January 2010

[Sweder]

I sat at my desk shortly after 7am, coffee in hand, watching the shadowy sun struggling to rise above the Lewes cliff. The sky above the town wore a coat of gun-metal grey, in stark contrast to the clean white blanket smothering the streets, cars, houses and any other stationary items left exposed to the harsh winter elements. Mercifully the brutal onslaught predicted for last night had yet to arrive in this corner of Sussex. I thanked my lucky stars as I laced up my beloved, embattled Mizunos. Time to run.

A pleasant surprise waited for me at the Marina. 25 hardy souls had gathered to run in spite of tough, slippery conditions and forecasts of bitter, soul-scrubbing winds with the promise of fresh snowfall. The wind-chill was expected to scour well below zero so I donned several layers including two long-sleeve tops, two pairs of gloves, long socks and leggings. My trusty off-roaders, held together by failing stitching and silent prayer, were in for a battering.

We set off, running eastward along the powder-coated cliff-tops. Below and to our right lay the sulking sea, calmly reflecting the dark, brooding skies on its dull grey surface. Clouds laden with snow scudded overhead, resisting the urge to dump on our huddled band as we struggled up the treacherous slopes towards Saltdean. The kilometre climb up Telscombe Tye wasn't too bad. The winds had blown much of the snow into deep drifts along the edge of the field to leave our usual trail dusted in a light crispy skin. Up on the ridge a different story; knee-deep drifts lurked amongst perfectly sound footings forcing us to bob and weave like a bunch of loonies on the run. Once again we were obliged to high-step for what seemed like an age; progress was slow, my aching legs distressed at revisiting the Ministry of Silly Running.

Sixteen of us set out to run the Snake route, our regular challenge just shy of the half-marathon distance. Split neatly into two groups of eight; Natalie and Chris away with the Quicks, me, Jack and Cecilia (co-veterans of the deep snow run four weeks ago) leading five newbies on a more sedate struggle across these wintry obstacles. The views across the valley to Kingston and Lewes revealed a perfect Narniascape. White upon white, broken only by fence lines, the occasional leaf-bare tree and clusters of human habitation, thin grey wisps of smoke rising from their chimneys to kiss the forbidding skies.

My Octet managed a respectable pace. When not wading through horribly deep snow we were skating across compacted snow-ice, staggering along like a bunch of drunks lost on the moors. I lead the way but frankly picking a route was something of a lottery. The Quicks had of course cut their own path, but we could see how unsuccessful that had been in places so I tried to find alternative, less exhausting routes. It was a case of the blind leading the snow-blind. One chap, splendidly defiant in his football shorts and long socks, ripped his knees to shreds when, having followed me rather too closely into what I'd hoped was a shallow cut through some light grass, he fell headlong into what turned out to be unpleasantly thick, thorny brambles. He carried on, pink knees sporting exceptional bloody slashes, with a wide grin on his face. He looked for all the world like he’d been accosted by a diminutive Werewolf.

The old Serpent had her own treats in store. Austin Powers waited for us after the long drop into the Farmer's Field. He'd heard from two runners coming the other way that the Snake was all but impassable; on hearing this three of Chris’s group had turned left at the gate to head for the relative safety of Rottingdean. Chris and I agreed this was likely an exaggeration and we ploughed on. The warning turned out to be partly correct. Alarmingly deep waves of snow washed across the narrow track, sculpted into the exposed hillside by the increasingly intrusive wind. We were obliged to hurdle these to avoid burying ourselves groin-deep, and by the time we reached the summit we were, to a man and a woman, pretty much done in.

I caught my breath and addressed the group. I felt they deserved something, some reward for their gallant efforts, so I offered a pearl to be stored away for the tough times ahead. Not exactly Henry the Fifth perhaps; not even Aslan before the Last Battle, but still.
'You know how knackered your legs feel now?' I gasped.
'Well, that's what it'll feel like at some point during your marathon this spring. Thing is, when that happens, you can remember today and tell yourself 'I felt like this in January when I was nowhere near as fit as I am now, and back then I ran three more miles to the finish''.
This didn't appear to be the fillip many had hoped for. They looked at me, blinking, plumes of steam rising from their open mouths. Apparently I’d lost what few marbles I'd started out with somewhere down there on those soul-sucking slopes.
Then, thankfully, they smiled at one another, nodding as if that sounded rather good, and we were off for the downhill rumble home.

Running on tired legs is terrific training for marathons, though I doubt any of us had planned to feel quite so shattered at this early stage in the VLM/ Brighton 2010 schedule. Battling through the snow has been fun, a terrific challenge and a great learning experience, but it’s high time two Sons of Adam and Two Daughters of Eve took their seats at Cair Paravel.

Enough already; let it melt, let it melt, let it melt.