FEBRUARY 2005 - Week 1

[Sweder]

Time of day: 09:00 Hrs
Location: Brighton Marina
Route: Off-road Brighton/ Saltdean/ Telscombe Tye/ Snake/ Gallops
Distance: 14 miles
Duration: 02:22
Conditions: Cold/ Breezy, brightening to sunshine. Dry underfoot.

Game Plan:
Make progress. Take it easy, hang back, ease up after a hard workout last Sunday. Let the quickies go and keep your head down towards the back of the pack.

Preparation:
A good pasta meal on Saturday night, quiet evening in front of the goggle box, early night, up early, coffee and toast and a leisurely drive to Brighton.

Fat chance.
For starters it was a friends’ 50th bash in town and Mrs Sweder was insistent that we would attend. My view, that we wouldn’t be missed if we no-showed, was driven by the fact that I was feeling lazy but mainly by the knowledge that the evenings’ entertainment was to include a Caley – full on, take-your-partners-by-the-hand, dozy-doh country dancing.

I argued that such activities (in cowboy boots no less) invited injuries: twisted ankles, stomped toes.
I was always on a loser though, and reluctantly accepted my fate.

To make matters worse two things happened:
1. We didn’t eat before we went out
2. They had Harvey’s Best in kegs

The former was not such an issue until the latter came into play. 6 pints and a couple of half-hearted reels later we stood at the end of the evening, discussing whether it was obligatory for the male members of the band to have Bobby Charlton comb-overs (they all did). The subject of food arose, and someone suggested a curry. Oh dear.

Suffice to say, I awoke, late, this morning, with a feeling of dread.
I managed the toast and a good measure of water, scrabbled about for my water bottle, mobile phone/ stop watch, reminded myself for the tenth time that I needed to grease the nips and promptly failed to do so. I arrived at the start point 30 seconds before departure, forgetting to start the stopwatch, my game plan very much a distant, foggy memory.

‘You look rough’ a helpful remark from one of the horribly fresh-faced ladies, stretching enthusiastically and with a fabulous degree of elasticity.
‘Hmmbbblebubble’ I replied. I sketched a light summary of the evening.
‘Blimey, you need a Biohazard symbol on that shirt!’ she laughed.
‘Best stay upwind of you today.’

The 3 mile warm up took 31 minutes, a modest pace. Despite my best intentions I found myself in the leading group. Frankly it would have been tough to go much slower, and I felt OK. After the drinks break at Saltdean we set off up Telscombe Tye. Mercifully the sea breeze helped us up the ¾ mile climb. My pace was modest yet still I joined the leaders. A good deal of the previous nights’ excesses had by now escaped me, mostly via perspiration, and my decision to risk the weather by not wearing a windcheater was paying off.

The new off-road boots, tested on a 5 miler yesterday, performed well, picking up minimal mud, providing good grip on the tacky pathways. We drove on. An hour into the run I still felt comfortable, although refrained from joining in with the casual banter of my co-runners. Listening in on the conversation I learned that today’s’ finish, an additional mile and a half on the end of the run, was 'an absolute pig’. My companions assured me I would not enjoy it.

Up the snake without mishap. I took a Pineapple flavoured Gel before the ascent, the sticky fruit-flavoured oyster doing a job. At the top, Laurence, the Fit Large Man, announced he was feeling ‘out of sorts’ and would be cutting back to 12 miles, missing the Gallops. This was as blatant an opportunity to bail out as I would get, but I declined. I deserved the extra pain, and would have felt churlish using another’s misfortune to avoid it.

30 minutes later I gave myself a severe bollocking. We’d reached the racecourse and turned East, crossing the road and heading down the gallops adjacent to Brighton racetrack. The downhill lope was OK, a mixture of sand and woodchips creating a comfortable carpet. The climb up past East Brighton golf course no problem. But now I entered Ovingdean with it's narrow streets and hard pavements. I found myself going backwards. Digging in I managed to keep a measured distance behind the frontrunners, but I was working too hard. I knew the last mile or so along the cliff tops would be wind-assisted, and that kept me going. Through the tunnel and onto the grass, I wondered where that wind was now. I’m sure it was there, but the lactic acid welling up in my legs negated any benefit the slightest of breezes could offer.

Last week in Almeria Nigel had observed that he was able to register lactic acid build up. This enabled him to throttle back and keep the threshold below critical. His words bounced around my vacant skull now, sadly of no use. Any throttling back would result in a grinding halt, with no guarantee of a re-start.
Plod on, I told myself; you can stop at the Marina. Only a mile to go.

Calves screaming, lungs dragging in air, an image from It’s a Knockout popped into my head. For those unfamiliar with this televisual feast, It's a Knockout was a fantastic game show, featuring teams from across Europe, pitted against one another in a series of bizarre, fairytale-esque games.

In one such game team players had to run along inflated gangplanks to retrieve coloured balls and return them to their base. Opposing teams operated foam-filled water cannons, attempting to knock off the runners and add to the slime coating the runways. Each runner was attached to their base by a length of strong elastic. As they reached the farthest targets they would slow, stop and then slide unceremoniously backwards. All the while, that doyen of sports commentators Stuart Hall described proceedings through a hail of hysterical laughter. You could imagine the tears streaming down his face as he screamed ‘The Belgians! HAHAHAHAHA!’

Well Stuart, this morning it’s the Lewesians, the elastic rope is biting hard, and there’s not much laughter around. I dug deep again. And again. Damn that curry. Damn the beer. Damn damn damn. And then the finish, so close! The four finishers ahead of me stretching out against the marina parapet. I found the last vestige of energy to crank my torso upright and finish looking vaguely like a runner.

Yes, it was tough, but I’m pleased as punch to have got through it. We’re upping it to 15+ next week, but I doubt it’ll be as hard going. For one thing I’ll be sure to avoid any Saturday night barn-dancing.