A thoroughly decent weekend of running. Saturday saw a return to ParkRun, albeit in the slightly tardy time of 26-odd minutes. I was happy to be back and plodding round as CharlieCat made his debut. Circa 400 runners on a three-loop circuit is not exactly fun, but we endured. The coffee and cake afterwards, shared in the company of Simon Ho, Stevio, Ladyrunner and a few Moyleman vets, was a highlight.
Today we got down and dirty with some proper hill running. 13 plus miles in filthy weather, spiteful rain swept into our pinched faces with violent disregard. My phone spluttered and drowned in my shorts pocket, so much so that I only managed one shot, that of the approach to the first proper hill, taken from the Martyrs Monument at the top of the high street. At the end of the street I joined up with CharlieCat and OATR for the charge up Chapel Hill. This was effectively the Moyleman finish in reverse. Up to the top of the Cliffe, over the ridge and into the lush valley leading away to Mount Caeburn and Glynde village beyond. My legs held up but my lungs struggled to process enough O2 to feed the furnace. Duncan pulled out a healthy lead as he bounded up the trail. At the top Rob thanked us for our company and set sail for home, leaving we two to look south towards the looming wave of Firle Beacon.
That climb was a monster, straight up into the teeth of the storm. The hillside rose above us like a scene from Inception, stretching our necks as we peered up at the cloud-lined summit. Once again I was left behind, all run-shuffle and ragged breath. At the top we turned west, thumping across the slippery spine of the Beacon towards the Ouse Valley, the broad shoulder of Kingston Ridge beyond. Dark skies bubbled and broiled as the slope grew steeper, dropping away beneath our feet like a grassy waterfall until we were hammering down Itford Hill towards Southease at breakneck speed. The Cat took off, arms outstretched in an expression of pure joy. I grinned. We didn't care a jot that we were soaked through to the skin. This is the running life; strong legs, wide grins, bounding down the hillside, shoulder to shoulder, heading home.
The run into Lewes along the river, anticlimactic after the gleeful plummet, proved tough. Rapidly tiring legs did not understand why this was taking so long. As if in protest they started to foam. Yes, I said 'foam'. Apparently, I learned later, this occurs when one is saturated and residual washing powder, lying deep within the fabric, is flushed out. We exchanged glances and pressed on. I downed a couple of Jelly Babies, shaking off a few twinges. Duncan seemed happy enough to stay at my pace and we ran it in along the west bank and into the town.
20+ kilometres banked with over 400 metres of climb in foul conditions. My favourite run of the year so far, by a country mile.
And I Would Run One Hundred Miles
