April Week 1 - Countdown

[Sweder]

Time of day: 09:00
Distance: 20 miles
Time: 3:40(ish)
Conditions: warm/ sunny

I'd fully intended to do 12 miles. Really; I had weighed the evidence and decided that my Running Commentary pals' ambitions were more akin to my own. Besides, all my Sunday Run gurus used to be great runners; they're all (to a man) severely damaged after lives of over-training and excessive exertion.

Two groups gathered above the Marina this morning, like a backstreet theatre production of Olympic Bid 2012: Paris and London. For the Paris group, next weekend is the business end of their training. They chatted excitedly about travel plans, looking forward to a gentle 12 miles today.

And then there was my lot; the London group. They (we) were, apparently, doing the full 20.
'Not me' I smugly announced. 'I had a great run last week, and I'm into my tapering. 12 for me, thanks all the same'. I neither sought nor received a challenge, and we loped off under beautiful blue skies, the grasslands along the cliff tops looking washed out by the strengthening sunlight.

3 miles in we re-grouped, each party re-affirming their route.
Paris would climb Telscombe, head past the turn for the North Face and head directly for the Snake and home via Brighton Racecourse. I was still determined to join them. As we set off again, heading up the steep climb towards the crossing to Telscombe, I pondered the irony of feeling so full of beans having selected the short option. This feeling was reinforced as I chugged easily up the Tye, flanked by Remy (Rome Marathon 2 weeks ago, looking forward to the Derbyshire White Peaks marathon in May) and Nigel (who confessed, having missed last weeks' 20, to managing a paltry 13 as a long run). The hardened, rutted ground seemed to flow under my feet. The heavy breathing either side masked my own modest efforts; I felt good.

We rounded the small Church atop the Tye and headed West along the Landover tracks. The point of final decision was a mere 200 yards ahead.
'So, not joining us today then?' Nigel asked, innocently.
I glanced back. The chasing pack were half a minute back, apparently content to take it easy. It dawned on me that I had the perfect excuse to go with these two.
'Neither of you did the 20 last week, right?
Grunts in the affirmative.
'Then I'd best go with you - I'm the only one who knows the way!'
Grins all round. As with all self-deluded souls I felt vindicated and wholly altruistic about this decision; I was helping others.

Remy is a quality off-road runner - hills mean nothing to him. He bounded up the North Face like it was a single flight of stairs. As last week, I too ran the full climb, but there the comparison ends. Nigel and Mark (who had completed the 20 with me last week and had caught Nigel on the North Face) huffed and puffed over the last rise.
We took on fluid and gels, and I had my first hint of doubt over provisions.
'It's a hot one, eh?' I offered.
'Hope we can find a water tap towards the end of the run.'

Off again, up the Yellow Brick Road, once a fearsome climb. Now I had experienced the Big W, this gentle ascent held no fear for me. As expected, fear was also off the agenda for Remy as far as his first visit to the Big W was concerned. He zig-zagged at high speed down the treacherous grass slopes on the down strokes and bounced effortlessly up the debilitating climbs. Mindful of the temperature and with no need to push myself too hard I walk/ ran both climbs. At the top of the final upstroke of the W we paused. Mark joined us, and we waited for Nigel. And we waited. After 2 minutes he appeared around the final bend of the chalk/ flint path, and he was not happy.

'That bloody hurt!' he exclaimed.
I felt sympathy, as Nigel had, like me, suffered unavoidable interruptions to his March training, and if a lack of mileage was going to tell anywhere, it was here. Another dash of water, another gel, and off to Castle Hill. Once again I kept pace with Remy, but I had come to realise this was costing me more than I could afford on the energy front. We paused again at the entrance to Castle Hill Nature Reserve. Nigel was still not happy.

'I've wrecked my groin' he groaned. 'I'm going to wait here for a bit.'
We reasoned that the main pack, together with outriders Sam and Tony, would be along in 10 minutes or so. We agreed that there was nothing to be gained by Nigel pushing on and he may as well head off to the top of the Snake. We'd be reaching that point (via the drop down Castle Hill and the climb up the Snake herself) in around 30 minutes.

