December

[Sweder]

We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow.

Temperatures below zero, hills smothered in hard, crisp snow and the sour residue of a monstrous night out with the Mighty Plodder clinging to my digestive tract.
There was nothing for it but to venture out for a gutsy run in the East Brighton hills.

Our ranks were understandably depleted on this beautiful Sunday morning. Just eleven hardy souls (including Lycra Tony and bike-mounted Sam) shivered in a wind-chill I'm going to say was about minus ten. With a pre-departure reading of minus three I donned three layers; a long-sleeved body-top, one of those new-fangled torso huggers replete with optimistically sculpted muscle-enhancers. My enhancers were stretched to dimensions unintended by the clever designers as they struggled to contain my Guinness -and-curry-bolstered bulk. Next my ever-present Running Commentary technical shirt, still mysteriously bobble-free, and on top an old, thin Adidas wind-cheater zipped up to the neck. I doubled up on socks; Thurlos beneath my old ref's black knee-length football stockings, all tightly wrapped in my tattered Lycra leggings. I forced an Almeria open-ended head-wrap over my ears before completing my armament with gloves. And still it felt like taking on a savage beast with a stick of rhubarb.

I'd pre-determined that this would be a Snake run, around twelve and a quarter miles. Two minutes in I pondered the wisdom of this wildly confident premeditation. Running on the grass was relatively simple; the crusty ice-snow skin yielding to my heavy tread offering just enough grip for assured forward motion. Any foray onto the pavements, coated in the most beautifully random, highly-polished glass, produced a bizarre series of arm-waggles, dislocating shoulder spins and jerking leg movements not out of place in a Mr Bean special. Keep on the grass was my thought for the day.

Despite the inherent dangers of running on ice in a stiff, cruel wind we soldiered on. Some of the newbies truncated their session, the scheduled eleven mile Famous Residencies route being mostly paved and therefore potentially lethal. Four of the Quicks, including the waif-like Natalie and a rather sweaty, late-arriving (really? Surely not!) yet grinning Chris ‘Austin Powers’ Mallinson, hared off to meet the Serpent. There's no way I can keep pace with them so I lingered at the three-mile rendezvous to see if anyone fancied a more leisurely assault on the route. Happily there were two takers; Cecelia and Jack. I'd not run with either before, but having seen them moving easily over the early miles I knew they'd have no trouble keeping up; if anything I'd be likely to slow them down. In these tricky conditions that was perhaps not such a bad thing.

Running on the downland trails was quite an experience. In places the snow had been trampled to a rock-hard icy coat; treacherous at the most compacted sections, passable wherever a light dusting of snow offered a hint of grip. Several stretches had been devoured by greedy snow-drifts. The random mini-cave foot-holes of our predecessors revealed the depth of the snow - knee-deep in places - yet as every high-kicking step met, broke the surface and plunged into the frozen deep I wondered if one of these might yield completely to send me plunging into some hitherto unknown chasm. The experience brought to mind that wonderful book (also a compelling docu-drama) Touching the Void, Joe Simpson’s harrowing account of his nightmare shared with Simon Yates in the Peruvian Andes. In the unlikely event that you've not encountered this story I urge you to do so without delay.

The Snake proved challenging but less impassable than when heavy rain turns the path into a mud-slide, making every second footstep a sideways lunge. It was tough enough; the wind howling out of the north ripping reluctant tears from my eyes, the warm fluid drying cold on my pink cheeks. Blessed relief came as the winding ascent turned us westward, out of the headwind. My lungs burned as I gulped frozen air at every other step and I endured an impressive coughing fit at the summit, bent over the 5-bar gate as my ravaged pipes protested loudly.

I eschewed the wine gums today, relying on a smidgeon of Robinsons Apple & Blackcurrant mixed with my drinking water for added sustenance. The last couple of miles, despite being mostly downhill, proved tougher than usual, my hips and thighs aching with every carefully mapped, heavier-than’s-good-for-me step. Cecilia and Jack coped admirably, the former on her first visit to Ole Snakey.
‘It’ll get easier’ I promised, leant against my car, steam pluming from my back as frozen sausage-fingers fumbled for my keys.
‘Wasn’t too bad’ she grinned, jogging off towards the marina. ‘Merry Christmas!’
Brighton marathon will be a doddle for her come April. Merry Christmas indeed.
Round in 2 hours 10, 8 minutes longer than last week. Wholly acceptable given our caution along the route; my advanced scanning software was cranked to the max all the way, seeking that potential ankle-snapper. The double-sock-age worked like a charm. My shoes were soaked, yet my feet remained warm; that is to say I could still feel my toes without squeezing them. I may need new gloves though; this pair, comfy enough, have developed holes that today left my fingers tingling on the edge of numb. That was soon put right thanks to a stinging hot shower followed by an hour in front of our wood-burning stove, steaming cup of coffee clasped in my steadily-thawing mits. Bliss.

And when I get home cold and tired,
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire