March, Week 4: BST

[Sweder]

I glanced around. There was certainly an air of something special today. There were also some notable absentees, namely Nigel and Lawrence, the same two who had left me floundering on these very cliff tops not two days before. Hmmm.

Under slate-grey skies we ambled East. The contrast with Friday was stark: this was long haul, the sympathy shown by the Weather Gods via the cool, damp air and impenetrable grey blanket most welcome. I felt, above all, full. My ample breakfast sat amidships, not quite settled, and I pondered the wisdom of my pre-run feasting. It occurred to me if I could just keep everything in its place – and there was some doubt for a while – I would reap the benefits later, or, as the venacular has it, in the long run.

Onto the Downs and up the Tye. 4 miles in and I still felt like I was in warm-up mode. This is a useful trick I like to play on myself. If I’m still ‘in warm up’, I’m taking it easy, getting into a rhythm, not pushing, minimal effort. This self-delusion worked like a charm. 4½ miles in I felt relaxed, breakfast finally at rest, body energised. So energised in fact I ran up the North Face without pause. OK, the final few steps were pretty small, but technically I was still running. I considered my first gel, but dismissed this as obscene in view of my bloated condition.

On up the Yellow Brick Road, joined by a small breakaway band. Three lads, two girls, all evenly matched for pace. Claire and her friend (Blue Lycra – sorry!) are running Paris, so this would be their last (pre-taper) long run. Blue Lycra struggled as we left the rough track and hit the concrete. I found myself dropping back to keep her company up the windswept climb. Following early protests (she was 'fine', I should 'go on with the others') we chatted casually about runs past, charities and the building excitement of Paris. Before too long we reached the summit. The others waited for us, checking the route with Sam.

‘Well done!’ beamed Claire to Blue Lycra.
‘Ash kept me going, I hardly noticed the climb’ she offered graciously.
‘I think she glazed over after a minute or two and when she came round we were here’ I offered. The others nodded sagely. I turned to Sam. He indicated the rock-strewn path along the ridge, his extended arm tracing the route until it suddenly swooped alarmingly down and to the right.
‘The Big W’ he growled. ‘Down to the trees, 90 degrees left, back up to the top. It’s too steep for the bike so I’ll see you at the top.’
Too steep for the bike? It’s too steep for a Mountain Goat. Nervous glances exchanged, we ambled forward. The drop was every bit as perilous as I’d feared, loose earth and flint creating a constant mini-avalanche. We slid/ jarred our way down, my spine e-mailing complaints at every impact. Conversation was useless at this juncture, so we slalomed to the bottom, silent, focused.

‘There he goes!’ The new chap, pointing accusingly at the silhouette of Sam On Bike, cruising along the Ridge. ‘Bloody Hell, we’ve got to get back up there!’
He wasn’t wrong. I surprised myself, maintaining a steady rocking gait all the way to the top. Breathing hard I stopped alongside our grinning mentor.
‘Good ‘ere, innit’ he beamed. I could have cheerfully shoved him down the chalk/ rock run, except I had no idea of the route from here. Time for a gel, I thought. My drug of choice today was a Pineapple Squeezy gel, quite palatable, washed down with a mouthful of agua.

‘ ’Alf way. Off we go!’ Sam barked.
‘Blimey’ I took the bait. '10 miles already?'
‘Nope, ‘alf way through the Double-Yoo’ he grinned.
You have got to be kidding me.
‘I thought the wiggly bits at the bottom through the trees were the W!’
‘Nope, that was technically a ‘V’’.
‘So it’s like a VW’ I ventured, trying to mask my disappointment.
‘If you like. Off you go!’. Another bone-shaking plummet into the valley, this time on rather more established footing. I looked up, and below me, directly in front of us, sat the village of Kingston. Kingston near Lewes. I’m less than 2 miles from home!
‘Put the kettle on, Love!’ I bellowed. Pointless, but it lifted my spirits.

