February 2013

[Sweder]

Ah, there it is. That 'tough' run, the run that says 'there's plenty of work to do'.
Bone-chilled, under heavy grey skies, I joined the JSJ 8am group above the Marina. Not many in the pack this week, the balance tipped firmly in favour of the quick and the dead fit. A cruel north wind whipped our flesh as we huddled before the off.

I was already cross with myself. In my haste to leave on time I'd left my Garmin on the sideboard and failed to secure a proper energy gel. Three miles in my mood was further soured by another schoolboy error: starting too quickly. With the wind at our backs we'd eased into the east, covering the undulations to Saltdean a good few minutes faster than usual. Adi declared an 18 miler, cutting out the North Face and YBR, adding on a few miles at the end by extending the reservoir section post-Snake. I signed up, slightly worried at the calibre of runner in this group, yet keen to stretch my mileage after last week's step-back.

Eschewing the usual Jog Shop 20 route meant we had to scale Kingston Ridge via the south face. I'd run this way once before, in the near-dark, on one of my pre-Connemara walk-run sessions. I'd forgotten how challenging this section was. Almost a mile of steep ascent on exposed, frozen ground, arms pumping, head down, short strides making apparently little headway into the icy headwind. Bleak. My fellow runners struggled, a crumb of comfort as I forced myself on. By the time we reached the summit my gloved hands were frozen, my iPhone had packed up in protest and my belly ached for sustenance. I pulled out the half banana from my shorts pocket. It seemed wholly inadequate.

   

An hour later we stood, frozen and gasping, at the top of the Snake. Adi confirmed my suspicions.
'2 hours fifteen - that's quick'
Too rich for my blood. My legs cried out for the short route home. Turn right here and it's a relatively easy two mile drop through the park. Turn left and face another hour of torment. These are the moments where campaigns stand or fall, the kind of challenge one faces at the business end of a marathon. Self-doubt, pain, a yearning for it all to end.

I took a swig of water and grinned. There really was no choice to be made. Six miles later, legs screaming, I flogged myself home along the cliff tops, The Quicks colourful specs on the horizon. As I pulled up by the Marina steps my mind howled 'stretch!'. After a token effort the drive home was excrutiating. The apres shower was long, hot and wonderfully indecent.

18.6 miles. Tough.