I slipped out this morning, dogs in tow, heading for Blackcap. Last night I met up for a quiet beer with Chris 'Austin Powers' Mallinson, Ladyrunner, Simon Ho and friends before attending the Neville Juvenile Bonfire shindig. The bonfire itself is staged at the start of the Lewes Downland 10, evoking memories of that race and a much warmer day. A full-on prelude to the Big Stuff on November 5th this event treated us to some spectacular fireworks and the ritual evisceration of several effigies. One, a hastily constructed Colonel Gadaffi strapped to a giant rocket, had been spotted earlier that afternoon passing the Dripping Pan. I spied him from my nest in the press box as I posted live commentary on the Mighty Rooks's 2-1 victory over Cray Wanderers in the FA Trophy. Seeing the recently deceased dictator's distinctive barnet glide past the old flint walls of Fortress Pan was something to behold. Packed with fireworks with a generous dollop of semtex at his core the Colonel left us with a chest-rattling thump last night.
The merry band of runners repaired to the Royal Oak whereupon they tripped the Light Fantastic to none other than Buckler's Reel, a plucky folk band playing live in the pub. Unusually I ducked out. Somewhere hidden in the straw that fills most of my head sits a small nagging troll. This troll has been chirruping about some forthcoming mountain run being only weeks away, that and the fact I've banked sod-all mileage lately. Some part of me that eschewed a night in the pub, saving me for what I supposed would be a hard-run assault on Blackcap. I ditched plans to run with the Jog Shop mob when Chris confided, with barely disguised glee, that Lycra Tony had moved the start time up to 08:00 on a Sunday. Too rich, and indeed early, for my thinning blood.
Happily (and, these days, rarely) I felt pretty good this morning. So when I crested the Cap, the Sussex lowlands laid out below me to my right, Brighton's seafront towers glistening in the distance to my left, instead of turning tail I pressed on. The dogs seemed confused, never having gone past the milestone at the top of the hill, yet faithful as ever they ploughed on in my heavy wake, taking time to check out the markers of those that had gone before. I set off towards Plumpton and Ditchling, what felt like a gentle breeze at my back, legs light and quick over the rough flint trail. I thought back to Glaconman's reference to night running and that weird name he gave having eyes in your feet and tested a theory. Keeping my sights on the horizon I tried running 'blind' over the rough, uneven ground. Potholes came and went, half filled with chalky rainwater, adourned with chunks of flint and slabs of wet mud. All in all this worked fairly well. I didn't fall arse over tit or stub my toe, or career headlong into the barbed wire fences lining the route. I maintained a reasonably steady pace, ankles and knees adjusting to the changes under foot on what felt like a series of pistons and shock absorbers.
Thinking back to last night the Lewes Downland Ten popped into my head just as I reached the turn-off for that particular route. What the heck; I took the turn, feeling what was certainly more than a breeze hit my left side. This would account for my apparent sprightliness; a stiff wind had shoved me up the hills and out onto the South Downs way. I stuck with the route right up to the point where it heads into dense woodland (around mile 7 on the race proper) before the quad crunching ascent to Black Cap. Instead I took the high road, loping easily up a far gentler incline. Brightly marked finches bobbed and weaved across the rutted path, their flashed bellies occasionally blending perfectly with sun-lit buttercup-yellow gorse flowers in the hedgerows.
Heading for home I faced into what I now realised was clearly a full-force gale. This offered just what I need most at this point; a tough, grinding finish. The headwind dropped my ‘resting’ pace by 40 seconds per kilometre, or, in plain English, ‘by quite a bit’. I had to fight hard not only against the wind but rising lactic acid and tired, under-cooked legs. Disappointing, but best to find this out now whilst I still have a week or two to add some mileage that will make a difference. I’m not beating myself up. This was an impromptu long(er) run so I carried no food or water, and it has, even in my baroque world, been an eventful few weeks.
Despite the fatigue I kicked for home, the nonplussed, shattered pups sculking in behind me. We covered 14.7 kilometres in 1 hour 33. A good workout, but I’ll need to complete a tough Snake run (North Face, Yellow Brick Road etc and so forth) before I’ll believe P2P is within my gift. Next weekend is the CWD UK Conference in Windsor (where I’ll be wearing at least four hats, including that of exhibit co-ordinator) so I’ve planned a series of hard mid-week outings this and next week with the Serpentine test to follow on November 6th. After that anything added will be for psychological benefit only.
I recorded the route today on my Garmin. Here’s the elevation map showing that despite the tough going this was no true test of hill work, rather a pleasantly undulating trail. More work needed, that much is certain.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
