August 2010

[Sweder]

Friday evening, a text message from Ladyrunner:

Want to run with the Babes this Sunday?
Meeting at my house at 09:30.

Sounded good. Except I'd filled Saturday with golf, drinking, dining and more drinking as we entered Captain Tom’s 25th Anniversary debauch – er, renewal of vows weekend. Besides, I had a speech to write. The formal ceremony kicked off at 12:30 sharp on Sunday.

Naturally I said 'yes'. Running with the Babes is not an offer to be sniffed at. The backbone of the Brighton & Hove Athletics ladies team, winners of the 2010 100 mile South Downs Relay, are a lovely bunch. Bright, engaging and, if I’m entirely honest, very easy on the eye. They are also extremely fit and run hills rather well.

At 06:30 on Sunday morning none of this could detract the feeling of utter dread adding an impossible weight to the previous night’s engagement with Tanglefoot. I’d got a thirst on (not, for once, SP’s fault, though he was on hand to offer encouragement). No, I’d got it into my head that I needed to drink all the Tanglefoot the Pelham Arms could offer. If they hadn’t kicked us out just before midnight I  might still be there, sat in a pool of spilled beer peppered with the remnants of a bucket of home-made pork scratchings.

After several restorative Nespressos (Purple Rage to the rescue) I felt well enough to send a text to LR to let her know something Sweder-shaped would be dropped at her door before they left.  Mrs S dutifully kicked me out of the car along with the water belt that ‘someone has moved!’ (it was in the middle of my office floor) and two Neurofen. The babes were gathered, looking suitably whippet-like and up for a blast in the hills. I trailed in their engaging wake for the first seven predominantly uphill kilometres, puffing like an old steam engine as the beer seeped out from every pore. 

Funny how these strugglesome runs so often end well. By the time we’d reached Blackcap and the east/ west trail split I felt fine. The girls, much to the bleary-eyed astonishment of several cross-country cyclists resting in the hedgerow, bade me a fond and cheery farewell as they turned west towards Ditchling Beacon. I set off east, bound for Lewes and home. I fair raced along, writing my vow-renewal speech as I gobbled up the sun-dappled miles. By the time I’d passed the stables I was well under my Half Marathon PB pace with no sign of letting up. Go figure.

The speech, once trimmed to the required two minutes, went down a storm. I managed to party on with the revellers at Chez Tom until the early evening, Harveys fresh from the brewery tap proving a fine antidote for my dangerous if improbable endorphin high. As the sun slipped over the horizon my eyelids grew heavy. Mrs S nudged me gently. ‘Time to go home Mr’ she whispered. To say I slept well would be the understatement of the year.