JANUARY 2005 - Back in Action

[Sweder]

Time of day: 09:00
Distance: 12.4 miles
Terrain: Offroad - hills/ downland
Conditions: Dry, cold, soggy underfoot
Duration: 02:01:00

Safe in the knowledge that my bad run for the week was banked on Friday I embraced a fabulous January morning. Sunday pre-run customs observed - up at 07:30, nip down the newsagents, purchase milk and Sunday papers and deliver tea and papers in bed to Mrs Sweder - I set off to Brighton Marina.

Another excellent group in excess of 20 runners. As expected we extended the run from 10.2 miles to 12.4 miles to exclude the Telscombe residences and the unpopular ploughed field climb, to be replaced by our dear old friend, the Snake.

The Snake is a 2 mile winding climb from downland valleys to the crest of the South Downs. The beauty of the Snake is its deceptively gentle elevation. Thanks to the continual twist and turn of the track you never get to see the peak of the climb, so you're never completely sure how far you've travelled or more importantly how far there is left to go. Those of us who'd had the pleasure of this route last year have the advantage. We know two fundamental things; that one needs to run conservatively, to maintain a firm yet steady pace, to tame the beast without recourse to rest; and that the climb does in fact come to an end. The newbies amongst us would, I knew, be wondering if we'd be met at the top by a large set of gates and a white-clad person named Peter. They would also run out of puff two thirds of the way up.

(Change of tense alert: not sure why, it just seems appropriate at this point)

Jim Morrisons' words from Apocalypse Now drift across my mind.

Ride the snake, ride the snake
To the lake, the ancient lake, baby
The snake is long, seven miles
Ride the snake...he's old, and his skin is cold

The best part of 2 bottles of red wine at a friends house last night have emerged, converted into perspiration, and soaked my Tshirt. I feel far from old, but my skin is very cold. The Snake is my friend. The Snake will wrap me in her coils, she'll keep me warm. I love the Snake.
The Snake is my friend.

I follow two excellent hill climbers, unable to gain ground but happy to maintain a gap of some 50 meters. There's something about the hideous rasping of my breathing on climbs that I'm happy to keep private. We reach the top, sucking in crisp, clean air and survey the valleys between Brighton and Lewes. 'All down hill from here' declares the larger, fitter of the two. Indeed. So, waiting for the first of the intermediate runners to reach the rest point we set off, a gang of four, eager to finish and get to the warmth of the Asda cafe and a hot cup of coffee.

A soggy, mudpit infested horse track links the top of the Snake to Brighton Race course. This is negotiated rather than run, the objective being to reach the racecourse without injury (booties optional).

And then to Wilsons' Avenue, the mile-long 'drop' from the racecourse to Brighton Marina. Fit Large Man and I are still together, the other 2 just behind. Without exchanging a word or a glance we step up the pace, hammering down Wilsons on the grass verge. We're racing. At least, I am - I think Fit Large Man is running easy, but I'm in danger of losing control of my lower limbs as gravity takes over. Tears stream, torn from my eyes, and the vista before us takes on a Monet style. The pace continues, neither one trying to gain an advantage, but neither slowing. This is exhilarating! This must be what real racing must feel like. Bloody hell! Breathing is not an issue or an option - it's just happening as we hurtle, shoulder to shoulder like twin kamakazi's, towards the Marina.

We reach the foot of the main hill where the road kinks upwards like the end of the Olympic ski-jump ramp in Oslo. We'll slow down, I tell myself - but we don't. Muscles, limbs, lungs are on autopilot and the pace hardly drops. Finally we're at the traffic lights, around the corner and up the rough track behind the gasworks, easing up. My hearing, my eyesight, are restored, my heart is pounding, teeth bared in a maniacle grin.

What a run! Wow! I have NO idea what time we've done, and I don't care!
I've just completed the last mile of a 12 mile slog at Paula-Speed!

Our companions finish as we stretch out above the Marina. Sarah checks her Garmin: 12.4 miles, and we estimate FLM and I finished in 02:01. I'm delighted and ready for my coffee and cake at Asda. Happily for the Sunday shoppers I have a change of T-shirt in the car.

Same again next Sunday - I truly cannot wait.