February 2006

[Sweder]

I push again, regaining ground on the runners who passed me, but I can’t sustain the burst for long. The wind is relentless and I’m forced to ‘relax’ into a steady cadence. The gap closes steadily, and by the time the Peace Statue passes on my left it’s dropped to 0.14 miles. I consol myself in the knowledge it was always to be thus; that’s why I pushed hard on the out. It’s about mental strength now, allowing Nigella to reel me in but on my terms, to give myself a fighting chance come the final turn, the run for home.

Another detour takes us off the prom and down to sea level. Brighton seafront between the piers offers a colourful collection of playgrounds; skate parks, basketball courts and toddler climbing frames all backed by cafes and restaurants. They’re silent now, the happy sounds of summer frolics locked away ‘til Easter. To my right dinghies and sailboats rest on the shingle, leaning to one side as if pondering the folly of these human sloggers. A strange sound catches my ear; an odd, mechanical jumble of clinks and clicks. Where have I heard it before? The sound is made by the wind slapping the cables against the boats’ masts, different thickness of the cables and the various densities, height and construction of the masts producing this unusual yet familiar symphony.
Where have I heard it before?
Why, it’s the ticking clicking clocks from Dark Side of the Moon; Time.

I wince at the irony.
Time indeed. Time, for me, is running out, and there’s not much to be done except get my head down and redouble my efforts. The problem facing me is this; it’s OK to focus, grit your teeth and push hard; it’s something else to keep this going mile after mile knowing that you’ve got some pretty tasty hills laced with slick mud-slides on the horizon. The effect of this continual re-focussing, this rousing of the troops in Sweders’ soaked and battered army, is akin to having a large sheet of 6mm plywood smashed into your face every 400 metres. It gets old after a while.

Another bloody detour! Past races saw us head back down Madeira Drive, past the waving, screaming hoards (and the by now mildly irritating Tannoy Man) and up onto the cliff tops. Today we’re waved past the entrance to the Drive, up around the roundabout and into the long, steady climb eastwards towards the Marina. I glance down to my right to the start/ finish point. How tempting to just drop down the next set of steps and wander across the line . . .

Come on son, back on track. A light tap on my left shoulder announces the arrival of Chris, a fellow Sunday hillside loper and a darned good runner. He’s sporting the red & black hooped colours of Brighton & Hove Athletics Club, perfectly offset by a grumpy countenance.

‘This is bloody horrible’ he chirps as he moves smoothly past me.
‘It’ll be nice when it stops’ I offer towards his back.
He raises an arm, a sort of rear-view Shearer, and works his way through the struggling throng. I’ve been avoiding Nigella for a while but the time has come to bite the bullet. This climb is taking its toll, the unforgiving headwind stronger than ever. Nigella stares back, the difference between us a mere few hundred metres. She’s impassive, heartless, unaffected by the elements, oblivious to my Herculean struggle. She will finish her session in 1:45:00 even if the ground should open up and swallow us both in a final embrace.
At least I’d be out of this bloody wind.

We’re above the Marina now, the very spot I start my Sunday expeditions.
I look ahead, the undulating cycle track bobbing and weaving into the distance.
Oh joy, I tell myself; this is the bit you’re supposed to love!
I feel a surge of sympathy for Marvin, the Paranoid Android in Hitch Hikers Guide; I can understand the true depths of his misery, flogging my exhausted carcass into this never-ending wind tunnel.

An older gentleman takes to the grass verge, overtaking the pedestrian procession up a particularly steep incline. Just as I’m thinking this might be a tad reckless the poor fellow lets out a mournful cry, sliding head-long into the mud. By the time I’ve thought about stopping to help two runners behind have hauled him up and he’s running again. In a matter of metres he’s past me, wearing his muddy badge of courage with pride.

Blip! The 8 mile marker says Nigella.
You just about ran that last one in 8:22.
Oh, and you’re behind. By 324 metres. Blip!

