February 2013

[Sweder]

Seeking atonement after slaying his own children in a fit of rage, Heracles, son of Zeus, was advised by the oracle Pythoness to take himself to Tyrins and serve King Eurystheus, undertaking any duty the King should set. Any one of the Dodekathlon dreamt up by Eurystheaus would have crushed the will of a mere mortal. It is the fifth, The Augean Stables, that resonates with me after Sunday. It's rumoured that after completing the seemingly impossible task of mucking out a prodigious herd of cattle in a single day (then slaying the owner, Augeas, for welching on their deal) Heracles went on to found the Olympic Games. Reason enough, you might think, for a runner to mark this particular labour above all others. Not quite ...

Having battled a violent north easterly wind along the cliff tops (intent, it seemed, on driving us straight back to Brighton), climbed Telscome Tye, traversed Somme-like water-filled trenches and scrambled up the unforgiving, rain-lashed North Face, we gathered ourselves for the The Field of Bovine Incontinence. Millennia after Heracles cleaned up some of those feckless Augean cattle set up an enclave just below Breaky Bottom Farm. (Yes, really). There they stood, massed about a large feed station, surrounded by an ever-expanding ocean of gently cooling effluent.

There's probably a number of ways we could have circumnavigated this foulness. In reality, as the weather closed in on this Jog-Shop-Jog-lite, the only feasible line between A and B was a straight one. Beyond the field of filth lay the Yellow Brick Road, a mile and a half of ribbed concrete climbing the eastern face of the downs. From the summit we'd turn for home along the downland spine, drop down through Castle Hill Nature Reserve into Death Valley, scale the two-mile Snake and head homeward across the Racecourse to finish in East Brighton park. And so, on - and in - we plunged.

Less than 24 hours earlier I'd been fortunate enough to take my good lady to the matinee of Top Hat, the London show celebrating the movie of the same name. Fred and Ginger danced into our hearts, light as feathers, talent oozing from every pore. Now, as I hauled my frozen bones through unrelenting, shoe-sucking slime, I got my Fred on. Light, quick steps, leave no mark, flit across the surface, dance on air ...

I gave it my best shot, arms out for a balance, tip-toeing through the gloop, breathing shallow as the pungent stench rose. The cattle lowed, lazily turning their heads, chewing steadily as we splattered past. Gasping like stranded fish we reached the far side, catching our breath before slithering on through more fields of heavily churned soil.

   

As the YBR unwound the wind howled, driving spiteful spikes of freezing rain into our faces. Our group of five soon became three. I felt out of my league, hanging on to the other two as we fought our way across the top of the Big W and on up Castle Hill. Perhaps they felt the same. Now and then one of us would take point, bent into the maelstrom, pushing the pace. Mercifully the wind got behind us, driving us on up the Snake, our feet scrabbling for purchase. By the time we'd hop-scotched our way through another mile or so of waterlogged track to reach the Racecourse I'd recovered some of my strength. The park plummet proved perilous, slip-sliding at sub 7'30" m/m pace along a tiny, winding mud trail cut into the steep hillside. My arms flailed for balance like a tightrope walker in a gale. At last terra firma, the grass bank that runs alongside the football pitches and leads back to civilisation. I pushed as hard as I could, hammering my soaking, aching legs, gulping for air as I raced towards the road.

16.68 miles in 2 hours 40. One of the toughest outings for some time, one that left me glowing and grinning. I truly love these hard runs.