Here comes summer - the British 10K

[Sweder]

I'm sorry to say, Dear Reader, that the story you are about to read is extremely unpleasant. It tells the unhappy tale about a most unfortunate individual who had delusions of ability beyond his physical reach . . .

So might begin the latest Lemony Snicket tome, had the teller of sorry tales been privy to my morning efforts. I’d ‘ummed’ and ‘arred’ about the wisdom of tackling a Sunday morning lope following what was in truth a fairly debauched week in Antwerp. Finally, spurred on my the sight of my daughter heading off in the early hours for a big dance comp I decided to go for it.

Brighton Marina basked in fabulous morning sunshine as I met up with Remy, Nigel, Jill and Terry. The merest hint of a breeze provided respite from the glaring sun as we debated routes and distances. I said I’d have to see how things went, harboring secret hopes of meeting my old friend the snake, albeit on more leisurely terms, on a gentle 12 mile lope.

Three miles in I felt comfortable, if a little heavier than my last outing. Our pace was indeed modest, yet we averaged sub-10 minute miles into the cooling draught of the sea breeze. Inland and up Telscombe tye, the three-quarter mile climb, and I set my pace at the front, chugging easily up the dusty slopes. Our Bovine gallery flicked tails in greeting, unmoved by these odd bipeds puffing through their gathering. Nigel and Jill had slipped back, so Remy, Terry and I took a breather behind the small church. Once again the landscape took our collective breath away. Sunlight sparkled on a calm ocean, the flotilla of dinghys and small yachts bright white flecks against the blue. Tall grasses swayed lazily, the silver seed-heads bobbing on straw-pale stems.

Rejoined, our band of five headed west, the easterly zephyr undetectable at our backs. I chugged a few mouthfuls of Lucozade HydroActive, conscious that hydration would be imperative to survival this morning. Jill and Nigel announced that they would cut the run short, detouring through the Telscombe residences for a total loop of 9 miles. I thought about joining them, but feeling good with plenty of fuel to hand elected to push on with Remy and Terry. The temperature rose quickly as the light wind at our backs failed to cool us. I felt a good deal less comfortable.

As Jill and Nigel disappeared down the slopes towards the town we pushed on across the downlands. Thousands of scarlet poppies waved as we jogged, skylarks twittering and darting in and out of the grass. 6 miles in we approached a familiar landmark. The dusty trail, set along the edge of farmland, plummets at a perilous pace for 200 metres, only to climb immediately another 100 where the trail meets a more substantial track. I let my bodyweight build the momentum as I focused on the ground rushing up to meet me. One ill-placed foot here and it’s a long hobble back to any sort of road.

At the junction of trail and stony path we stopped again to take on fluids. Another self-assessment revealed nothing untoward. Terry started us off again, and I immediately struggled to keep pace. Confused, I tried to relax and let the road rise to meet my steady pace, but to no avail; I was running out of gas.

I considered something then that I’m none too proud of. I needed a longer breather, and the idea of appearing feeble and asking for more rest did not appeal. So the idea of a feigned injury – a twisted ankle, a sore knee – flashed across my mind. Almost as swiftly I dismissed the notion, horrified; feigning injury to gain a rest was akin to moving your ball to a better lie in golf; cheating. I slowed to walking pace without a sound, watching as my companions moved easily away. At the next gate they waited, despite my dismissive wave.

‘I’m going to walk for a bit’ I panted. ‘You guys go on’. They nodded and pressed on into the foothills of the snake. I sauntered along, still unsure of what was wrong. The gentle incline caused me to puff and pant, and I accepted that a more concerted rest was needed. At the start of the Snake proper I embraced the shade of a small tree, sitting down slowly and finally stretched out on my back. I sucked slowly at the hot air, a landed carp seeking oxygen. Finally my heart-rate slowed and I thought things through. There was nothing to be gained by pushing on, so I stood up, stretched, and began the long walk up the Snake. I sipped gently at my drink, calculating that I had enough shrapnel in my drinks belt to purchase more at the shops in Woodingdean.

I tried a gentle lope half way up the ascent, managing an honest pace for around 10 minutes. Back in the full glare of the sun I felt my regained strength begin to wane once more, and returned to strolling mode. Using a combination of walk/run/walk/run I covered the final 4 miles in just about an hour, picking up more fluids and a Mars bar en route.

In hindsight I’m sure the heat played a part, less so perhaps than a week of late nights, heavy meals and large amounts of beer. That and the lack of mid-week runs (or any runs in the past two weeks).

Still, some lessons learned, 12 miles covered (8 run, 4 walk/run) in 2 hours 40 minutes. Time to settle down and hope our boys can bring some cheer by continuing Australia’s miserable tour. Where’s MLCMan when you need him?