A delightful sojourn with the Jog Shop joggers, all 43 of them. The wind did it's best to push us off our cliff top trails but in all honesty it was a half-hearted effort, never likely to dampen our cheerful chatter. The sun lurked behind rippled cloud like a small child banished to the stairs, trying to peep through to see what the grown-ups get up to after bed-time.
Despite (or perhaps because of) my lack of mid-week effort I felt refreshed and ready for battle. With Almeria only two weeks away I'd decided to visit my old slithery friend, El Snake. Resting briefly at our customary 3 mile Saltdean shelter I said as much to Sam who, mounted on his (t)rusty two-wheeler, invited me to take a small band of marathon hopefuls with me. We would be the slow 'straight' Snake group. The quicks, adding a double-back through Rottingdean and St Dunstan's, would be lead by Natalie and a late-as-usual yet horribly fit-looking Austin Powers.
We made steady progress, chatting between ourselves about running hopes and aspirations. Two of my charges were taking on Brighton followed a week later by the VLM. They asked for advice on what they might do between the two. I quoted Mr Sheehan, cautioning them that one man's sound advice might be another's nonsense before holding forth on the importance of eating 'as soon as possible' after the first race to aid muscle repair, then rest up and maybe - if they felt like it - spin the legs a couple of times mid-week over very short, easy distances.
Later I told tales of the Steyning Stinger, the Two Oceans and Connemara. My new friends seemed genuinely interested, which pleased me no end as most normal* people glaze over after a minute or two. It's equally fair to say they were a somewhat captive audience. At the Farmer's Field, a perilous drop and slingshot up to the track leading to the Snake, I was asked about downhill running.
'A lovely man called Chris Moyle taught me how to run down hill' I told them. 'Lean into it and let your legs deal with getting you safely to the bottom.'
With that I launched myself into a mad scamper across the ploughed mud, skipping over flint rocks as big as a baby's head. I felt elated, running flat out until I hit the upslope and finally, tears streaking from the crow's feet at the corners of my eyes, I chugged to a stop at the gate.
One of the girls doing both races limped in looking rather forlorn. She'd not gone particularly potty but had felt something 'go' alongside her knee. A friend offered to walk her in (there was a shortcut to Rottingdean a few hundred metres away) and I agreed this was a good idea. Had she run on there's no telling what damage may have occurred. Best to cut this run short and live to run another day. I did wonder if she'd feigned injury to avoid more Tales of Sweder; she did seem genuinely distressed.
At the foot of the Snake I invited the remaining six to run the two kilometre climb at their own pace and we'd re-group at the top. Halfway up I found myself running with a lady from New Zealand and a fit looking fellow wearing pre rahaelite locks and sporting a camelback. They kept up a fair old pace (around 5:40 minutes per kilometre) and still managed to chirp away. We finished by running down through East Brighton Park. At the highest point I bade the three fastest to have at it and race each other home. I waited for the slowest two, persuading them to run as hard as they could over the last mile. This is where the best work is done, learning to run on tired legs.
All told 20.22 kilometres in a hair over two hours. I'm happy with that. One more next Sunday and I'll be ready to dance with La Ramblas.
*non-runners
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
