JANUARY 2005 - Back in Action

[Sweder]

Time of day: 18:45 Hrs
Location: A27 (Lewes to Falmer and Return)
Distance: 8 Miles
Duration: 01:18:57
Conditions: Dry, Cold
Soundtrack: Planet Rock via DAB (intermittent)

And it all started so well.
Pleased as punch with myself, I was. Got into work, looked at the calender:
14th January . . . blimey - me and Mrs Sweder got together on this day 21 years ago. Not a formal anniversary, you understand, but an important one - a private one, one only we two would remember. And I had remembered! There are serious brownie points to be scored today, my friend!

12 hours later, and I'm shot to hell. Not a terribly taxing day, although more down to my lethargy than the lack of work to complete - it'll all be sitting there for me on Monday. And now I'm home, pulling on the lycra running pants, my mud-caked Mizunos reminding me that I'd not cleaned up from yesterday's glorious run, with a feeling of impending doom rushing up like the first storm clouds across a still desert plain.

It's going to be a bad run.
In some ways I'm not altogehter unhappy about this. I've had bad runs before, and on at least one occasion it was on a Sunday 4 weeks before London when I should have been breezing through a 20-miler. I have no problem with a ropey saunter on a Friday night in Januray, unaccompanied on a dull, expediant route.
But there's that dull ache in the pit of my stomach;
this is going to take a lot of EFFORT.

Wired for sound I loped off into the night, winding down the 1.5 miles from my front door, past the Prison and right again, down to the roundabout and the A27. This is the no-brainer route, the route for desk jockeys who really don't want to have to think AT ALL; just plod out for 4 miles, turn around and plod back.

Planet Rock served up a mediocre soundtrack, although Seven Seas of Rye perked me up as I hit the start of the gentle climb up to Falmer . . .
. . . and there it was. Or rather, wasn't. Pop, crackle . . do like to be beside . . .crackle . . . silence. Pop. Crackle. Nothing. Bugger.

Living in Lewes, and particularly being perched atop one of the high points above the town, radio and TV signals are not an issue. But take a few little steps in any direction . . . welcome to the Dark Ages. I'd lost Planet Rock. The option to switch to FM and pick up some vestige of Radio One was disguarded immediately; it would mean stopping and untangling the horrible mess I'd made of various water carriers, zipped up pockets and headphone wires, and despite the insistance of my customary early-run Demon , stopping was not an option. No, I'd plod on in silence. So I did.

Funny, with no companion, no enticing screnery and only the relentless (muffled) roar of the homeward-bound traffic 15 yards to my left, I started to pick up on a few aches and pains. That ankles' a bit dodgy . . .hmm, the left calf's not quite right . . . 10 minutes of this and my will to live was looking through the travel brochures. At the Texaco garage the roadside path detours behind some shrubbery, and the cold comfort afforded by oncoming headlights is denied.

Black. Black, black . . . I'm thinking of the Fast Shows' Johnny, the morose, manic depressive artist who defaces his work with broad strokes of his brush as his lady companion tries to restrain him. BLACK. Dark Thoughts lurk in these shrubs; thoughts of failure, of injury. "This was a mistake . . . you've been over-doing your training . . . 2 weeks with a nasty infection and you're up to 30 miles a week already - what WERE you thinking of? . . . "

Pop. Crackle . . . timeless classic from . . . crackle. Pop . . .
Electronic intro music . . . space-age base-line, staccato drums . . .
ELP - Fanfare for the Common Man! Ah, music may well be the food of love . . but 'tis also the bringer of hope and the lifter of hearts!

My body lifted, the crouch I'd subconciously accepted banished, and there - the path between the shrubs opened back out onto the road. Headlights lit up the path ahead and I started to stride out, meeting the rising path with determination, a maniacle grin spreading across my face. 'Thank you, Emerson Lake and Palmer' I muttered (for the first and almost certainly last time in my life).