I’m having a movie computer medley moment. Is she HAL, the homicidal Spaceship Brain from 2001? Or Mother from Alien, the padded room full of Christmas Tree lights prepared to send her human crew to certain death and almost finish off Sigourney Weaver thanks to an anal obsession with the Nostromos' rule book? She’s all three, I decide. Her voice is Marvin (Marvette?) but she’s definitely bent on my destruction. I’m tempted to switch her off. Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do . . .

Several mud-splattered runners fly by to my right headed home, the leading group still hammering full tilt, wind at their backs. I tell myself that whatever happens from here on in I’m going to finish and I’ll do so with this infernal wind at my back. Cheered by this I push on again, eagerly scanning the horizon for the turning point. The various changes in route have shortened the hilly section by a blessed 500 metres, and we turn for home atop the long drop into Rottingdean. Nigella has moved comfortably ahead (0.12 miles) but frankly I couldn’t give a toss; that bastard with the plywood has finally stopped smashing me in the face. A new challenge awaits us though; having transferred from the cycle track to the hilltop grass we face an altogether different, potentially more perilous foe; slick mud.

‘Extreme care on the slopes!’ bellows a race marshal, swamped by her bright yellow Sussex Beacon cagoule. The runners in front, having failed to weigh up the pros and cons of footwear this morning, slow to walking pace. Aha! My chance to regain some ground! Except, wait . . . there’s no bloody room! Oh, come on! Just because you’re all running in your sodding slippers . . . make some room, people! Runner coming through . . .

These cries of derision remain trapped in my head. I’m too weary, too knackered to raise a yell; besides, as my old mate DT used to say as we worked trade show venues across the southern United States;
‘Everybody likes a tight ass; nobody likes a smart-ass.’

I bite my lip and enjoyed the breather, vowing to kick on when the passage widens.
Of course, I don’t; my legs are shot, there’s nothing left to kick with. I chug as best I can, sucking air, watching the parade of pink faces flogging their way up the slopes to my right, the middle of the race just now reaching it’s cuel, blackened heart. God have mercy on ‘em.

We zigzag down the perilous walkway to the ASDA car park, every runner using the balustrade to sling-shot around the sharp corners, and up a harsh, leg-burning concrete climb. At last we’re at the top end of Madeira Drive and into the home run. The last couple of miles I’ve managed to hold Nigella in check, but she’s still 0.12 miles ahead. Even as I think it a final, triumphant BLEEP BLEEP announces the end of our private battle. I sneak a peek at the watch, afraid it might scream ‘LOSER!’ or something equally soul-destroying; but all it says is ‘your session is ended.’ I leave well alone and strike for home, barely lifting my pace but at least lifting my head for the official photographer. I doubt the snaps will make pleasant viewing, judging by the haggard fizzogs around me.

The race clock shows 01:48omething as I cross the line – it’s a PB for this race by around a minute. Given the conditions I allow myself a rueful grin. I grasp my medal, the ribbon suitably soaked, my goodie bag and a banana and head straight for the bag drop, finally putting Nigella to bed some time after I’d crossed the line. She tells me I lost to her by 46 seconds, but as she finished her race some way before the line I don’t really have much clue as to my actual finish time.
No doubt the good people at Raceahead will be texting me any time to let me know.

Clothes bag recovered I withdraw to the relative warm, dry haven of the covered walkway to stretch out and pull on dry togs. As I kick off my runners whisps of what looks alarmingly like gun smoke drifts from their murky depths. I chuckle, giggling and coughing as the shoes continue to smoulder.

I was right; it really was nice when it stopped.

A couple of hours later, belly full of hot coffee and sandwiches, my mobile bleeps.
Raceahead have indeed sent me a message:

Ashley Head 995
Congratulations on finishing the Sussex Beacon Half Marathon.
Your position was 1016.
Your chip time is 01:47:16

Whadaya know . . . a Half PB by around 40 seconds.
Reckon that calls for a Guinness . . . or two