. A wise man would have succumbed to the duvets' Siren song, but not I: time to run.

So enraged was I (slurping coffee whilst scanning the MotD early morning repeat) by Messrs Lineker, Hansen and Shearer's wilful failure to acknowledge the majesty of Berbatov's match-changing strike v Blackburn (it's a consipracy I tell ya!) I almost missed the start. I drove like a maniac through violent, gusting winds, leaves, branches and heavy rain battering my truck as I hunched over the wheel, eyes squinting through the gloom. This’ll soon be battering me I thought, and once again the eerie call of a warm bedcover drifted out of the ether. Jaw set, pedal to the metal I drove on, a wild-eyed stubble-chinned disciple racing to meet his doom.

As I parked up and bent double to lace my runners I spied a smudge of colour on the horizon. A dozen trusty souls had gathered atop the Marina steps, dutifully waiting for the hour of nine. Stowing my iPhone and firing up the Garmin I staggered to join them, relieved that we waited only moments longer before setting off into the teeth of the storm. Below and to our right the ocean raced in as if to smash the cliffs, looking for all the world like the Australian Rugby League defensive line pounding the English forwards into brutal submission. Unstoppable power and menace screamed in from the deep, forcing the wind and rain up the cliff face and into our brave band. Such elemental thuggery strips the veneer of perceived fitness from the unwary runner like hide from a slaughtered beast, flaying bravado to leave our pink, soft running souls quivering before nature's wrath. I could feel the strength seeping through my already-sodden Mizunos into the squidgy turf as I struggled against this ferocious beating. Occasionally the wind would inexplicably drop and I'd shoot forward into a turbo-charged sprint, such was the effort just to make progress, until the next wall of salty air rose to block my path and slow me back down to a stagger.

The hills came and with them respite, temporarily shielding our drenched forms from the maelstrom. Once crested however the full rage of the storm returned, stopping us dead in our tracks and threatening to lift all but the weightiest of us from our feet. Ade chugged alongside. We tried to chat, our words torn from our lips and back through the following strugglers. As the next rise slowed me further Ade's superior fitness told and he moved inexorably into the near-distance, shape deformed by lashing sheets of rain.



At times like these I'm grateful for my current lack of progress. The Wire, an eight-mile out-and-back plod, was a more than ample target in such unrelenting foulness. Those further up the running development chain opted for a visit to Old Snakey. I was happy to be left behind with the newbies, battling on to the turning point even as the plucky forward crew struck out up Telscombe Tye. We'd struggled to make headway running west to east; our homeward run was more of a hurtled blast, the main problem being one of balance and footing. Violent shoves in the back were plentiful and, at times, welcome; however the steep descents became perilously close to being out of control, and the occasional broadsides threatened to hurl us into a bush or ditch. Back at the Marina we exchanged rueful grins, congratulating one another with brave declarations such as 'Well done - that was fun!' whilst each harbouring the same secret thought: glad that's over.

An invigorating start to a month which may yield a good deal less running than I'd planned. An offer has arrived out of the blue, one that I've all but accepted. I'll not say more just yet - I need to run this by the Memsahib first. Let's just say it's a gift horse I'd rather not look in the mouth. It involves time off work, a lot of late nights away from home, a heavy driving schedule and large quantities of just about everything on the Daily Mail's 'Look Out! This’ll kill you' list. Heh heh.

L2R: Huddled start; Drop into Saltdean;Lycra Tony blows in; Home to the Marina; Elevation Map; RunMap