Feb-bluary 2012

[Sweder]

Sunday: the tale of Captain Oates and his merry, slightly unbalanced men.

I arrived slightly late at the Marina, having spent precious time shovelling copious amounts of overnight snow off my driveway. Lewes lay under a thick white duvet, the town still fast asleep as I tip-toed down the icy hill, hugging the wheel of my 4WD as nervous tyres searched for purchase. Arriving ‘slightly late’ for a Sunday run is like being a ‘little bit’ pregnant; you are, or you are not on time. The main group were o’er the hills and far away when I set off some ten minutes after the appointed hour. No matter. They’d be regrouping, attending ablutions and sorting out distances and routes at Saltdean; I’d time enough to catch up. As last night’s blitzkrieg had advanced seawards heavy snow had turned to sleet. Where inland hills lay smothered in thick white the coastal roads and trails were coated in icey grey slop. I imagined a monstrous shrug of teenagers dumping their collective supersized Slush Puppies as they marauded home from the picture house. A cruel wind snapped out of the east, slapping my face as I plodded on, my gaze drawn to the crazy white horses racing in to fling themselves on the rocks far below.

Lycra Tony and Sam were indeed waiting at Saltdean. I could see them, stood apart from the colourful cluster outside the toilet block. They peered up as I crested the hill, no doubt wondering who this portly latecomer wrapped in glowing vermillion might be. I took care on the descent, mindful that a tumble and subsequent slide would badly bruise my dignity never mind cause actual bodily harm. I rocked up as the guardians grinned their welcome.
‘Where you goin’?’ that low Bulldog growl, a sound that if heard in a dark alley might conjure images of Nancy’s lethal battering at the hands of Bill Sykes.
‘Ah … probably Snake via North Face, Yellow Brick Road’ I puffed. ‘Anyone else doing that?’

Just three, it turned out. Michael who so impressed a fortnight ago and two ‘newbies’ (to me at any rate); Dan and Paul. Minutes later we were scaling the sheer face to the memorial , hamstrings stretching, calves bulging in the ice-cold morning air. Dan was clearly in good shape. He launched up the steep slope without concern, chatting all the way to the top. Across the road and onto the Tye the slush intensified. By the time we’d reached the top we were bounding through a couple of inches of crisp, even snow. I’d run in snow plenty of times, up here too. It always ‘adds a few miles’, the random nature of the drifts causing runners to goose-step like extras from the Ministry of Silly Walks. All those high leg-lifts and sudden heel-drops shredded corpuscles, battered limbs. ‘Running doesn’t get tougher than this’ as John and Greg might say if ever they could haul their burgeoning backsides out of those comfy dining chairs.

    <<Top of Telscombe Tye     <<In deep

Thanks to the snow having fallen over night and this still being the ungodly end of Sunday morning we found the trails along the top undisturbed by human hoof. This presented a new challenge. Adopts wildly exaggerated Bee Gees voice ‘How deep is your snow? (how deep, how deep is your snow?), I really need to know ... Aside from a few wisps of long grass peeking out of the virginal blanket there was no clue as to where the best footing might be found. We spent a lot of time and effort weaving across the terrain, feet sniffing out firm ground. Every now and then one of us would plunge knee-deep into a deeper than usual pocket, usually accompanied by a softly uttered ‘fuck’.

We turned right (north) at the North Face gate. After another hundred metres of Guess The Terrain Michael turned back. ‘Sorry guys, I don’t want to turn an ankle out here.’ He would wait for the peleton and carry on directly to the Snake. I was secretly pleased. Michael was by any measure a good deal fitter than I. Dan might be his equal but the last member of our quartet was as breathless and hard-worked as I felt. We’d need to regulate our pace and the balance now favoured the ‘more measured’ in our number. Now we were three, striking out across wide open fields of sparkling white as a watery sun did its meagre best to bore through the heavy, dirty cloud. In the distance Lewes lurked dark and moody, the twin lung-shaped cliff faces off-white against the snowscape.