And now we were three. We dropped down the winding track, through the reserve and into Death Valley. I began to feel heavy legged, and to ponder the wisdom of
a) ignoring advice from senior RC personnel
b) running extremely tough off-road 20's back to back
c) that 5 mile dash to Black Cap 24 hours earlier

Remy and Mark pulled away, and I let them go. Up the Snake we spread out evenly, a 50 metre gap between each runner. I looked down into Death Valley and saw the tiny figures of our colleagues some three quarters of a mile behind us. I looked ahead in time to see Nigel hurtling down towards us.
'Going down!' he yelled as he passed. I assumed he was taking the 'backwards' route home. If so, we'd see him again on the Rottingdean road.

And so it proved. I’d accepted that I wouldn’t keep pace with Remy to the end, and had settled into an easy pace. I ran through lazy sheep dozing along the top of the Downs, the Spring lambs scattering at the sight of this pink-faced, perspiring biped as he staggered through their peacful domain. I glanced across the field to my left, seeking the road that would bisect my path and take us down into Rottingdean. I saw the sorrowful figure of Nigel, shuffling along the single track path, obviously suffering. 5 minutes later our paths converged.
‘You OK?’ I asked. Dumb question, but there it was.
‘My groin’s definitely gone’ he wailed. ‘This is agony.’
As if this admission had broken his will, Nigel’s shuffle morphed into a painful walk. I slowed, walking with him. I pointed out the Windmill, around a mile ahead, as a good omen.
‘The Windmill’s showing the way home’ I reminded him, instantly regretting the cheesy 1950’s family B movie quality of the line.
A grunted acknowledgement.
‘Come on mate, let’s see if we can’t keep you jogging along.’
We jogged, slowly, for a round half a mile.
‘It’s no use Ash. You go on. I’m OK walking.’
To be honest I was relieved to hear him say this. There’s nothing worse than taking a walk break when your legs are tightening up and then trying to run again. I mean, it hurts, more that the running itself.

I set off, knowing that the pack would be along soon enough to keep Nigel company and, if things got worse for him, call a cab to meet him at Rottingdean. My attention turned to my water supply. I’d drained my Nathan at the top of the Snake, some 15 minutes earlier. I would need a supply.

Into Rottingdean and a quick scout on the hoof for an outside tap. No dice. OK, I thought, you’ll have to knock on a door and ask for help. Just then, at the foot of the climb to the Windmill, I spied a couple of old gentlemen reclining in tattered deckchairs in an allotment. I called out to them asking of they knew of a nearby water supply.
‘You can use ours old son’ one offered, smiling. ‘We drink from it all the time.’
This prompted me to look a little closer at the men, but unexplained stains on their dirty white vests aside, they seemed reasonably normal. They asked about our run, having seem Remy and Mark come through some minutes before, and I explained the distance, the route and why we were doing all this. The looks on their faces told me I may as well have announced that we’d climbed out from the centre of the Earth and were searching for Gandalf. I thanked them for the water and staggered off up Windmill Hill.

The last 2 miles were, as they always are, instantly forgettable, being painful in the extreme. But the fresh supply of cool water had cheered me up, and I loped along happily enough to the finish.

Remy and Mark had disappeared, so I slumped gracelessly onto the warm spring roadside turf to refelct on the folly of men, and me in particular. There were moments out there today, between miles 16 and 18, when I remembered what it was like to run a Marathon. Remembered in the sense that my body, my legs and lungs, experienced actual Marathon-day distress and fatigue. I decided to take this as a positive from today, safe in the knowledge that the next time I felt like this will be on the crowded streets of London.

One by one the London group came in, like wounded bombers returning from a sortie, running, hobbling and limping home. Nigel was in good shape, they told me, and was getting picked up in Rottingdean. He has time to recover, although he will need to revise his plans for his inaugural 26.2 miles on the 17th. My own biggest concern now, as Remy appeared armed with several 2 litre bottles of water and a bag of bananas, was how to explain this madness to my colleagues on this site. But if you'd been there, in my shoes, with those vast, glorious landscapes all around, I know you'd have done the same. Or at least you'd have thought about it.

OK, it's taper time. It really is.