February 2006

[Sweder]

'Blimey' is right my friend. This morning I've still not regained feeling in the tip of my right thumb, although the rest of me seems OK.

Something I left out of my tale of woe was meeting Terry Tullet on the outward 3 mile warm-up. We left Brighton heading east across the cliff tops and I was joined by a sturdy fellow sporting a platted pony tail. He told me he was headed home (he lives near Saltdean) and asked what we were up to. I explained our planned route and he smiled.

'Off with Sam, eh?'
'Oh, you know Sam?'
'You could say that - we've run together for over 30 years'.

I sensed an excellent opportunity. It turns out Terry is no shrinking violet in the running world.
He won the Beachy Head marathon, said to be one of the toughest in the UK, in 1986 in a time of 2:54; he took first place in the London to Brighton 35 mile road race in the same year, one of only two runners to complete the course in under 6 hours and the first son of Brighton to win it. He'd come in second, but the first place athlete, a South African, was ruled ineligible and a stunned Tullet was awarded the race. Hauled off to meet the Lady Mayor, he recalled the moment as we chugged easily towards Rottingdean.

'I remember looking up and seeing this smiling lady in all her gear, then I was face down in the trestle tables. I just lost it, fell flat on my face!'

He kept chatting away, even as we climbed the escarpment out of the small town, rain and wind pressing into our backs and helping us up the steep slope. Terry had got together with two mates to take on the Lands End to John O'Groats challenge. This colossal venture involved a relay run, with one runner always on the road at any one time. Not content with the excessive mileage the trio elected to take in the UK's three highest peaks. One of their number was a renowned peak runner, and rotas were calculated based on handing him the toughest climbs. The British Army laid on a support team, and Terry reveled in the memory of worlds colliding. At one stage Tullet had taken a wrong turn, running several miles into a dead end. The squaddies following in transport could not understand why he refused a lift back to the correction point.

'They didn't get it' he chuckled. 'The whole idea was one of us stayed on the road all the time.' The exploits made an edition of the Army in-house magazine in which the officer in charge of the support team referred to 'one or two problems' with 'the civilians.'

Terry's last tale as we crested the high point above Saltdean concerned an epiphanal moment during the expedition. One of the staff sergeants approached him at the end of a particularly grueling stint.

'We've managed to sort out a detour for you that involves a hot bath, a hot meal and a couple of hours kip in a bed.' Tullet had spend the previous 'rest' sessions shoe-horned into the back of a crowded minibus. Gratefully accepting he'd fought back tears at the mere idea of a bed.

2 hours later, clean, warm, fed, he pulled crisp clean sheets over his tired bones. All too soon came the gentle shake of the shoulder - time to rejoin his companions on the road. Terry lay there, wrestling with his inner demons; could he really leave this haven, this fabulous bed?

Of course he could, and off he went.

Our time together was up.
'This is me' he announced, unable to hide the glee in his voice.
'You'll have fun up there today. Nice running with you.'
'Likewise.'

We shook hands and exchanged names, and he was gone, pony tail bouncing on his shoulders as he peeled away. Sam cycled along side and I realised I'd not asked Terry about Mr. Lambournes' own exploits.
'Nice bloke that Terry' I offered.
'Yup, yup' growled Sam, 'good runner that one.'