Well that was an interesting exercise. Not
entirely successful, but great fun and, at times, beautiful.
Run/ walking is all new to me. The discipline required to take a break every ten minutes - never mind run at a slower pace than usual - does not come easy. I tried but failed on this front, especially in the last hour when in all truth the wheels got decidedly wobbly before coming off altogether. By then, over four hours into the journey, I was taking arbitrary walk-breaks of two or three minutes without taking note of how long I'd run in between.
It started very well, just after 7am (BST, so 6am to you and me). No rain but an eerie mist wrapped the downland summits, restricting visibility and adding to the wonderful feeling of solitude. Sheep and strutting rooks aside I was alone on the hills for two hours. I set off towards Kingston, up Juggs Lane onto Kingston Ridge, the hilly spine than runs around the back of Kingston Village before it climbs up onto the downs proper by way of the Big W. I usually walk the W anyway, finding the steep climb too harsh to run, and cheerfully did so here. My pace dropped to around 16 minutes per kilometre at the steepest point. I took advantage of these regular strolls to snap some shots (attached below).
From the top of the W I continued to climb to Castle Hill Nature Reserve, home to the largest collection of Wild Orchids in Sussex. The trail through the dense shrubbery drops sharply to join Death Valley, tucking back along the lush green cleveage nestled between the hills. The fields were full of proud mother sheep suckling their young, wholly disinterested in my heavy, breathless passing. If only they could have read my mind ... Mmmm: Mint sauce.
On through the abandoned farm buildings, a right turn and into the foothills of the Snake where I continued walking for 60 seconds every ten minutes. I struggled to maintain my 'agreed' running pace of 7:00 minutes per kilometre. As soon as I got distracted by the fabulous views and interesting flora & fauna my pace steadily increased to around 6 minutes to 6:30 per kilometre. Suzie mentioned how important pacing and regular walk-breaks are from the start so I knew I'd be paying a price for this bad behaviour. Up the Snake I managed to hold 7 minute kilometres on the dot, rewarding myself at the top with a chomp on some buttered malt bread and an extended drink. I'd loaded a rucksack with all manner of essentials. A windcheater, spare socks, additional water (I also donned a water belt but this clashed uncomfortably with the rucksack. Must invest in a 'grenade' belt), malt loaf slices, wine gums ... it felt more like an expedition than a run, a useful aid for getting my 'run/walk' head on. El Gordo speaks often about race/ distance heads and he's right as usual. This was no race, much more a test of endurance and discipline.
I loped on through Woodingdean, across Brighton Racecourse and down through East Brighton park to the marina. As luck (or meticulous planning - ho ho!) had it I arrived at precisely nine o'clock. I turned on the main road to see a multicoloured hoard gathered in the usual place. Adi, GillyBean, Stevio ... quite a few familiar faces appeared amidst the throng, swapping tales of training and recent races and seeking explanation for my sweaty appearance and bulging rucksack. And it is hear, dear Reader, that the best laid plans of Mice and Sweder came to grief. My natural instict was to run with familiar downlanders, chatting easily as we jogged eastwards along the cliff-tops as we do every Sunday. I missed my first walk-break and the next, finally remembering to stop just before we reached the drop into Saltdean. I pulled over and snapped a few shots, self-conscious as the peleton cruised by. Whilst the runners gathered at the restrooms I chugged on by, resolved to return to my game-plan come-what-may. Pah!
Halfway up Telscombe Tye the lead group caught me, asking again what I was up to. I told them of may crazy scheme and let them go. Then another batch bounced by, and another. It was miserable but I stuck to my snails' pace, jaw set, plodding ever onward as the sun, making a belated appearance on the first day of British Summe Time, got around to lifting the mist from the downs.
I followed the ridge behind Telscombe, now heading west, before turning right towards the North Face, a brutally steep escarpment dressed in thick mud. I walked up the footprint-hammered climb as yet more Jog Shop Joggers arrived from behind. As they caught their breath at the top I carried on, and so we played Tic-Tac-Toe all the way through Incontentent Cow Corner and on up the Yellow Brick Road. I felt pretty good chugging up here, but again I let my concentration slip. Despite a strong headwind I knuckled down and pushed hard all the way to the top as I might on a regular run, passing a number of strugglers along the way. Only as I bade them fairwell and set myself to fall back down the first stroke of the W towards home did it dawn on me I'd undone all the good work of the first two hours.