Up to this point I was seriously concerned about my diary entry. Whilst it's acceptable that I should suffer an off night (or two) I had not wanted to inflict my pain upon you, dear reader. But now, as I raced (I'm using the term 'raced' here) up a healthy incline towards the (hopefully) future home of Brighton and Hove Albion, the radio experience reminded me of another altogether more serious break in communications 35 years ago, that at once froze then lifted the hearts of a watching world.

Lovell, Haise and Swigert. Three exceptional sons of Man, taking what was then described as a 'routine flight' into Space. A year before, man had walked on the Moon, and the Apollo series was continuing what some considered mundane work to further our knowledge of our closest celestial body. What transpired on April 13th 1970 is immortalised in the 1995 film named after the mission; Apollo 13.

Venting gas shortly after breaking into Lunar orbit the spacecraft suffered a potentially fatal explosion, putting the lives of the Astronauts in extreme peril. The mens' wits, aided my their earth-bound sickly crewmate Mattingly and a frantic Nasa crew, got them through. The heart-pounding climax, diligently re-told in the movie, revolved around a 4 minute, 32 second period of radio silence as the stricken craft re-entered Earths' atmosphere. During this period many abandoned hope for the crew; it had been said that if nothing was heard after 3 minutes the worst could be expected.
And then . . . pop, crackle . . . 'Houston, we are go for landing, we are go for landing'.
Not quite Emerson Lake and Palmer, but to those families and colleagues at Mission Control, the sweetest music ever heard.

I reached the White Swan at Falmer, tempted by the bright lights and convivial sounds eminating from the pub, checked my 4 mile split - 00:40:34 - took a swig of quality H2O and headed back towards Lewes. I'd managed to reach my Will To Live via cell phone. It was in the depature lounge at Gatwick, tapping its fingers and watching the boards for a flight to anywhere. And now it was back with me, pounding the cycle track into a slight head-wind, Ritchie Blackmore's Rainbow yammering in my ears (not a big fan of 'Since You've Been Gone', but there it was).

The break in radio transmission wasn't the only experience I shared with the Apollo 13 crew this evening; venting was also an issue. For some odd reason one of my work colleagues bought a job lot of donuts from the local supermarket. Accepting that I was bound to burn off any excess intake later, I dutifully scoffed three of the blighters. And they were taking huge delight in reminding me, with every other step, that they were far from finished with THIS palooka.

Spookily the pop and crackle returned just as I once again left the well-lit roadside for my sojourn into Helms Deep. This time I knew the blackout was temporary, I knew 'they'd' be coming back. I stepped up the pace to hurry the return. I worked out that I'd get good DAB reception at the foot of the mile and a half climb up to the Prison and on to my house. This would be the boost I'd need to push on, to finish on a natural high.

I settled into a steady pace, convinced I was easily out-running my out lap, although the headwind suggested the split would be well balanced. The point of re-entry approached, and I smiled knowlingly as the first faint crackles appeared in my headphones . . . pop. Spark. pop. fart . . . there! What's that . . . can't make it out yet . . . hope it's something really uplifting, a thumping, driving beat to carry me up this blasted hill, an ANTHEM . . .
. . . Rod bloody Stewart. Not only Rod bloody Stewart, but 'You Wear It Well' by Rod bloody Stewart. Is someone having a laugh? It's not EVEN funny! Oh, sod this, I'm going for it anyway . . . fuelled by a sense of anger and injustice I pounded on, blocking out Rod's gravelly groaning rasp, cresting the brow of the hill in reasonable style.

The rise to the Prison is steady and a little steeper than the outbound incline to Falmer, but the last 1/4 mile to my house is a pig. I'd need more than Rod the Bod, I'd need some serious liftage . . . and then, without fanfare or kerfuffle, there it was. Deep Purple, Smoke On The Water. I THANK YOU!
I relaxed once more, safe in the understanding that however poor this run had started it would end in style.

In all, the time wasn't bad. I know the 8 miles is accurate as this was my utility run last year and I measured it, albeit by car. 9.82 minute miles on a night when I'd quite expected to slump in a weeping heap is not altogether bad.

Reading this back I see that even for me this a disjointed, rambling, drawn-out and somewhat tedious entry.
Just right for tonight then.
Thank you for watching.