Seaford Half Marathon - 5th June 2005

[Sweder]

Time of day: 08:30 Hrs
Location/ course: South Downs Way, Lewes/ Ditchling round trip
Distance: appx 10 miles
Duration: 1:30:14
Conditions: Blustery, sunny/ partly cloudy
Companion: Williow (Cocker Spaniel)
Soundtrack: 5 Live (Sportsweek)/ Planet Rock

Following a heavenly night's sleep in our new Tempur bed, complete with 'pressure-relieving mattress', I awoke to the bustling distractions of girls getting ready for a day of frantic dance competition. 6:45 am on a Sunday - only one thing for it. I rose Vader-like from the bed and shuffled through a technicolour battlezone, bright, sequin-covered garments flying through the air like sartorial shrapnel. The muted cries of Wife and Daughter scolding each other for failing to prepare last night faded as I slumped down the stairs in search of black coffee and peace.

For once my Sunday hangover owed less to over indulgence than to over self-indulgence. I had wailed and gnashed my teeth as Arsenal stole the FA Cup from my beloved United. I had of course approached the final with trepidation; the form book stated clearly that we would get a pasting. Arsenal, with or without their mercurial French magician were flying, whereas United were clearly finishing the season with leaden feet firmly on the ground.

My disbelief blossomed as the match unfolded with United playing fluid, spirited football and Arsenal, playing like a pub side imitating AC Milan, looked for all the world as if they had only met each other that morning. Bergkamp in the Andy Johnson role? What was Wenger thinking? Surely a tactical ploy to lull my lads into a false sense of security and then wham! Van Persie and Lundberg at the double, all guns blazing . . . but no. I called the subs exactly right, only I could never have dreamed they would have so little effect on the match.

Wave after wave of sweeping attack crashed fruitlessly on the Rocks of Van Nistlerooy, and I wondered if some strange curse had afflicted all Dutchmen on this day of days. Rooney huffed and puffed and made Ashley Cole look anything but world class, as Ronaldo fullfilled the hopes of all United fans, reducing Lauren to a twisted, exhausted shadow aiming wild kicks at thin air as the 'show pony' danced, pranced and simply blew him away.

As time wore on, and the curse of Ruud, evident since his return for the Old Trafford side, continued, it looked increasingly as if penalties would be required to settle the match. I would say to separate the sides, but of course they were separated, by a gulf in class as wide as the North/ South divide, the 'Invincibles' embarrassed by their lack of cutting edge.

You have to take your chances, and even Van Nistelrooy can only look so many gift horses in the mouth before he must admit defeat. Arsenal hung on and stepped up at the death to administer the coup des grace for the hapless men from Manchester.

I had, inevitably, been like the proverbial sore-headed bear for much of Saturday evening. I restricted my sorrow-drowning to a couple of pints of Harvey's and a good kick in the pants. How many times had my own team destroyed the dreams of other, more deserving teams with the last kick of the game? How much pity had I spared the distraught Bayern players back in '99? Not a jot. Move on, nothing to see here . . .

Back to this morning. Resigned to running solo (I still haven't picked up the 'phone to find out where abouts in Hove Park the Jog Shop crew assemble on a Sunday) I elected to take Willow on a 10 mile lope to Ditchling and back. I left the longdogs in deference to the last of the seasons lambs almost certain to be scattered across the downs. I fancied a swift run today, and stopping to tether the hounds every couple of miles was not on my agenda.

We set off at gentle pace towards our first 'checkpoint', Black Cap. My decision on the dogs was vindicated early on, for the path was strewn with gamboling baby sheep and their suspicious Mothers. Willow paid them little heed, seeking out her favorite places to stop and play; mud holes and the Dew Pond.

In my earphones George Best, Bob Wilson and the offensive Jeff Powell (Daily Mail) debated the folly of penalties. The concensus was we should return to replays, but of course the paymasters who set the TV schedules simply won't hear of it. I listened again to Wengers' graceless supposition that his team got what they deserved. If you're reading this, Arsene, what you deserved was a bloody good thrashing. Enough already.

At Black Cap I paused to infuse the magnificent vista, hectares of fabulous sunlit Sussex countryside coralled by sculpted downland hills. To the South East the white chalk lines of the Big W shone with the allure of a forbidden mistress; soon, my love, soon. Scanning West past the ugly stacks of Shoreham Power Station and on to my destination. My stopwatch said 23 minutes, about on par with recent runs. We pushed on, immediately meeting a stream of mountain-bikers cruising East along the South Downs Way, Westerly breeze gently nudging them towards Lewes, Firle and the promise of a well-earned pub lunch somewhere near Cuckmere Haven. We exhanged Shearers, the irony of the expression lost on the surrounding sheep.

The path from Lewes to Ditchling is pretty much 5 miles of ascent, sprinkled with the occasional level section. The terrain is mostly stony path, with flint shards and mini-boulders waiting to rend ankles and puncture tyres. Following a few days of mixed weather, puddles and small ponds had accumulated on the chalky soil, much to Willow's delight. She splattered and splashed through every one, coating my leggings with a fine muddy spray, creating Rorsharch patterns to test the most dedicated Psychologist.

On to Ditchling Beacon, high point of the trail. A flock of runners loped by, Lewes-bound. Grins added to the raised right arms indicated a solidarity that excluded mounted path-users. I paused at the turn to let Willow wallow in a grass-filled Pond. 30 seconds later we were bounding off again, enthusiasm renewed by the breeze at our backs. A mile in and the running flock appeared on the horizon, having themselves turned for home. Wider grins and a few 'Hi's passed between us. I pushed on, determined to make this a swift finish.

We barely paused back at Black Cap. My legs felt strong and full of running, no doubt the result of a complete lack of physical activity this week. I pushed again, until finally Willow was no longer scanning ahead of me but ran adjacent to my flying feet. Gates came and went, another couple of cyclists, and we entered the last sheepfield side by side, Willow's ears flapping like fledgling wings, me puffing hard, sweat splashing off my nose onto my midriff (must do something about that midriff).

Home in 1:30:14. I'll check back in past logs to see how that compares with my only other Ditchling run, but I know without looking this was a good one.
Somewhere close to Black Cap I'd switched radio stations, picking up Planet Rock. I was dissappointed with the playlist at first, reminded of just how poor Def (Deaf) Leopard really were. Happily the quality improved, and I raced through the final field to the sound of the excellent Bon Jovi. How appropriate that a morning begun with thoughts of yesterday's glorious failure should end in this way;

You ask me if I known love
And what it’s like to sing songs in the rain
Well, I’ve seen love come
And I’ve seen it shot down
I’ve seen it die in vain

Shot down . . . in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
’cause I’m going down . . . in a blaze of glory . . .