May 2014

[Sweder]

Long run on a Saturday? Can six or seven miles be considered a long run?
The times, they are a-changin'

Of course 'long' depends on your condition. It's all relative. In this morning's delicious, muggy, sun-drenched hug that distance felt long enough. I took the low route across Landport Bottom, through the cool woodland shade, up Wicker Man Hill and on to Blackcap. By the time I reached the summit I was soaked in sweat. On the steady climb my mind had filled with all manner of jumbled nonsense. A cacophony of whiny signals from knee, groin and, surprisingly, chest muscles jostled with plans for future runs, local races, distant adventures. As I stood, gasping for air, surveying the fabulous Moyleman vista, the din subsided, replaced by one clear thought: hard work.

Gary Player once said 'the harder I work, the luckier I get'. I've been editing a few old race reports over the last few weeks. One thing that stands out is the amount of hard work that goes into a campaign. Hour after hour of slog in all weather. Pain, fatigue, desperation on the lonely trails. Hard work. When you absolutely, positively want to improve, accept no substitute. Change your shoes, cut your hair, eat all the Chia you can lay your hands on, but if you don't lay the foundations your big race will fall apart. The literary trips down memory lane have left laurel leaf prints on my forearms. It's time to set sail for the undiscovered country.

With that in mind I upped the anti, launching off the Cap towards the stables. Halfway between the two I met CharlieCat. The lad was tooled up, replete with bike-mounted Go-Pro camera and killer shades, ready to traverse the mighty Moyleman. We exchanged a slapped hi-five, barely breaking stride/ pedal. I shot through the gnarled rat-run alongside the gallops, running up the muddy slopes on either side like a slalomed Wall of Death. The dogs lagged behind, tongues lolling. The muddy path was in that perfect state, surface-dry but still moist and yielding beneath.

With the hard work meme in mind I took the all-weather track to what CharlieCat calls 'Sweder's Hill', the perilous flint drop through the hillside fields. With my ancient, thin-soled Mizunos I could feel every bump and stone, eyes scanning feverishly for the rut or rock waiting to hurl me arse over tit. With five miles under my wobbly belt I felt able to deploy the full Chris Moyle. I leant into the drop, opened my stride and had at it. What a ride! I bailed out on the final steep section, partly concerned about ploughing face-first into sharp flint but mostly because I'd spied a family on horse-back at the bottom.

Horses featured heavily on the last climb of the day, the leaf-tunnelled ascent to Houndean Rise and home. Four times I pulled over to harness the hounds as riders passed on the trail. I wasn't worried about the by-now knackered dogs chasing them, but the thought of a thousand pounds of pissed-off horse-flesh going ape-shit in this confined space urged caution.

A good session, many more like it needed before I start to up the mileage.