March Or Die

[Sweder]

Back in the saddle, and it's all a bit painful.
Sunday saw a return to the Twittens. Just the four of us, CC5, Tom Roper and young Felix. I'd landed the previous evening, the clocks had gone forward (scything another hour off my limited sleep ration) and Ground Coffee was closed until 11. I was, in truth, somewhat discombobulated. 

40 minutes later I was also breathless, bug-eyed and bent double. CC5 had had the good grace to take on a pre-Twittens session in the mud, slowing him down just enough for me to think I might keep up. Ha ha ha. Nice one. There was talk of a diversion on the penultimate Twitten, skipping the last drop in order to run along the high street to hit Cafe Nero. I'm not much for that. I'd come out to run the Twittens, and run them I would. So I waved away this scandalous chatter and stumbled off down the last lane. CC5 joined me, catching me just before I had to run up Station Street (again) to reach the coffee outlet.

Yesterday I'd read MLCMMan excellent piece about running tempo and maintaining a manageable pace to extend your long run. I'd have to deploy these tactics simply to complete a medium circuit. My plans to run that evening went south as quickly as the weather and I ended up on the sofa feeling large and blubbery, munching solemnly on the remnants of Easter's bounty as England's youth fell to the industrious Netherlands.

   

This morning I rose with intent. The sun was up in a clear blue sky, so I harnessed the hounds, strapped on my new Adidas offies and set off on a steady, steady plod. Across the sheep field to the Moyleman start, along the top of the Chalk Pits, up through the slippery woodland trail, ducking more branches than usual after Katie's tantrum, on up Mount Harry to Blackcap and home via the stables, Sweder's Hill and another set of woods. The mud was in that perfect chocolate fondant state; crisp crust shielding a perfectly gooey centre. My boots, suitably filthy, acquitted themselves extremely well. I must remember to tighten them up properly, it makes a big difference.

   

It wasn't quite MLCMMan's perfect long run outing. For a start my route was anything but flat. The equation also works best when the subject is reasonably fit. My recent Shanghai debauch combined sporadic eating with heavy bouts of Guinness consumption (we drank the hotel bar dry a couple of times). An iron core was never my strongest attribute but I'm fairly sure it's now AWOL. I wobbled, I struggled, now, a few hours later, I'm feeling it in my quads, shins and calfs. Happily I have a stash of Signature Brew Roadie All-Night IPA to aid recovery.

   

Parkrun Saturday, Twittens Sunday. Softly, softly, catchee monkey.