Feb-bluary 2012

[Sweder]

Late again, the story of my life this year. Ah well ...

Yesterday saw a season's best Parkrun, 22:47 with the temperature guage nudging a bone-chilling minus six celcius. It took two big cups of coffee to thaw me out. Still a long way off my overall PB but progress, dear boy, progress.

This morning I sat on my sofa as the sun peeped over the eastern cliffe, scoffing granola and watching Match of the Day as I tried not to think about how cold it was outside. I'd happily have stayed there, firing my hard-boiled opinions into the ether, but there were tough miles to bank. My windcreen resembled that of a gangster's after a mob hit, seemingly riddled with spiderweb cracks and frosty bullet holes.

I could see the main group setting off along the cliff tops as I pulled up at the parking spot. By the time I'd thrown on a few layers, tied my shoe laces and wriggled into two sets of gloves (the top layer Fagin's fingerless), the bobbing lycra conga was out of sight. No matter. A nice steady start would set me up for a strong run and there were plenty of miles in which to close the gap.

           
Saltdean looking east; Top of the Tye; Lycra Lad

I caught them at saltdean, three miles gone, but with nature calling most urgently I ducked into the gents. Once again I had to reel them in, catching them at the top of Telscombe Tye. Today would be, I'd decided, a 'step-back' session. Last week's brutal run, just shy of fourteen miles, had felt like an Ultra. My legs still smarted at the thought of wading through deep snow so I'd chosen to run a straight snake, around 12.4 miles. Mercifully there's been no fresh snow, last weeks' fluffy carpet now compacted into a much more runner-friendly, albeit a little glassy in places, surface. We did get bombarded with 'super-cooled rain drops' (used to call it sleet in my day but, like, whatever), cruel shards of ice falling into our faces as we ran, but even that couldn't upset my feeling that this was going to be a good one.

Chugging up the snake I felt pretty comfortable. A couple of young lads bounded past me and I let them go, lost in my thoughts. Newborn lambs bleated their first address into the crisp cold air. What a way to enter the world, born into a frozen field, spiteful wind nipping at your fresh pink flesh, jostling with your siblings for sustainance and warmth. I passed the Moyleman gorse bush, whispering my greeting as my feet slip and slid on the polished snow.

       
Old Snakey; Moyleman's Rest

At the top I took stock. A bunch of eager young people wanted to add mileage by doubling back through Rottingdean via Windmill Hill. Two girls wanted to head straight on and I elected to go with them. I didn't fancy trying to run up the inevitable luge run that would be Windmill Hill but I was starting to feel like perhaps 12.4 miles might not quite be enough. There's no doubt not having to wade through knee-deep tundra had left a fair bit in the tank. By the time we were scampering down through East Brighton park I'd made my mind up.

I left the girls at the marina and set off along the cycle path, dropping down onto Madeira Drive, starting point for the city Half and 10K. The Brighton Wheel, a poor man's version of London's more celebrated South Bank Ferris, loomed out of the murky near-distance. I didn't have a number in mind, just decided to run for a bit to see how I felt. After a mile at nine minute pace I upped my workrate, running the second mile at around eight minutes fifteen.

I stopped when I reached Alfrescos, home of several past post-10k RC meet-ups. I took a long hit from my water bottle (three parts water, one part Bundaburg ginger beer, surprisingly tasty and refreshing) and set off back to the marina. I pushed myself to run at a shade under eight minute pace. It took a fair effort. My legs whined and my lungs pumped, great plumes of steamy breath whipping over my shoulder. It hurt but I didn't let up, even when I veered left at the Aquarium to take on the long climb along the rising road above the seafront. Keeping an eye on my watch I crunched out the last mile all but flat out, reeling in a couple of leisurely waddlers before I reached home base.

   
Elevation ... with a flat end!

16.54 miles in 2:40-odd, the last four at or better than race pace. I'm delighted, rewarding myself with a deliciously hot shower and a pile of toast as I re-visted MotD.

I'm delighted that Liverpool FC have issed a strong statement re: yesterday's debacle at OT. LFC are a top side with a glorious history. Recent events have been unedifying and, in my opinion, besmirch the reputation of the club. It may well be that the US owners may have clocked this report in the New York Times and picked up the phone. Equally my lot seem ta have seen sense issuing a brief thank you for the statement and calling for both sides to embrace their heritage and move on.

Please God let that be an end to it so I can get on with enjoying what was, after all, an excellent win for the Rowdies.