April Week 2 - Here we go . . .

[Sweder]

Time of day: 09:10 hours
Course: Brighton marina/ Telscombe Tye/ The Snake/ Wilson’s Avenue/ Marina
Distance: 12.5 miles
Duration: 1:54
Conditions: cool, sunny, light breeze

I felt so good, like anything was possible.
Hit the cruise control, rubbed my eyes.

As I rolled on, the sky grew dark.
I put the pedal down, to make some time.
There's somethin' good, waiting down this road.
I'm pickin' up whatever's mine.

Tom Petty, Running Down a Dream

I listen to this song quite a bit. It pops up on Planet Rock from time to time, and now and again it happens as I reach a fast section of my offroad mid-week lope to Black Cap. It’s one of those songs I really like to listen to but I’d never considered the lyrics. I checked them out when I got home today, and they seem appropriate, in part, for how I feel about things just now.

Today’s run was what last weekend was supposed to be – a gentle 12 miler, cutting off the gruelling climbs of the downland 20, leaving just my old friend the Snake to challenge us on our way.

We offered a communal Runner’s Prayer for our friends in Paris, envious that they were lining up in that Lover’s City, ready to embrace the mistress that had kept them from their loved ones these past three months or so.

Off we loped, pausing in the gathering sunshine after 30 minutes for a stretch session, some idle banter about post-Marathon hostelries, and on, on, up the Tye. I felt marvellous, everything I’d hoped for. Energised, fit, whole, ready to take it on. I’d elected to miss out the energy gels today. I figured I’d loaded enough carbs over the past couple of days to traverse the Arctic Tundra, gels not required on voyage.

My companions, as we turned our backs to the sun and headed West towards the foot of Death Valley, included Remy and Terry, the two who had so easily left me for the flounderer that I clearly was last week. No chance of that happening today as we bounced easily along the rutted paths of the downs, hailing sheep and sun drenched fields as we chatted idly of this and that.

From the outset Sam had announced that there was to be ‘no racing’ today. At the time I thought this a strange thing to say – we generally don’t race, rather form clusters of similar-paced runners. But half way into today’s run I understood his meaning; I felt like I could sprint the last 6 miles. Reality tapped me on the shoulder as we ascended the Snake, Remy cruising ahead, apparently without effort, up the Serpent's gentle gradient. Terry and I held fast, resisting the temptation to follow him. We exchanged views on running for charities, the pleasure of training in this fabulous countryside and swapped concerns over a possible heat wave on the 17th.

To the top then, and a slurp of Hyro Active. We watched as the rest of our merry band approached the head of the Snake. Everyone seemed comfortable. I turned to my partners.
‘Come on, I'm getting a bit chilly - Lets push on.’

Our route back to the Marina was simple, direct. Along the horse-trek past the stables to the Racecourse and on to Wilson’s Avenue, the ½ mile drop to the Marina. I hate the track section. I recalled February, when I’d struggled for breath and form, sloshing through thick mud laced with slurry, slipping and sliding, bouncing from wire fence to rutted field looking for a safe footing. Conditions today were much kinder, but memories refused to let me relax. A small, perfectly-formed Satanic figure appeared on my left shoulder.
’Come on, you HATE this bit. Put your foot down, lets get out of here!’ he hissed.
I waited for the miniature Angel to appear to my right to offer opposing, sensible council. But all I got was a whinny from a passing racehorse, and the rasp of the breeze in my ear.

I pushed on, letting the speed come as it may. A quarter mile at this pace and I glanced back. Blimey! Only Nige (the artist formerly referred to here as White Hair Lycra) was in touch, puffing and blowing. OK, he was nursing a dodgy hamstring from two weeks ago, but even so he would usually have seen me off easily.

Across the road and the path through the racecourse rails and onto Wilson’s Avenue. Full bore, no holes barred, hammer time! As SP likes to say in tribute to the incomparable David Coleman, I opened my legs and showed my class! No thoughts of looking back, just head down, no nonsense, mindless boogie.*

Sam fizzed past on the road, free-wheeling down the hill.
‘Go on Ash!’ he roared. ‘Give it some!’
And I did, a maniacal grin spreading across my face.
I was flying! Heaven knows what speed I reached. I don’t really care. I felt strong, fast, unstoppable. Into the dip, up the incline, right at the lights. Sam waited, his bike leaning on a flint wall, as I crossed the road.
‘Good, good strength, keep it going’ he growled.
He cycled alongside me as I turned left onto the rough track behind the houses heading for the Marina. He started to speed up. I knew what he was doing, and I took the bait, pumping my arms, gritting my teeth and gunning my legs. They responded, and I pulled alongside him.
‘That’s good strength’ he growled. ‘Excellent. You’re ready.’

And I am.
The others came in, happy, energised and looking like they could happily run all day.
‘Blimey, what happened down Wilson's, Ash?’ grinned Remy.

What did happen?
Well, I’ve had an easy week. One 3 ½ mile flat plod with SP, a couple of beers, plenty of good food, healthy snacking . . .
To be honest, I have no idea. And I don’t really care.
I’ve had enough fitness worries and injury scares this past two months. I want to bottle this feeling and wrap it up, affix a label ‘Do Not Open Before 17th April’.

One of the guys came in with a Garmin and confirmed the stats. He checked the pace and reckoned we (he had gunned it down Wilson’s too) had run the last mile under 6:30 pace. I have no idea what that means, but it sounds OK.

Here’s to another week of fine dining and gentle loping.
There's somethin' good, waiting down this road.
I'm pickin' up whatever's mine . . .

* Alberto Y Lost Trios Paranoias 1978