Week 3 - The Run-In

[Sweder]

Sunday, 20th March – 18 miles downland run

Time of day: 09:00
Distance: 18 miles
Route: Brighton Marina/ Telscombe Tye/ North Face/ Yellow Brick Road/ South Downs Way/ Woodingdean/ Snake (reverse)/ Rottingdean Windmill/ St Dunstans’/ Brighton Marina
Time: 3:10
Conditions: Bright, sunny, dry, easterly breeze

It’s a funny feeling, heading off for a long run with no idea how you’ll get on.
My recent experiences at the Reading Half and Hashing in Hong Kong suggested my hamstring would stand up to a downland thrash – but I didn’t know. Besides, this would be four miles longer than my previous best this year, and that was 4 weeks ago.

The Worthing 20, a 4 x 5 mile lap of that coastal town, was on today so I wasn’t sure how many ‘regulars’ would show. At 08:55 we were a sorry few, but over the next 5 minutes runners flocked above the Marina, and we numbered 20 in our party as we set off at 9.

I started slowly, happy at the very back of the pack. A few people had asked after my hamstring, one or two of them having seen it ‘go’ a couple of weeks previous. I let them know this was to be a voyage of discovery, and if I appeared abnormally reticent to take the lead they shouldn't worry.

Remy, an accomplished downland runner, joined me. He and Jill completed the Rome Marathon last weekend, and would complete a truncated circuit (12 miles) today as a sort of warm-down. They also wanted to get back to Brighton ASAP, as a good friend of theirs was taking part in the Superheroes 10K. You may have guessed the dress code for that one. I heard later that Mr DIY did rather well, resplendant in tool belt and hard hat.

Remy told me about Rome, which sounded fabulous. Despite a mix up at the start – he and Jill thought they were in a pre-start warm up, only to pass the 1 K marker - they both enjoyed the run. Meticulous pace planning went out of the window as soon as they realised they'd effectively cocked up the first mile or so, and they ran the next 25.2 free of constraints. Their verdict: the best marathon they've run by far! Probably helped by Remy coming in at 3:30, and that with a slow first km.

I skirted the verticle climb at mile 3, not wishing to put undue stress on my leg at this stage. We crossed the road and set off up the mile climb to Telscombe Tye, a seemingly endless, straight ascent onto the downs proper. I felt comfortable, and in spite of feeling like I was holding back, took to the front half way up the Tye.

The morning mists evaporated lazily as the sun, moored peacefully over the English Channel, gently warmed the morning downland. As we crested the Tye the view before us drew gasps from a few and the admiration of all. ‘Man, are we lucky to be out in this’ breathed Nigel. So true.

At the TT Church we turned west, the morning breeze now softly nudging at our backs as we set off along the dry, dusty sheep trails. Half a mile along and we entered the fields to the right, across lush grass toward the North Face. ‘North Face’ always conjures images of Chris Bonnington for me, photographed at the summit of Annaperna. This had even more resonance this morning as I had recently finished reading the incredible Touching The Void.

Our North Face held no such perils, unless you harboured hamstring concerns. The field sloped ever more severely into the valley. The dusty path, riddled with a thousand footholds, bounded up the face of an impossible hill, leading to the wondefully named Breaky Bottom farmhouse. I ran the first 3/4s of the climb, careful to maintain short steps, until the heat burned into my calves and I walked the last 50 yards. At the top I was caught by a couple – Mr White Hair Leggings and Ms Powder Blue Slimline, for want of their real names. White Hair had run up the entire climb, and was already settled into an easy breathing pattern. Powder Blue snaffled a Power Gel, and I realised that I had come unprepared. I had my Nathan, loaded with Lucozade Hydro Active, my PED of choice, but no Gels. This would be a test.

‘If no-one minds I’d like to push on’ announced White hair. ‘Me too’ a confident sounding voice replied from somewhere inside me. The 6 of us recovering at the summit set off through the tree-tunnel behind the remote homestead, once again aided by the breeze, heading for the Yellow Brick Road.

The YBR is, as one might surmise, a man-made path. It stretches from the summit of the North Face to the top of the South Downs Way. The path is a mile long, rising steadily, inexorably, without respite. I still felt pretty good, although White Hair confirmed his climbing prowess by powering ahead. I let him go, relaxed in my steady rhythm, sucking in the staggering vista below and to my right. The Sussex Downs, now bathed in the years’ strongest sunlight to date, swept away to the North, the village of Falmer ahead, further on Kingston and my home town, Lewes.

At the top of the Road we crossed a National Trust path and joined the South Downs Way. To our left (South) Death Valley dropped precipitously to the foot of the Snake. Our route today would circumnavigate this regular feature on our Sunday runs, keeping us at the higher level, bearing us to the town of Woodingdean. At Woodingdean we executed a hairpin turn, climbing the grass-covered downland to meet the head of the Snake. I'd anticipated this section all morning. I’ve run up the Snake many times, reaching deep into myself for crucial reserves of mental and physical strength. The Snake has battered me, sapped my strength, constricted my resolve. But it has never beaten me. And now I was going to run down her scaly hide for the first time. And boy was I going to enjoy it!

I harp on about the views, but you must understand most of my training in this area is undertaken in awful weather. Howling winds, driving rain, freezing cold, sliding mud. I have rarely looked up on this section of the run, so today, in the warmth, bounding down her slippery back, I drank in the valley and hills that make up the Snakes’ Lair. Death Valley, mottled with scrub, sheep and the occasional group of horses, looked magnificent, all the more so as we were not to set foot there today.

At the foot of the Snake our mini-group paused to take on fluid and double-check the way forward. It was South-West, towards Rottingdean. I briefly stretched, checking for signs of impending catastrophe. None. OK, my knees ached, my ankles were whinging and my groin felt tight as a drum. In fact every facet of my legs required attention – except my hamstrings.

Off again, up a steep climb on asphalt, past a group of well-upholstered lady riders atop equally substantial mounts – the last was actually a carthorse. We breezed by the water pumping station and into the gentle descent to the village of Rottingdean. As the picturesque, flint-walled buildings drew closer I considered how inappropriate some place names can be.

Through the narrow, winding streets, ducking right into the one-way lanes, right again and the steep climb to the windmill. For the second time this morning I slowed to walking pace as my calves turned to granite. I marvelled at White Hair as he flew up the torturous climb, but was relieved to note my other companions were also slogging up the incline at a pedestrian pace.

'16 miles and then this' grinned Powder Blue.
To the crest of the hill, past the windmill and the pitch & putt, through the wire fence at St Dunstans’, down the grassy green slopes to the tunnel and finally up and onto the last 1½ mile section to the Marina. My legs ached and my hips and knees appealed for mercy, but I smiled to them, chuckling inside.
‘No chance – we’re almost there. Dig in, kick on, get home’.

And home we were, knackered, grinning, stretching. Someone called it at 3 hours 10 minutes, but frankly this was irrelevant to me. I was elated – 18 miles of rugged offroad adventure, plenty of aches and pains but not so much as a twitch out of place in the one area that really mattered.