March 2010

[Sweder]

Tootled along to the Jog Shop good Good Friday Friday run.
To explain, it's a good run on a Friday, which also happens to be Good Friday. Oh please yourselves.
It's an out-and-back race along the east Brighton cliff-tops, a gentle four mile meander out to The Wire (just past Saltdean) followed by a helter-skelter, eyeballs-out blatt back to the Marina. I decided to take it easy in both directions, not wanting to tempt fate this close to the daunting challenges of Connemara.

Inspired by my current delve into the dusty canyon treasure of Born to Run I elected to take my Vibram FiveFingers along. I started in my beloved (and now extremely thread-bare) red Mizuno off-roaders, packing the Barefoot skins in my ever-present rucksack. Mercifully the weeping heavens had taken a breather, the sun peeking out from behind the moody clouds on the stroke of four PM. A strong offshore wind added a chill to proceedings as we loped off into the east. It was hard to discern if this would help or hinder the sprint home, and I decided worrying about made no sense as we could change neither route nor weather..

Forty minutes later I arrived at The Wire, the rusty chain-link fence that happens to be precisely six kilometres from the marina steps, found a small dip in which to change footwear and proceeded to fumble about with the Vibrams. It dawned on me that I might have been better served putting these on at home during the day so as to 'inflate' the snug (and still horribly crinkled) toe slots. Oh well. Sam growled us to order before I'd managed to squeeze my baby toes into their pockets so I left them crushed in besides their neighbours. Thrusting my Mizunos into my backpack I joined the racers for the off.

True to my earlier pronouncement I took it very easy, loping back up the first slope at roughly the same pace as I'd arrived. The peleton took off before me, all pumping elbows and quick, short strides. Despite the mis-aligned pinkies my feet rejoiced at their reacquaintance with soft, yielding turf without the barrier of a thick cushioned sole. I started thinking about changing my gait, landing on the fleshy forefoot rather than hammering in my bony heel, when disaster struck.

Cresting the tallest hill above Saltdean, just past the memorial cross, the cliff-top plummets towards the sea, a perilous rollercoaster drop marked by a distinct lack of grass along the fence line. So wrapped up was I in foot-falls and stride patterns I failed to detect the lack of grippy grass as I tilted into the descent. With the angle away from me so acute I couldn't help but land one of the slick Vibram skins on the slippery mud heel-heavy. In a scene reminiscent of those wonderful Buster Keaton movies my foot, soon accompanied by its' partner, shot out from under me. Time slowed impossibly as my body flipped up, perfectly horizontal with the ground now several feet below me. I sucked in a huge lungful of air as the few runners around me started to turn their heads towards me ... then WHUMP! My bulk hit the deck with remarkable force. The air I'd been drawing in left my lungs in a rush. My rucksack flew up my back to clout me in the head. I could feel my ample backside dredging a layer of mud off the hillside as I slid along; buy the ticket, I thought, take the ride. Then my feet found purchase and I launched into an upright stance, somehow managing to continue to run as my weight shifted forward then downward. I slithered across to a patch of grass, relieved to find purchase as I accelerated towards the on-rushing concrete in the hollow between the hills.

'You OK?' An astonished, concerned voice from above and behind. 'Yep,' my curt, embarrassed reply invited no further inquiry. Adrenaline flooded through me as I continued to pound out a much quicker pace, performing a fair sling-shot through the dip and halfway up the opposite climb. Moving well, the dull ache in my lower back starting to make itself known, I pushed on, reeling in a few stragglers. Best get fresh, warm blood flowing around that battered backside. My pace settled at around five minutes per kilometre until the last mile when I pushed it to 4:45, pretty much my Almeria Half PB speed.

As I gulped air at the finish Stevio, looking horribly cool and untroubled after a comfortable run (some five minutes quicker than mine), ambled up, eyes widening at the sight of my mud-spattered kit. 'Bloody hell what happened? You take a tumble?' I offered a mumbled account drawing barely muffled chuckles from those around me. I gazed forlornly down at the Vibrams. 'Guess I should have taken these out on a quiet local run before today.' Like most wise words these came too late to spare my blushes. Happily ibuprofen and a night on the tiles with Captain Tom and Seafront Plodder, sampling the excellent, just-released Harveys Olympia Ale, worked healing magic.

Sorry to report that Mrs S has fared less well. A trapped nerve in her shoulder has caused consecutive sleepless nights. She's in terrible pain despite chugging the contents of a small pharmacy. We're off to see a number of physicians and witch-doctors today in the hope she can be cured. The alternative is to cancel our trip to Connemara, something I'd really rather not think about just now.