My whining legs reminded me of this and the fact that despite hauling half my wordly goods on this trek I had failed to pack any Ibuprofen. As I juddered down the slippery concrete road my knees groaned, swelling with every step. My calves were tight as piano wire and my errant plantar, spurred on by my militant legs, finally chimed in with this chorus of disapproval. I could have kicked myself (except I'd have fallen over).
Attrition is the enemy. The Connemara Ultra is certainly 'do-able.' Not only on paper - the race takes place over 39 miles on less-forgiving tarmac - but perhaps in real terms. Time is not a factor. Discipline and joint failure - swollen knees, dysfunctional feet, mutinous muscles - will be my undoing. Pain relief and anti-inflammatories will help, but by the time we get into the last of three consecutive half-marathons the alarm will be playing
Tubular Bells. I need to find a way to deal with lactic acid. At some point during my third 10k I could feel my legs hardening as if someone had poured quick-drying cement into them. Bananas help, but I'd need a bigger backpack (or MarathonDan's Brighton Marathon Gorilla suit) to convey enough of them to get me round. Besides, there must be a less volumous, more scientific solution though I've yet to find it. I could use some of that
Chia Fresca favoured by the Tarahumara, though the suggestion that it looks a lot like frogspawn may cause a problem or two. Google beckons.
I completed the W descent, ran/ walked past Kingston and back into Lewes. By now I’d covered around 34 kilometres, but I wanted more. I ran on through the town, past Anne of Cleaves and the beautiful Southover Church, around the station and on into the freshly-cobbled Cliffe High Street. In keeping with this stage of a road marathon I didn’t appear to be adding much mileage despite a good deal of (warm) sweaty effort. Warmth was a factor. To counteract possible chaffing from a variety of accessories - DAB radio (for live Australian Grand Prix coverage early on), the backpack and general nipple erosion, and to counter the chilling effects of the expected but mercifully absent deluge, I’d donned a long-sleeved Under Armour top beneath my Reading Half (2005) technical shirt. The lack of rain, welcome yet surprising sunshine and lack of inland wind combined to raise my temperature. By the time I got to the Gardiner’s Arms in Cliffe High Street – home of the best-kept pint of Harvey’s in the town according the Master Brewer – I could cheerfully have popped in for a half (well, several pints if I'm honest). In hindsight I should have done precisely that (I carried £2 for 'emergencies, enough for a half).
I pushed on up the long climb out of town towards Ringmer and Uckfield, turning left at the top to drop down to the riverside and pick up the Ouse riverbank trail. This was delightfully slick with slime and proved a devil to negotiate. My slow progress and growing fatigue meant disappointing progress on the Garmin. I looked again. Bugger; I’d managed to pause the bloody thing! Hopefully not that long ago … disheartened and devoid of ambition to carry on I turned left and started the long, brutally steep climb to home, the unforgiving concrete slabs stabbing my petrified thighs with every jarring tread. Home was a sight for sore legs. Mrs S returned with the dogs as I leaned, dripping nastily, against the house. 'You look dreadful' she chirped gleefully, before enthusiastically pointing out all the shrubs that needed moving and handing me a shopping list. Endurance is relative, as is the love of a good woman
The stats say (and remember they’re slightly unreliable) 39.63 kilometres (24.7 miles) in 4:56:09
Ascending 14.03 kilometres/ Descending 12.49 kilometres
Total elevation change +816 metres, -856 metres (eh?)
Weather: Misty early, brightening, breezy along coast, sunny later, no rain!
All in all I’m pretty happy. A near-marathon in under 5 hours on less than 20 kilometres per week is a fair return. Certainly the terrain was as undulating as we can expect in the west of Ireland. To counter that the ground for the most part was soft and kind to my tiring legs, though the last 8 kilometres were mostly on road and pavement. I’ll have to give myself a proper talking-to if we’re to complete the run in Connemara within the allotted time.
Pictures:
Route map; Elevation map; Misty view (top BigW); Big W ascent; JSJers at 9; Drop to saltdean; Looking back down Yellow Brick Road; Top of the YBR (view over Lewes); Thunderheads over Lewes; Ouse north of Lewes
