February 2005 - Week 2

[Sweder]

I'll dispense with the stats and get straight to the juicy bits.
I can write in those terms now as I've got over the bitterness, deep resentment, crushing disappointment and dreadful feeling sorry for myself.

There was always a chance I'd blow up today and so it proved.
Mentally I approached the 16 miler, which incorporated my usual Sunday slog with the added attractions of the North Face (a 600 metre sheer climb through mud), the Yellow Brick Road (3/4 mile climb into the wind on corrugated concrete) and Death Valley (a perilous drop from the top of the Yellow Brick Road to the foot of the Snake), in positive mood. My -4 mile tester yesterday revealed no recurrence of the hamstring strain. The weather this morning was pretty bleak, but I thrive in wind and rain, spurred on to finish by the lure of a warm cafe with hot coffee and rock cakes, and set off for Brighton in positive mood.

My companions this morning huddled together above Brighton Marina, the horizon out to sea as black as Newgate's Knocker. As we embarked East, the wind at our backs, a squall blew up and with it came ice-cold rain.
'I'm sure there's actual ice in this rain' I announced cheerfully.
Blow me down, not 10 seconds had passed before the rain was officially hail.

We completed our warm(?) up, 3 cliff-top miles to Saltdean, in 30 minutes.
I stretched carefully, muscles warm(ish), as the group split into 12 and 16 mile camps. The 12 milers set off, and we held back for a further minute. I was cold, although the wind was free from moisture now and a weak, wintry sun threatened to emerge.

Off again, up the very steep climb to the foot of Telscombe Tye.
'This'll test my hamstring' I thought as I puffed my way to the memorial. Across the road and onto the Tye proper, and as if by magic I felt the dreaded familiar twinge in my right thigh.

I don't see myself as dumb, stupid or excessively thick. So it's odd then that I didn't just stop right there. The Idiot Within emerged.
'Run this off, it'll pass. You're tough, keep going. You know you love this run, stay strong'

I shortened my stride, but we were starting a 3/4 mile climb which I knew would get tougher. This was madness.
'Sorry guys, I've got to bail.' I held up my hand in apology as my comrades turned. I detected more than one expression of envy amongst the sympathetic faces. The Idiot Within receeded, his voice trailing off in the manner of a person falling down a very deep well. Noooooo . . .

Tony, our bike-mounted, psychedelic lycra-clad guide, offered me change for the bus back to the Marina.
'I'll be OK' I said, handing over my Gels in case someone else needed them.
'Have a good one'.

I must have cut the most forlorn figure, half plodding, half limping back down the field, backdrop framed by skies straight out of the Necrinomicon*. On the cell phone and a sheepish call home for emergency evac.

I took refuge in a bus shelter on the main road and marvelled at the speed with which the body can lose heat. Within 5 minutes I was shivering. Drivers heading into Brighton were treated to the sight of a middle-aged man in white running vest and Lycra dancing maniacally inside an all-glass cubicle, a bizarre cross between David Blaine and Leo Sayer. I huffed and puffed, scanning the horizon for Shayne’s car, all the while cocking an ear for the sound of sirens should some concerned Sussex Citizen report an apparent drug-fuelled, one-man rave in a bus shelter.

The enforced solitary confinement proved a useful time to overcome the feelings of failure and remorse. Now was the time for practical planning. With the Brighton Half in 7 days I needed a strategy. This should include religious application of RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation) and REST (err... rest) and regular hamstring stretches. No running until Wednesday, when I will go to the home of Seafront Plodder and try 5 miles on the flat. If all goes well I will repeat the exercise on Friday, and if there's no reaction to that I will start the Brighton Half. Brighton is flat for the first 8 miles, and the hilly part is virtually my Sunday warm-up run. Above all, if there's any doubt, I'll have to give it a miss and put all my eggs into the Reading basket.

Positive planning helped lighten my mood, and I managed a cheery wave as Mrs Sweder pulled up. The interior of the car felt like the tropics. A kiss from my daughter and a slobbery snog from Willow** (who will happily ride around in the car all day wagging her stumpy tail) widened my grin. It’s hard to stay grumpy with such a fantastic support team. My mental rehabilitation was completed by the news that England, having started the last ODI in South Africa in horrific fashion (2 wickets down for 1 run as I parked up before the run) had recovered to make over 200. There’s hope for me yet.

* Necrinomicon - H R Giger's illustrations to accompany The Book Of The Dead. Giger went on to work with Ridley Scott to design the fearsome creature in Alien

** Willow, before some wags are tempted to comment, is a dog

Sweder, Hamstrung Limper