January 2012

[Sweder]

Another return to running to report, this time slightly more successful than last week's aborted effort. Following several days whining about my poorly heel I plucked up courage and headed for Hove Park. My first ParkRun of 2012 was completed in a sedate 23:40. It felt a lot quicker; that is to say, it felt like I'd put in enough effort to clock a better time, but perhaps that's to be expected at the tail end of the Season of Supreme Gluttony. My wagoneering has barely had time to register on the Blob-o-meter; better things (and times) lie ahead I'm sure.

On Sunday I took to the Brighton hills for the first time in what feels like forever. The Jog Shop group are setting off at 8am these days, an ungodly hour that leaves no time for luxuriant pre-run breakfasts taken on the terrace in one's smoking jacket and slippers. Instead I wolfed some hastily scorched toast washed down with strong black coffee, filled a water bottle and set off at high speed.

It was good to see a few familiar faces huddled above the Marina. Natalie, looking as ever like she could do with a few hot meals; Adi, ruddy and smiling, Lycra Tony (kitted out in hideous bi-polar leggings, one leg purple, one cream), Jonty the affable Saffa, the effervescent Claudia and a lady with an alarming shock of white hair who I always assume to be Scottish but who is quite clearly not. Tony reminded us gleefully that we have thirteen weeks before our spring marathons, a statistic that saw a few of us absent-mindedly stretching as if to imply we might have actually done some training of late.

I learned that the peloton were headed inland for their first taste of the east Brighton hills this term, a long pull up Telscombe Tye. The regulars were planning to separate here. The super fit vets would take on a seventeen mile trek at high speed, Adi’s middle group two miles less over the Snake/ Rottingdean course and the Newbies setting sail back to the marina by way of the windswept cliffs. Both long routes were too rich for my undercooked legs but I figured I might tag along to the top of the Snake before nipping off home via East Brighton Park.

An hour in I had cause to review my plan. We bid farewell to the Quicks, Chris 'Austin Powers' Mallinson having caught and passed us to zoom off into the distance. The newbies had already turned for home and I was now hunkered down at the back of a small but perfectly formed wedge of lopers; Jonty, obviously in fine fettle as ruminated on the best films of last year whilst gliding along in apparent comfort; Mrs not-so-Scottish lady, Claudia and Adi with whom I discussed his recent interview with celebrity runner and Tony Blair's Minister of Disinformation Alistair Campbell (a piece due to appear in this months’ Runner's World). I ventured that Herr Campbell was probably a decent sort, being a keen footie fan and a decent runner and all that. Adi countered that I probably wouldn't want to work with him, which is possibly a fair point.

On reaching the perilously steep, heavily-ploughed farmer's field I let the legs go, thundering downhill at alarming speed as the rutted, flint-encrusted ground flew by. The heavy impact mashed my quads as involuntary tears succumbed to the biting wind, streaming across my face whilst I fought manfully to maintain my balance. I was mightily relieved to reach the levelling off point, chugging up the steep climb on the far side to slump against the gate, sucking air for all I was worth. It’s hard to remember a time I’ve felt less in shape at this particular juncture.

The Snake herself offered another reminder, if one were needed, that I've not tested myself on this course for a while. Happily the threatened overnight rain had stayed away, the sticky trail yielding a smidgeon of grip. Halfway up the long and winding track a small and unexpected pulse of energy had me pushing on, leaving Jonty in my wake as I struck out for the last corner. I wanted to get there ahead of the others to pay homage to the spot where Camilla had scattered Moyleman's ashes. Just then a shape appeared alongside me. Jonty had responded and was kicking on, way stronger than I. Within a minute he was thirty yards ahead and it was all I could do to hold him to that. As we reached the marker, a tiny pile of white stones sheltering from the spiteful wind under a bobbing gorse bush, I raised my arm in salute. Hello old friend. I laughed as I thought about what he'd say to me if he could see how horribly unfit I was. Something about losing the lard and shifting my arse no doubt.

Adi turned left at the top, heading back down to take on Rottingdean Reservoir and Windmill Hill. I was happy to wave him away, my sore legs keen to get back to the car and ultimately the warm embrace of a long hot shower. I wondered how I'd get on through the park, the final mostly downhill mile offering the chance to open up and finish with aplomb. Not too badly as it turned out. I let go, the rutted sloping track rising to meet me, my arms, fully extended, waggling like those of a runaway tightrope walker. By the time I'd reached the football pitches Jonty and the ladies were out of sight. I'd covered twelve point four miles in a hair under two hours (not counting a couple of drink/ recovery stops along the way). A decent first long run effort of the year.

This morning my body felt like I’d fallen out of an aeroplane. My planned recovery run turned into a gentle walk with the hounds, every step producing a gentle rumble of complaint from some joint or other. My hips and groin ache but general decrepitude aside I'm pleased to be back on the trail. Same again next Sunday I think.