As the North Face loomed our trail-finding became easier, the precipitous drop to our left and spiteful thorn bushes to the right funnelling us onto the one true course. No sling-shot attempt today; one wrong step and a fool would soon find himself with a face full of brambles. Slow and steady was the order of the day, though I’m pleased to say I managed to keep running – in the loosest possible sense – all the way to the top. The Yellow Brick Road, displaying none of it’s eponymous qualities, was equally untrammelled, the white crust surprisingly of the deep-pan variety. We took to the grassy edges, any foray onto the road itself providing calf-deep sinkage . By the end of that I was sucking wind for England, hamstrings screaming, hips aching. Paul was similarly distressed but Dan, the smug bastard, looked fresh as a Daisy.
‘Shall we press on lads?’ Yes. Let’s.

    <<North Face summit     <<View from the YBR

Press on we did, across the tops of the W, heading west. My plan had been to drop down into Death Valley and double back to the Snake. I say had been because now, running along the fence line high above Kingston Village, I realised the valley might – ha ha! - be the very death of us. How much snow had gathered down there? If we risked the treacherous 150 metre drop to find out and it was neck deep we’d have to slog all the way back up. It was too much for my wire-tight sinews, never mind my pounding heart, to bear.

‘Chaps I think we ought to stay on this level, carry on past Castle Hill up to Woodingdean. It’ll drop a couple of miles off the route but frankly I’ve no idea what’s down there and besides, I’m mullered.’

The others seem to appreciate the sentiment and we pushed on. High winds had driven the snow up against the fence, creating a miniature Persil Sahara. These frosted dunes swept down from left to right, laying a series of hurdles across the usually stony path. Every now and then I’d plant a foot and hear/ feel the crack of yielding ice followed by a cold, wet sensation around my toes. This part of the route was peppered with craters, Nature’s landmines hidden beneath the snow.

    <<Saharan drift

At the top of the last up-stroke of the W the trail turns left, heading up, up, ever up towards the summit at Woodingdean. The snow evened out at this point. This should have helped, yet somehow it was now uniformly knee-deep. We strode on manfully, wading with impossibly long-legged strides, arms akimbo for balance, belching hot breath with steam rising from our hunched shoulders. We must have looked absurd but image was the last thing on my mind. Getting off these hills before the dark clouds swallowed our wretched, spent carcasses was very much to the fore. Hips, knees, thighs, ankles wailed in unison, threatening rebellion. By the time we’d reached the relative safety of East Brighton Park it was all I could do to stand, to keep moving forward. My legs were tighter than Captain Tom on a lads’ night out, stiff, movements truncated, mechanical, as my eyes scanned the trails for shallow/safe footing. No balls-out plummet today my friends, I survived that long descent back to civilisation, the tension in my chest easing even as crisp snow gave way to slippery slush.

13.7 miles completed in 2 heartless hours and 34 unforgiving minutes. I felt like I’d run an Ultra. I was broken in the deepest way. It's rare I ever feel like giving up, especially on a training run, but that couple of kilometres from the top of the YBR to the road at Woodingdean were way beyond tough. The main difference was the lack of man-made trails. The few footprints we did see were dark holes into which we dare not tread. We regrouped at the marina, meeting up with a couple of girls who’d completed the ‘straight snake’ route. Their blanched, blank faces stared into the middle distance, breathing shallow, slowing. Wan smiles and gentle congratulations exchanged we bade each other good day and set off for our respective homes. I imagined piping hot showers firing up all at once, collective sighs drifting on plumes of steam to dance away across the frozen downs.

I sent a text home to make sure the water heater was switched on.
‘Fail to prepare’ and all that.

Below: What I was thinking about for most of the run; shot of Lewes castle above the Paddock, popular town centre sledging site (pic by @RobkRead via Twitter)