February 2006

[Sweder]

Brutal.
A harsh westerly wind cut across Sussex early this morning, driving spiteful barbs of freezing rain into the thirsty soil. Dark portents mingled in the skies over seas bereft of pleasure craft, the hills to the north blending with mist and cloud at their peaks.

Today’s route took in all the usual Sunday sites with the added bonus of the North Face and the Yellow Brick Road. 5 miles into our huddled plod we broke with January’s route and set off further inland towards the village of Kingston. The biting west wind swirled through the valleys, sweeping up the hillsides to dump its wet cargo. Every step involved a tiny slip or a mini slide, the soaked topsoil giving way easily under my heavy tread. On through a couple of gates to the foot of the North Face, a 250 metre sheer climb. Much to my surprise I managed to ‘run’ all the way to the top, passing Sam as he hauled his mountain bike up the muddy track.

‘OK, you lot carry on up the Yellow Brick Road, ‘round the top of the Big W and keep on past the drop into Death Valley. Take a left at Castle Hill, back into the Valley and join up with the others at the Snake’ growled our outrider. ‘You lot’ turned out to be a band of 5 of us who’d eased away from the main pack. Our reward for showing enthusiasm on this foulest of days was to add two miles (and a couple of tasty climbs) to our planned 16 mile loop.

The Yellow Brick Road is a gentle 2 mile ascent to the downland summit. At least two thirds of the section is concrete pathway, the eponemous tint caused by an odd pigment in the cement. The entire length of this path is cruelly exposed, the downland dropping away to seaward (our left). The wind stopped swirling and focussed its attention on a steady howl, sweeping up from the seafront and battering my left side. A mile up the YBR my hands were blocks of ice. Excess mucus streamed from both nostrils, thin tendrils of snot whipping past my right shoulder. I bent even lower (a smaller target?) and concentrated on moving my fingers and thumbs, squeezing and releasing them to tease warm blood into the frozen extremities. I cast a thought towards my family jewels, but relaxed when a quick internal check found them cowering somewhere near my kidneys.

I slowed to take a gel on board, and the group that had been no more than 40 metres ahead appeared to race into the distance, their struggling silhouettes fading in the mist like an old Star Trek boarding party beaming down. I chased them for several miles, off the top of the YBR and around the treacherous top of the Big W. Peering over the ridge, watching the rainwater cascade down the chalk/ flint 'downstroke' of the W towards the woods at the foot of the hills, I offerd silent thanks we weren't taking that on today.

Keeping the group ahead in sight I passed the entrance to Death Valley. This is the way the following runners would take, a fairly direct drop from our lofty perch into the V between the hills just scaled and the Snake. I was sorely tempted to dart left and take this ‘easy’ option, but I’d closed the gap on the guys ahead and despite the onset of hypothermia I was still running well. 5 miles later, having slithered my way up a hostile, rain-lashed snake & picked my way gingerly through the puddles & slick flint boulders lacing the descent into Rottingdean, the creeping vines of regret crept up my hammered legs. Frozen, soaked, continually flogged by wind and rain and rapidly running out of will to live I gazed up at the mud slide that was the near impossible climb to the windmill. As my soused Sauconys lost grip for the thousandth time I gave up the struggle, walking slowly to the summit, sucking the dregs from my Nathan water bottle.

The last two miles, headlong into the teeth of the unrelenting gale, were amongst the hardest yards I’ve ever run. Thoughts of hyperthermia, flippantly discarded back in the hills, returned. My knees were blue, fingers white and lifeless. I felt at least 30 lbs heavier and my pace had dropped to no more than a brisk shuffle.

In the depth of despair a small voice spoke, clear in the gathering gloom; you’ve made these yards before. You’ve run this section home too many times; you can do it with your eyes closed. Keep on keeping on, don’t worry about speed, just bloody finish.

And of course I did. The few finishers who arrived in the minutes I took to stretch my battered limbs had covered the shorter course, a shade under 16 miles. They were, to a man/ woman, shattered. The lads ahead of me, with whom I lost visual contact on the twists and turns of the Snake, were nowhere in sight. Safely wrapped in their cars, heaters full on headed home if they had an ounce of sense left. I hobbled off to my car, cranked the heating and exchanged a sopping, icy rag of a vest for clean T and sweatshirt. Driving home was hideous, every gear change sending pain shooting through my thawing ankles. I glanced in the rear view mirror – blue lips, blanched, hollow cheeks leered back, an apparition to frighten the hardiest horror buff. I stopped outside Macs’ café. Chris, one of the guys who’d zoomed off ahead, was tucking into his cooked breakfast.

‘Any idea how far we went?’ I asked, teeth chattering like Joke Shop Specials.
‘Nah – I bailed at the top of the Snake – had enough,’ he confessed.
‘Reckon if you did the lot must be somewhere between 17 and 18 miles.
'That’ he jabbed his fork in the direction of the downs - ‘was bloody hideous.’

Not hideous, I thought.
Brutal.