December

[Sweder]

Nipple rash; we've been here before.
Vaseline is not enough, it seems. One of the results of very cold weather, as many delighted teenage boys will tell you, is scantily-clad nipples become bullet-hard. I can attest they do so to such an extent that the layer of grease carefully applied in the warmth of a centrally heated bathroom is pierced, leaving the naked tips exposed to the gentle chaffing of the running vest.

I sit here cursing this scientific revelation. It feels as if someone has massaged my chest with a cheese grater. Or that I've gone tobogganing sans tea-tray. On my chest. Over gravel. Ouch.

Enough whinging; it's almost Christmas, and raw nips aside this was a blinding run.
Crisp, clear, almost windless, perfect conditions in which to assault the Downs around Telscombe and Rottingdean. Our group numbered some 25 hardy souls, familiar faces joining last weeks' group. They'd all been off at the Mince Pie 10, by all accounts an excellent local event, but perhaps one that Andy has no need to attend judging by reports of his already impressive stash.

Head full of heart rate stories I made a conscious effort to run well within myself. I reached the 'stretching point' - Saltdean Lido - in the leading group. A glance west revealed tiny red dots cresting the hill behind us. Blimey, they must be really holding back!

'Phew! That was a bit swift!' Laurence, a downland regular, puffed along side as I stretched.
'Really?'
'Five minutes faster (for 3 miles) than last time' he confirmed.
Ooh err, perhaps not as reserved as I'd thought.

Regrouped we embarked for the long climb out of Saltdean, crossing the main road to the long ascent onto the Downs proper. Remy bounded past me headed for the Tye at an impressive pace. Charlotte (from last week) and two regular lads kept me company. We chatted about all manner of things; runs past and future, hopes and aspirations, heart rates and hill climbs. The detail escapes me, but the fact that we managed to burble along throughout the climb suggests running within the comfort zone.

Ahead of us Remy loped on past the turn for Rottingdean. I felt a stab of envy - he's off to the Snake, the swine! But Remy is extremely fit - I stuck to plan A, loping easily in the gang of four. Thoughts turned to the hideous climb ahead, some 400 metres of sharp ascent through heavy mud. I'd run two thirds last week and I'd resolved to keep going all the way today. Slowing my pace, shortening my stride, I set myself for the long haul. Charlotte and the two lads had climbed ahead of me (I'd stopped at the base to snap couple of photos). Slowly I reeled them in, bobbing along until finally the gradient eased.

Across the ridge and down into Rottingdean, the sea shimmering on the horizon. Sailboats, white flecks on the sparkling water, scattered around the marina mouth, searching for the breeze. Half way down the shaded track I felt a familiar whipping against my left ankle; shoe lace on the loose! Cursing softly I maintained my pace.
'Hey Ash, your lace is loose' in my left ear.
'Thanks'. Damn. Better stop. An ugly visual; me in a hospital bed, Christmas cards mingling with get well soons, sad-eyed children, lots of plaster . . .
I pulled up.
The other three dissapeared as I tied my lace and took a swig of juice.
I decided against chasing them, still resolved to run within my limits.
I caught a glimpse of them as they turned through the village below, and again as I reached the foot of the Windmill climb. I grit my teeth, determined to keep running up this barbaric hill. The others had reached the summit, pausing to reload with O2. As I arrived, bent double, sucking air, they straightened.
'Right then - off we go!'
I wheezed, a horrible, rattling sound.
'Oh, sorry mate - err . . .'
'Go - huh - on - huh - really . . .'
They left.
I stood, hands on wobbly knees, as the ground swam back into focus.
Re-focus; good idea. Plod on, easy does it. Last mile. Keep it steady.

I loped past St Dunstan's along the cliff tops above the marina.
Roedean stood imperious, sun-drenched, towering above our steaming procession. I could see the others, stretched out over 500 metres ahead. I ran on breaths -that is to say, I slowed my breathing and ran accordingly; two strides per breath, then three. My heart slowed and I held this leisurely pace to the finish, breathing easily as I hiked each leg onto the parapet, hamstrings screaming.

Charlotte timed the run at 1:41 - probably 1:45 for me. Laurence joined us ten minutes later and confirmed his Garmin readout at 10.9 miles.
'You're running well' he beamed.
I grinned.
Not bad. Not bad at all.