A repeat of the previous manoeuvre; into the valley, sharp turn left and lung-busting climb up a rocky chalk path. This time my calves sent a telegram. I acceded to their demands, slowing to a brisk walk. I glanced behind and noticed my companions were pretty spread out. The new fella, gel-less and armed only with his own concoction of ‘honey water’, was right behind, looking good. Below him a gap of some 100 metres to the next pair, plodding gamely. I turned upwards, executing a vertical power-walk.

Sam may have sensed our mutinous mood at the last summit, as we were greeted this time by our other guardian, Tony.
‘Well done lads. Take a breather.’
Another generous swig of grog, but I wasn’t for hanging around.
‘Sorry Tone, I’ve got to keep moving. It’s too nippy up here to hang about’.
My companion nodded firmly. We took directions.
‘Carry on up the ridge ‘till you get to Castle Hill, hang a left and follow the trail all the way down, around the farm buildings and you’re at the foot of the Snake.’
I perked up. The Snake! An end in sight! I know the Snake, and she knows me. We’ll be right as rain from here on in. My new pal (we indulged in the time-honoured British tradition of saving the name exchanges until the end) knew the area well, and we set off with renewed vigour.

Castle Hill is a nature reserve nestled in the cleavage of the Downs. Home to a host of rare flowers, including Wild Orchids, the modest patch attracts a good number of human butterflies. We hailed twitchers and botanists as we careered down the path, grinning madly as we barely controlled our descent. Into lush fields and – shock horror! – some level running. Another gel at the foot of the Snake and we wasted no time scaling her slippery hide. I felt incredibly good, the knowledge that we had entered the (admittedly 6 mile long) end game. I reminded myself of the adage:
‘Remember: the light at the end of the tunnel could be an on-rushing train.’

Re-focused, relaxed, we flew up the Snake, pounding out a steady rhythm past the numerous sheep and occasional walkers, delivering ‘Shearers’ to human and bovine in equal measure.

At the summit we took a hair-pin left onto yet another steep drop, up a gentle hill and onto the road past the Rottingdean reservoir. I measured my feelings against those of last week. At this point I’d been feeling my knees, hips and back, worrying about my hamstrings and wishing I’d brought gels. Today I felt strong, running easily, aches and pains present but well behaved. I glanced at my running mate – he looked even more relaxed, maintaining impressive pace with apparent minimum effort.

On to Rottingdean, through the village, past the Windmill (we walked the evil incline from the road to the hill-top), past St Dunstans, through the tunnel and onto the grassy cliff-top finish. Another comparison, this time with Friday. We’d completed over 18 miles, yet I felt more composed over this last mile than on the much shorter run two days ago. What a funny game this running malarkey is!

An unspoken understanding grew between us. We’d chatted, shared jokes and running anecdotes, not yet names. But it was understood between us that a kick for home was not on; we would finish together. And so it came to be. We passed the road sign at the top of the Marina steps, slowed in unison and turned to clasp hands in American Stylee.
Grinning, eyes shining, we took a breath.
'That was bloody brilliant!'
'Fantastic – what a run!'
'How far?'
'20 miles!'
'20 bloody hard miles!'
'Yep! But don’t it feel great!?'

And it did.
Rog (as in Roger) was his name, and a damned fine running companion he turned out to be. We exchanged e-mail addresses and he set off down the steps to the car park. He was off to his Sisters in Crawley for Easter Turkey lunch. I reckon he'll eat the whole Turkey.
And who could blame him?

One by one the runners came home, each delighted, each looking better than they had a right to after such a stern test. High fives all round as the last few, with Tony and Sam flying wingman, hit the final down slope. The icy fingers of that Easterly breeze brushed my damp, rapidly cooling skin. I checked the time, estimated my own from that, bade my farewells and left.

There’s another one next Sunday, same time, same course.
Reckon I’ll be there.