April Week 1 - Countdown

[Sweder]

Time of day: 09:00
Route: Lewes/ Black Cap/ Lewes
Distance: 5 miles
Duration: 44:59 (24:18)
Companions: 3 Hounds
Soundtrack: Radio 5 Live

A gentle lope compared with Wednesday, and with good reason.
I’d intended to get out and rattle off 5 street miles on Friday evening. Tim and Sue, friends new to running, had mapped out a flat(ish) circuit of Lewes and Kingston Village and I felt inclined to get some roadwork in as the big one approaches.

I hadn’t counted on the demand for Dad’s Taxi Service. Jake (16) had asked if he and some mates could get a lift to a party in Newhaven (around 6 miles away). He could go on the train, but I was feeling generous and offered wheels. I’d arrived home from work feeling pretty tired. A week sweating over a new health & safety policy finished off with a 2 hour meeting in London on Friday resulted in me slumped on the sofa; I needed a reason to haul my bones up, get the blood flowing. I had intended to get an early evening run in to perk myself up, but lethargy ruled K.O. and I decided to make it a night-time dance through the streets instead.

I soon learned that the thing about teenage lads heading for a party is they are entirely focused on the fun ahead and completely oblivious to such mundane detail as where they're supposed to be. 45 minutes into our tour of Newhaven and surrounding suburbia I lost the will to live and, more importantly, to run. I returned home feeling flat and elected to watch rubbish B movies into the wee small hours, vowing to leap into action on Saturday morning.

Adding insult to injury my son’s entourage arrived home at 11:30. The party had been ‘busted up’ by the local constabulary following a tip-off from a concerned neighbour. The boys, dejected, had returned home via shank’s pony and the railways. All I could think of was the saving in collateral damage the early end of festivities would bring for the parents of the host. (I speak from bitter personal experience on this subject, and no, I’m not ready to talk about it yet).

So, as the appalling movie and excellent football fanzine has it, When Saturday comes. I awoke as (finally!) my London Marathon Registration Form and confirmed runner number (40083) landed on my chest. As the internal fog cleared and Mrs Sweder yanked the blinds, the most fabulous morning invaded the bedroom.

I swung my legs out of bed, pulled on my shirt, shorts, socks, stumbled down stairs, tied on my off-road Mizunos, grabbed my water bottle, radio, mobile, dog leads, dogs and out into the crisp Sussex air. It’s now or never. My legs creaked like old ships’ timbers, but any lack of enthusiasm was more than offset by the eager anticipation of the hounds as they dragged me out of the gate and towards the downs.

This is God’s Own Country. The sun, already beaming strongly from above the cliff-top golf course, brushed aside the last of the early morning cloud, and I thanked myself for filling the water bottle last night. I chugged gently up the immediate incline towards the sheep field, surprised to see so many locals already enjoying the day. Dog walkers, non-dog walkers and horse-riders peppered the route West. I exchanged Shearers with a couple of runners, and a polite ‘good morning’ with a silver-haired couple walking arm-in-arm, radiating pleasure at simply being there, together, on this perfect morning.

I was struggling, not in a serious way, but it was obvious from the off that this would not be a PB or anything like it. With my long run due in exactly 24 hours this was no bad thing, and I relaxed, happy to know this was simply a ‘leg turnover’ run. My training schedule doesn’t fit with any other I know – I run infrequently mid-week, barely reaching 15 miles from Monday to Friday. Conversely my dedication to my Sunday long run borders on the fanatical, and should I miss one (as I was forced to do in early and mid March) I am The Grinch.

I reached the summit (loose use of the term) in a leisurely 24:18, nearly 2 minutes slower than Wednesday, and I smiled to myself. Nice ‘n’ easy does it. After a minute sipping water and soaking in the awesome views (me) and sniffing around in the gorse bushes, urinating amongst the Downland shrubs (the hounds) we loped off down the slopes.

Everyone we met on the way home beamed good will as we trundled by. It’s as if anarchic Ninjas had slipped a mild form of ecstasy into the water supply overnight; a most welcome development.

Back home, a respectable sub 45 minutes later, hot, sweaty and pleased to have notched up some mileage. Tomorrow (12 to 14 miles) promises to be another warm one, and should prove a useful trial in case April 17th turns out to be a scorcher.