Week 3 - The Run-In

[Sweder]

Time of day: 16:15 hours
Route: Brighton Marina/ The Wire/ Brighton Marina
Terrain: cliff top grassland
Conditions: Perfect
Distance: 12 kilometres
Overall time: 1:06
Race time – 6 kms: 29:39
Entrants: 65

Oh it's such a perfect day,
I'm glad I spent it with you.
Oh such a perfect day,
You just keep me hanging on,
You just keep me hanging on.

Pretty much sums up my good Good Friday friday run.
I’d read Nigel’s account of the Bath Half in the morning, a timely reminder that everyone and anyone can have a bad day at the running office.

65 excited, chattering souls gathered above Brighton Marina at 4pm, waiting for Sam to arrive and set us off. Amongst the runners Sue Gorringe, a good friend who recently took up running and to date had a longest distance of 5 miles. Sue had never run in a large group before, and I suggested this would be a good opportunity to do so.

The good Good Friday Friday run is a race of two halves. Part one sees us jog in a companionable cluster heading East along the cliff tops. The idea is to get everyone to the other end of the course, 6 k’s out, turn and hammer back as fast as possible.

Blue skies kissed a pond-still horizon as we loped gently into our outward cruise. The light seemed a little odd, then I realised we normally leave this point at 9 am. The sun, having enjoyed a cloud-free view of the downs all day, slipped gently toward the western horizon, our shadows leading us out across the springy cliff top turf.

I moved easily amongst the runners, chatting idly about this and that.
Should UEFA dock Chelski points for their catalogue of infractions?
UEFA can’t dock points. OK, should they be kicked out of the Champions League then? Well, no, and besides Abramovich would have them all knee-capped . . . and on and on. I checked in with Sue. She seemed comfortable at the pace, despite the undulating terrain, and I move up to run with my Sunday Lopers Lawrence and Nigel.

‘What are you tactics then Ash?’ Nigel asked.
‘Well, last year I went full bore from the off and blew out horribly a mile short, so I’ll start slowly, get slower for the first 2 miles, and see what’s left in the tank’.
Ah, the best laid plans of mice & men . . .

The last 150 yards of the outward leg are almost vertical.
At the top a marshal took names to start the count-‘em-all-out, count’-em-all-back process. Sue appeared in the final group to arrive, looking flustered but still moving well. She expressed concern at making the return, and I ventured that walking intervals were not only permitted but a very good idea. This seemed to be the right answer.

We reached the Wire, an incongruous chain link fence stretching 50 yards from cliff’s edge to the pavement. It appears to serve no purpose other than to provide a starting point for this annual event. C’est la vie.

Sam arrived. Sam Lambourne is a Sussex Legend. I refer to him as Jog Shop Sam, but this is to dismiss his stunning record in local, national and international running events. Veteran London marathoner (his pb is sub 2:20), Sam ran in the inaugural marathon in 1970. He has traversed Europe, taking part in ultra-marathons, John O’Groats to Land’s End 4-man team races, Mountain marathons and more besides. He held the record for the Seven Sisters Marathon (2:51) in 1986, and organises local races such as the Brighton Triathlon and, of course, the good Good Friday Friday run.

The rigours of extreme running have exacted a fierce toll, and Sam’s right knee is all but shot. He runs infrequently now, choosing to dedicate his time to the youngsters of Brighton & Hove Athletics club, and to preparing starry-eyed old duffers like me for Marathons. His current running style is best described as a ‘very fast walk’, but this doesn’t prevent him from entering races, and it was great to see him out with us today.

‘Right!’ came the familiar growl.
‘6K back to the marina, flat out! Go!’
The usual suspects, lithe, tanned and moving with an ease that I find baffling, set off full pelt. I loped off, no faster than I had jogged on the way out, determined to build slowly. Halfway up the second major climb, Jill, one of our Sunday runners, appeared at my shoulder.
‘You OK?’ she puffed.
‘Mm-Hmm’ I grunted. ‘Fine. You?’
‘Oh I’m OK – it’s just that (huff, huff) you’re normally off in the distance over this (huff, huff) sort of ground.’
Panic set in. I looked ahead and realised that Lawrence and Nigel, running as a team, were barely in sight. Damn! I put my foot on the gas, leaving Jill and sprinting up the last 20 meters of the hill. I kept this up for about a minute before my brain caught up. ‘Whoah!’ I thought. This is not good – you have to build, but do it slowly. Too late. The manic spurt had done its damage. As I lightly pressed the accelerator once more I knew; it’s not there today. Subconsciously I’d known this from the off. All my thinking was geared towards conserving energy, taking it ease, steady pace. Now I knew why.

