The Long And Winding Road . . . Again

[Sweder]

I don't know what they were thinking of.
The last time they saw me I was trudging through the foothills of the Snake, exhausted, dehydrated, searching for shade on a brutally hot Sunday morning, 8 miles into a 12 mile slog.

And yet, they thought of me.
Nigel e-mailed me to invite me to join himself, Remmy and Jill to form a team for the Jog Shop 2.5 K relay challenge. I thought: well, if they're dumb enough to want me on the team, I'm just dumb enough to join 'em!

So we met up after work just alongside Brighton marina, outside the (temporary) World Sandcastle Championships Marquee (Brighton council have actually requested planning permission for one of the sand castles because it's 7 metres tall - for the love of God . . . ) 30 teams of apsiring athletes, numbered up in teams of 4. We were team number 36, I was runner A.

'Put your duffer out first, so's he's got most time to recover' growled Sam.
I looked down at the white sheet pinned to my ample belly.
36A. It's a fair cop.

OK, here's the skinny: Runner A sets off from the start/ finish line on a 45 degree grass slope uphill. He climbs 200 metres straight up to the main road, runs another 300 metres down Duke's Mound and does a 180 at the bottom. Along Madiera Drive (flat) for 800 metres (past the start tent and cheering team-mates), up the slope, through the passage to the marina car park and up the zig-zag stairs, a brutally steep 200 metre climb to the clifftop. Left and down the cycle tunnel, sharp right along the top tier (directly above the finish) for 150 metres, double back and down onto the secoind tier, down the grass slope at the end, U-turn into the taped 100 metres finish.

At this point, for me some 12.5 minutes from the start, whilst gasping for air, runner A slaps the hand of runner B, who promtly sets off around the course. Runner A then collapses in a heap, looking like a whale out of water, chest heaving like a ham-actress tart. At least, that's what I did.

And so it goes.
Runner B hands off to runner C, who hands over to runner D . . . yada yada yada, you get the Picture.

By the time our runner D (Remmy) set off on the last lap, my wonderful team-mates had undone most of the damage imparted by my sedantry plodding in the first heat, and we'd moved up to somewhere near the middle.

'We're doing OK!' I beamed at Nigel and Jill, the former still puce from his runner C duties.
'Be time for a beer soon' I grinned. The look they gave me sent a shiver down my spine, despite the gentle warmth of the evening seaside air.

'We've still got one leg to go' rasped Nigel, struggling to conceal the contempt in his voice.

'You ARE ***in' kidding me!??'
I mean, if we've all done a lap each . . . Jill chimed in to clarify.

'When Remmy gets to the finish we all line up. As he reaches us we ALL set off on the final lap . . . '
her voice continued, but I could no longer hear over the pounding of my tortured heart.
Another lap??? Me?? Lardy-boy, who can't believe he finished the first one on his feet??? NOOOOooooooo . . . .

' . . . cross the line together and the last one across gets the team time'.

'Oh, yeah, right you are then. Errr, better stretch a bit then'.

Sheepish didn't quite cover it. It wasn't my fault that I didn't know the score - I was drafted in at the eleventh hour. Making up the numbers. Helping out a mate . . .

'Here he comes!' yelled Nigel, leaping to his feet in an un necessary display of vitality. And here he came; Remmy, metronome, tick-tocking his way down the last slope. Bloody hell.

We roared him on to the finish, setting off as one as he heaved himself across the line. He begged us to take it easy from the outset, but Nigel had a cunning plan.
'We're going to do these b*st*rds on the stairs!' he cried, saliva gathering on his lower lip, eyes staring back at Remy and I as we matched each other stride for painful stride up the grassy slope. The persons of dubious parantage to whom Nigel referred were a team of horribly fit young women about 50 yards ahead. No chance mate, I thought.

I vowed to keep pace with Remmy; after all, I'd been sat on my derriere for the best part of half an hour since my first lung-busting effort; this guy was going straight through, having scalped 2 minutes off my lap time. Nigel and Jill maintained a solid pace a few yards ahead of us. Slowly, painfully, we reeled the girls in, finally plodding passed as we reached the start tent just before the horrible stair climb.

'Let's break 'em on the stairs' growled Nigel.
It occurred to me that the 'them' in question were barely 12 paces behind us. We hardly needed to give them further incentive - they'd already been passed by a puffing bloated old geezer.

'Tell him' - I puffed to Remmy - 'that I'll bloody' - puff pant - 'well break him - gasp rasp - 'if he doesn't bloody' - heave, pant - 'shut up!'

We crunched up the zig-zag stairs, heart & lungs running full throttle, the soft yet persistant footfalls of our pursuers frighteningly close. On through the tunnel and into the last switch-back. the gravel crunched under foot, eight sets of trainers pounding as one as the ladies caught us.

'Come on!' screamed Nigel as he accelerated down the last slope. '200 to go!'
I wanted to yell something ultruistic about finishing as a team, about this being the whole idea, that you get your mates 'round . . . but I had no air in my lungs with which to shout. Instead I focused on the 200 to go.

'Come on Remmy, we can do 200' I gasped to my ailing companion.
Just then a vision appeared in my minds' eye; a half-empty stadium on a cool yet sunny January morning in Southern Spain; two men, friends clad in black, bursting for the line . . . Almeria!

'COME ON!!!!' I bellowed, shameless, competitve: fat!
I thrashed my legs like it was my last 150 metres on earth - it might have been for all I knew - and Remmy responded. The girls chased hard, but not hard enough - we pipped them by 2 metres, finishing in a whirling blob of limbs and flying sweat.

You'd have thought we'd won Olympic gold.
Hugging, gasping, grasping knees, grinning like fools, eyes sparkling, chests heaving. Victory!
Well, not quite . . . 12th place, and an incredible aggregate 10 minutes behind the winners, a group of youths who had gleefully burned past the senior club team with 400 to go.

So: 5 kilometres, hilly urban/ flat seafront combo.
Time: combined laps (for me) 24:54
Condition: mullered
Reward: 2 pints of Harveys Best Bitter in the Bristol.
Finishing 12th instead of 13th: Priceless.