February 2006

[Sweder]

The shoe selection was vindicated.
The decision to run without a nose-cone was not.

I pottered about the house, sipping coffee, checking SP’s Garmin and pinching safety pins from my daughters’ dancewear case. Faffing. At 9:45 I started to panic; we’re 45 minutes away from race start and I’m still in the house. Finger out lad, let’s get cracking.

25 minutes later I’m jogging easily along Madeira Drive, rucksack slung over one shoulder, feeling good about the day. The wind seems benign at this point; it should be full on into my face as I head west, yet nothing. I glance at the steadily falling rain, and the penny drops; the wind’s played its Joker; it’s an easterly. OK, a quick revision of the race strategy as I plod towards the bag drop; out quick, build up a healthy lead (I estimate I’ll need around 0.2 miles) on Nigella, fight back from mile 4 to mile 9 through the headwind and aim for evens at the final turn. It’s a basic plan, but one I can stick to. Or at least try . . .

I peel off my trackie bottoms and several layers of sweat and T-shirts. I’ve gone for the double skin running vest – capped over long sleeved – for added warmth. All too recent memories of blue lips and chattering teeth remind me that even running as hard as you can for 2 hours is not always enough to keep your core temperature out of the danger zone. A swift re-lace of the left boot and my chip is in place. I glance nervously about – there seems to be a heck of lot more runners than last year! And again the smallest coin hits the bottom of the tin; there’s two starts. My race number has a fetching pink backdrop, which I learn means nothing more serious than I’m to start in the lead pen (the sub-2 hour group). Buoyed by this ‘seeding’ I bounce into the appropriate pen, a mere 5 minutes before the off. Turns out there’s over 4,000 starters today . . . wow.

The rain falls steadily, dousing the enthusiasm of spectators lining the upper tier overlooking the start. Tannoy Man tries to raise the tempo, calling on those present to raise a cheer of support. Sadly the inclement conditions have sabotaged his microphone, and we’re treated to a Norman Collier-esque burst of crackle, half-words and intermittent silence. I peer up at the huddled masses, well wrapped in Gortex, huddled under communal brollies and to a man shivering for all their worth. I do appreciate you turning out, folks, but you must be wondering about your choice of entertainment.

And we’re off! At least, the usual shuffling towards the overhead start/ finish line begins. All around me runners wish each other ‘good luck’, friends hug each other or slap one another manfully on the back. Nigella is already awake, prepped and waiting for my signal. We pick up pace as the bleeping of priming chips grows louder, and I let her lose; blip! The crowd ahead thins as we reach a wide stretch of road and I start to run easily. 400 metres in I glance at the Garmin; I’m ahead of the pace. Good enough.

As the Palace Pier looms on our left I’m startled to see the body of runners weave around the roundabout, into the road and off into Brighton proper. The route’s changed! What will this do for my strategy? Not much, really – we’re still running with the breeze, so I’ll keep the pedal to the metal and see what happens. Blip! A mile in, Nigella tells me; 7:49 for the first mile. A little quick, but it needs to be. I’ll need three more just like it to reach my goal at mile 4. We run through the one-way system, past Venus Hair Design, an establishment I once frequented when there was enough raw material to warrant a stylist. These days it’s the 5 minutes Buzzzzz of the clippers and ‘that’ll be seven quid, ta very much. Going to the match later?’
What I miss most about my rather more expensive visits to Venus are, in no particular order;
- the offer of a glass of wine or ChocaMochaccino;
- the extremely sexy and friendly lady snippers and their equally sexy/ friendly assistants;
- the wonderfully soothing music;
- and, of course, the fabulous head massage that comes with the hair wash.
I rarely survived the latter without nodding off . . .

. . . No time for that now; I’ve a race to run.
Where are we? Ah yes, Brighton Theatre Royal. A real old-fashioned theatre, perilously steep seating, a circle touching the clouds, truckloads of red velvet décor and flickering wall lamps. I saw the Blues Brothers show there some years back, a romp which ended with half the audience on their feet bopping merrily to Jail House Rock. Must get back there soon . . .

A wiggle here, a sharp turn there . . . and we’re back on familiar ground, crossing the road and onto the promenade. Spectators huddle in bus shelters as we bound past. Blip! Mile 3, another sub 8 minute effort, and I’m 0.12 miles ahead of Nigella. So far so good. It’s so hard to gauge the strength of the wind when you’re running with it. I watch a couple struggle with their brolly, but that doesn’t really help. This is Brighton on a Sunday morning; they could be heading out after a late night, or a morning of burning passion in their seafront hotel, or they could even be still out, having just emerged, blinking, into this apocalyptic scene, from the Zap Club or one of the many nefarious private establishments around these parts. Thousands of people adorned in garish lycra, bin bags and hats, all running stern-faced into the west; could be very scary if you’ve been in a very dark room for the past umpteen hours.

Or, it might just be a hellish day to try and put your brolly up.

The Peace Statue peers down as we pass the crumbling west pier, its rusted, shattered hulk slumped to its crippled knees in the foaming surf. I’m still running well, feeling strong, no niggles or complaints as yet. My breathing is steady and I’m relaxed. After all, this is about as easy as its going to get. Past the King Alfred Leisure Centre, another smattering of well-wishers clumping gloved hands together as we splash on through the ubiquitous puddles. We zigzag, moving alongside the Shoreham road. Last year Sir Paul and Lady McCartney wrapped up snug and left the cozy comfort of their beachfront mansion to cheer on the masses. No sign of the wrinkled crooner this time; he’s probably still on Copacabana beach with Mick and the boys, watching the sun rise after last nights free concert.

Back to the business in hand, and its unlikely we could be farther away from the Copacabana. We loop around Brighton Lagoon, devoid of windsurfing students on this bleakest of days. On up the narrow alley in the shadows of the brick-built bouncers that make up Shoreham Harbour, the hulking buildings rubbing shoulders, glaring down at our soaked procession. Then it’s round the corner, back onto the prom . . .
. . . and now I know exactly how windy it is.

I’m hit by a blast of ice-cold air, stinging rain slapping me full in the face. I hunker down trying to reduce the target area; OK, there really isn’t much point, but I feel better. I grit my teeth, determined to keep the pace going, but it’s a losing battle. Equal if not greater effort yields inevitably slower progress and I can barely bring myself to glance at Nigella. We turned just shy of mile 4 with me 0.18 miles ahead. It’s not enough, but I’ve had to weigh my early efforts against the demands of the 6 gruelling miles to come.

Head down, keeping pace with those around me I push on, heading left to take a little respite offered by a row of beach huts huddled on the prom. I notice an odd slapping sound, then feel a sharp sting on my left ankle. I look down and there it is, my right shoelace, whipping around like a frenzied serpent. I keep going, not wanting to yield vital yardage to my wrist-mounted nemesis, but there’s no avoiding it. I’ll end up arse over tit, probably on the filthy climbs around mile 8, if not before. I pull over into the lea of a beach hut, frozen fingers grappling for the slippery laces. 10 seconds later I’m up again, swigging from my Nathan and cursing the set-back. Nigella tells me she’s reeling me in; 4.5 miles and the deficits down to 0.16 miles and closing . . .