No-one knows why you have days like this. Sometimes, as in Nigel’s case, you can point to disruption to your training schedule. Maybe you didn’t sleep well, or ate badly the day before. But sometimes you just have a bad day.

Far too soon I found myself digging for form. I could still see the lads ahead, looking comfortable, steady. I abandoned thoughts of catching them, focused on the one thing that mattered; finish! I took a swig from my water bottle and relaxed a bit. The next hill came and went easily enough, and I relaxed further. OK, here’s the deal; stop trying to speed up and you’ll get home easily. Keep pushing and I’ll drop you like a loose-lipped Tory.

And so so it proved. I still ‘kicked’ over the final 200 yards, teeth gritted, eyes squinting into the setting sun. I hadn't planned it, but a chap I didn’t know appeared at my left elbow, head down, arms pumping, intent on stealing my place. I wasn’t having that! I stretched out and hammered home, weaving ever so slightly to cut him off. Tim, Sue’s husband and photographer for the day, assures me it was classic Schumacher, the affronted runner throwing his arms in the air and throttling back, distraught that this apparent corpse had burst into life and thwarted his manoeuvre. I’m ashamed to say this gave me a flare of pleasure, and I apologise now unreservedly to my victim.

‘Ash!’ I called out as I crossed the line – we’d been told to yell our names as we finished allowing the marshals to record times and names without looking up. I was knackered – breathless, chest heaving, a whale out of water. The last vestige of sunlight warmed a grassy roadside embankment, and I tottered over, collapsing in a most undignified heap next to Nigel.

‘You alright mate?’ he grinned, looking horribly fresh and happy with life.
‘Uuugh-umm’ I replied, peeking out from under my arm. ‘Urrgh-ah-urrrm left it a bit late like’ I coughed back at him, a fine interpretation of Harry Enfields’ Julio Geordio.
‘Did you do it then?’ still grinning.
Ah yes. Did I? Break the 30 minutes? Last year I’d lagged in at 30:05, agonisingly 6 seconds short of my sub 30 minute goal. I had no idea.
‘No idea’ I panted.
‘Let’s find out then’ he laughed, bounding to his feet and heading for the marshals. I was filled with dread. All that bollocks about starting slowly and pacing it just right and I was certain I’d blown it. At the start I’d announced that, following last years’ agony, I’d happily take 29:59. I peered over the marshals’ shoulder.
29:39. Yes! The feelings of failure fled into the fresh spring air. I felt half a ton lighter, standing upright, and despite myself a cheesy grin spread across my sweat-laden face. A PB! You can’t mope about with a PB, can you?

Distracted from my self-pity my attention turned back to the course. Sue! Would she make it? Had Tim received a desperate ‘phone call and was he now racing off to collect her bedraggled carcass from the cliffs? Nope, there’s Tim, anxiously hopping from one foot to the other, perched on the concrete parapet, eyes scanning the horizon. I followed his gaze and spotted a number of coloured dots bobbing along the cliff edge from Roedean.

‘She’ll make it’ I assured him. Tim was pale.
‘It’s a lot bloody further than I thought’ he grumbled. ‘I thought you said it was 6 kilometres?’
‘Well, it is 6 kilometres, from the Wire’. Best not to argue though. Tim’s a big lad, and he was very, very nervous.
‘I checked up on her at half way. She’ll be tired, but she will make it..’ Confident. Assured. Tim seemed a smidgen calmer.

Please God let her make it OK! My silent prayer floated up above the runners recovering in the late sunshine. Then a yelp, a squeal of excitement. A large man was bouncing up and down on the ledge, waving and smiling. Tim!
‘There she is – COME ON SUE!!!’ I thought for a horrible moment he would bounce off the shelf the wrong way, plummeting to a sticky end in Asda’s car park. Happily he jumped left, landing with a thud inches from my feet.

And there she was, running pretty hard down the slope to the finish. What’s more there were still a few dots back along the route, so she was far from last home. A splendid effort, and proof to her if no-one else that she can push herself and take on some races later in the year.

Sweaty hugs all round, some advice – ‘stretch!’ – and we were off, vowing to meet up later in the Lewes Arms to recount our tales of the good Good Friday Friday run. And me? I live to run another day, and despite all my whinging I have a new PB.