November

[Sweder]

Who knows where the sudden urge to run springs from?
This morning it was all I could do to haul my battered carcass out of bed. Any ideas of running were instantly banished, my aching legs pleading loudly for a straight red card at the first hint of such foolish thoughts.

A few hours later, sat at my desk watching the light fade and the full moon rise, I felt an uncontrollable desire to hit the hills. I hauled on singlet and shorts, grabbed my just-dried Mizunos off the radiator and called the dogs. I set the iPhone to shuffle, relieved that the first few numbers were relatively easy-going; David Gilmour's A Pocket Full of Stones, The Comsat Angels' Waiting For A Miracle, America with Horse With No Name and Zeppelin's Your Time Is Gonna Come. Check out the church organ intro on that one; it's not always easy to spot as a Led Zep track; that is until Messrs Bonham and Plant give the game away. As the hills started to bite the grand old statesmen of rock made way for Stiff Little Fingers and their hard-nosed hommage to John McCarthy, Under A Beirut Moon. The vitriolic contempt for an inept, gutless British government seemed to light a flame within me and I fair flew up Wicker Man Hill.

But when Brits get caught they'll be left to rot
Under a Beirut, under a Beirut Moon

I hammered up Blackcap, thinking as I did so about a remark made here recently, possibly by MarathonDan, about hillwork being a kind of Fartlek. The added effort required to attack long climbs is certainly equivalent to interval sprints. The resting jog at the plateau offers recovery before the next ascent just as slowing down does between balls-out, bug-eyed blasts on the flat. It's all about improving recovery time, working the lungs, seeing how quickly the old bellows can recover after a good thrashing. On Sunday I'd floundered badly at the summit of the hard climb out of Saltdean, a sure sign that solid fitness remains some way off.

Sucking air manfully at the turn I launched off Blackcap and into the gloom. Although the moon was full and getting higher by the minute the last vestige of daylight had already dropped over the western ridge, a faint orange tinge on the horizon the last memory of a stunning November day. I could just make out the rutted trail dropping away before me, feel the flintrock poking through the thinning souls of my well-worn shoes as I hurtled into the night. Mindful of the perils of night running offroad I redoubled my efforts, charging up the western slope of WMH and again up Stable rise just as Deep Purple, thoughtfully maintaining the nocturnal theme, chimed in with the excellent Highway Star. I took up the boistrous cadence to blast up the last ascent, surprised at how much I had in the tank after yesterdays exersions. Fifty yards from the top I felt the fuel guage sink towards zero. Bereft of oxygen the blood in my legs turned to lead and I slowed, breathing hard but grinning madly at a fine effort. The last half-mile rumbled gently by as the lights of Lewes and Newhaven winked playfully in the dark.

Home in 46:50, by far my quickest outing in recent weeks and one that's left me feeling great.
As I said to EG (via Twitter), I ran like a God. Or a Dog. Either way I'll sleep well tonight.