February 2006

[Sweder]

A week that started with personal glory descended through inevitable debauchery into apathy and sloth. Not ideal preparation for a blustery, hilly 15 mile romp across the Sussex downs, but there we are.

Feeling bloated and heavy, precisely zero miles banked since last Sunday, I scuttled out of the house just after sunrise clutching my water carrier and spare togs. The hounds lifted their heads with a collective air of resignation; I never take them on Sunday runs.

A good sized group gathered above the Marina. I chatted briefly with one or two interested in my experiences of last weekend. I kept details to a minimum but I did suggest I might be a little sluggish following the re-hydration program – getting excuses in early, I think they call it. Heading east along the cliff tops I felt pretty comfortable, until I realised we were the beneficiaries of a moderate breeze. I considered the implications for the more testing sections of the circuit, most of which faced west and into the wind.

The run to nine miles offered uneventful Downland fare; more polite chatter with familiar faces, pleasure at the sight of gambolling lambs decked out in the farmers’ green graffiti, views to die for and crisp, clean air. By the time I started up the Snake I’d paired up with Charlotte, an extremely fit runner with an easy style. I found the going tough but manageable, working my breathing up the winding ascent, regulating stride pattern and effort rate. I paused at the summit, gulping my personal blend of Robinsons’ R and H2O (10:90 mix). A number of runners caught us, setting off for the double-back without a break. As I loped along behind a couple of niggles made themselves known. First a tightness in my right groin echoed by a slight pull on the right hamstring. Nothing serious, but worth keeping tabs on. Then a minor twinge behind my left knee – I put this down to 13 miles on hard roads and pavements last week, shortening my stride as a precaution. The small group in front pulled away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I shuffled on past the reservoir and down the long, broken asphalt road into Rottingdean. I scarfed a gel but even as I did so an impending dread crept upon me like storm clouds in a high wind. Normally I'd not notice these nagging complaints. My body's tired, under prepared; I stared grimly down the barrel of a tough few miles.

The steep climb to the Windmill at Rottingdean loomed large as I puffed and panted through the village. Running the hill was a non-starter, so I walked as soon as the track started to rise. I carried on walking a good 200 metres after the summit, waiting for my ragged breathing to settle. As it did I took up a gentle jog to St. Dunstans, almost falling down the grassy slopes to the tunnel beneath the main road.

As I limped along the undulating seafront hills, the last few miles stretched out before me, I imagined myself as a Lancaster bomber pilot returning from an aborted sortie. Two engines out, third a-flame, crew safely ditched over Roedean, I spluttered across the chalky coastline, a lone airman seeking home. No Black Lab awaits my return; no beautiful WRAF sergeant bites her impeccable nails, scanning the horizon through tear-filled eyes. The fuel gauge shows ‘empty’, wings waggle in the buffeting headwind; oxygen is at a premium in this smoke-filled cock-pit, the co-pilot’s seat as empty as my tightening stomach . . .

Get a grip.
Sucking air desperately I raised my drooping head, squinting in the watery sunlight. The marina emerged as I crested the next rise, all bright colours and gentle motion, sailboats setting out for a day’s pleasure. I cursed my weak will, vowing to work hard next week to replace those miles lost to hangover and fatigue. I made all sorts of silly pledges to myself; if I can just get through this last mile . . .

Back on the gently sloping cycle track to the finish my breathing eased once more. Stride lengthened, tempo a tad less frenetic, relief flooded through me like central heating on a cold afternoon. I collapsed against the marina wall, steam rising from my soaked vest, stretching half-heartedly as the oxygen began to weave its magic.

‘Well done’ offered a friendly voice.
‘Wow, that was tough’ I gasped.
‘Yeah, it was a lot tougher today. Must be the wind’.
A gentle murmur offered consensus, but I took no relief from it.

Perhaps it was a little tougher for everyone today, perhaps not.
There’s no doubt in my mind I’ve paid the piper this morning.
It’s back to hard graft next week.