January 2012

[Sweder]

And so to the long run, a planned 12 miler in the East Brighton hills. A cool, crisp start at 8am, the usual suspects gathered above Brighton marina, a strong westerly wind shoving us rudely along the cliff tops on our 3 mile warm-up. I knew we were in for a some rough treatment later when I clocked the distance a good minute and a half quicker than usual. 'Start slowly' is our mantra but this was by comparison one of the quicker openings to a downland session.

The groups divided up at the Saltdean rest stop. Lycra Tony and Sam would take the main group on an easy eleven mile loop, finishing back into the wind to batter their tired legs and set them up for an increase in challenge come February. I had my heart set on a straight shot Snake, 12+ miles. Adi, Claudia, Jack (who I thought was called Jonty but everyone else calls Jack) and a new chap - Marco, wrapped up as if for an arctic expedition replete with rucksack and thermal everything - were planning 15 to 17 miles to include Old Snakey so I tagged along with them.

I surprised myself with a decent pace up Telscombe Tye, matching the sprightly Claudia stride for stride as we reeled in the 'quick' group. Grabbing a slurp of juice at the top I learned that Adi intended adding mileage both in the middle and at the end of the run. His 'middle' addition was going to be the North Face and Yellow Brick Road, two old friends I've not encountered for well over a year. I thought about it for a second or two. I was feeling good, I had plenty of water ... why not? So off we loped, leaving Jack to carry on the straight route. Turning west at the top of the Tye we felt the first harsh slap of a wicked wind. I walked part of the North Face, not wishing to push my undercooked hamstrings too much before taking on what was going to be a brutal slog up the YBR. So it proved. Cruelly exposed to the elements this mile and a half on badly cracked concrete was the toughest section I've run since the end of P2P.

   

From the summit, looking down over Kingston Village and away to Lewes in the distance, we turned right, taking the track along the top of the Big W before dropping left into the back streets of Death Valley. Here we met the Official Brighton Marathon TM training group, all decked out in their Hi Vis windcheaters, chugging their way up the heavily churned mud track. I saw MSilv ahead and we opened our arms in warm embrace before pushing on in opposite directions. I reached the foothills of the Snake at 10.45 miles, legs tightening, lungs working hard, aches and strains appearing in various sections of my legs and hips. It was tough going and I lost ground to the impressively economic Marco and the ever effervescent Claudia. Adi, carrying a long-term injury, trailed behind.

I said hello to Moyleman at the appointed place, reminding myself to bring a purple ribbon with me next time to mark the spot where Cam scattered his ashes. From there I struck out for home. Claudia and Adi wanted more (I'm shaking my head even now) so Marco ran with me. I studied his style up close, amazed to see he had more than a touch of the Tarahumara about his conservative, semi-shuffling gate. It dawned on me that no-one else had spoken to him on the run. We'd swapped tales of races past, he taking a keen interest in my Ultra experiences and yet, thinking back, even at the drinks stops, he'd not said a word to the others. I was reminded of the Naked Indian in Wayne's World II (the one who takes Wayne to meet Jim Morrison to discuss Waynestock) and wondered wryly if this fellow, who I'd never seen out with the group before, was perhaps a runner from the Id, sent by my subconscious to remind me of the principals that stood me in such good stead in the hills of Connemara. Surely not.



As was the case two weeks back I plundered some fast miles at the end, nudging under 8 minute miling for fifteen minutes or so. Marco stayed right there on my shoulder, breathing easily, never changing his form. We pulled up at the Marina, shook hands and vowed to meet up in two weeks.
'I'm off for a hot shower and a big Sunday lunch' I grinned.
'I'm going to cycle nine miles home into the wind' he grinned back.
Fucking hell.

15.27 miles in 2:23, total climb: + 447 metres. That'll do. Next up: Almeria.