March Madness

[Sweder]

After a week in which I’d slogged a soggy 10K pb, over indulged with great dedication in the late night bars of Houston and squeezed myself into the smallest possible space to cross the Atlantic on Sardine Airways I faced an altogether more daunting long haul this morning.

I crept through the house like a thief in the night, desperate not to awaken the 10 young ladies crashed out in our living room following Phoebe’s slumber party. We’d driven them all to the Spectrum at Guildford where a blast was had by all and I reaffirmed my belief that man (or at least, this one) was not put on this Earth to ice-skate. The nudging and giggling had continued well past 2 am, and as I peered into the inky morning skies searching for a hint of sunrise I added lack of sleep to my pre-run worry sheet.

Toast smothered with peanut butter and honey and a large mug of coffee later I was feeling a little more chipper. The sun popped up from behind the golf course to reveal dry ground and almost cloudless skies. The prospect of a dry run made me smile as I crammed my newly discovered Hammer brand gels into my drinks belt; Espresso and Apple/Cinnamon flavours – Mmm. I looked in to bid the girls farewell, their excited chatter rising from the massed duvets and sleeping bags, a collection of twittering bird’s nests amongst the multicoloured polyester. The dogs had joined them, watching me leave the room with a mixture of envy and apology. They knew I was off for a run but were not about to refuse the offer of a mass pampering. Well, they weren’t invited anyway, so there.

A chill westerly breeze greeted our group atop the Marina. Remy, Jill and Nigel were joined by Rodge, a chap I’d shared the full Jog Shop Jog course with last March, and his friend Sarah. My strategy today was to treat this as the first of three consecutive long runs, to start easily and finish well, building confidence for the weeks to come. I chatted easily with Nigel about the horrors of miles 4 to 9 in the Brighton Half as we covered that very section on the cliff top path to Saltdean. After a brief rest & stretch at the public conveniences Nigel zoomed off, leaving me to join Sarah for a sort of breathless ‘Down Your Way’ climb onto the Downs. Sarah has resided and worked in Beijing for the past 5 years, and is planning to take on the Great Wall Marathon this year.

‘I need some decent hill work to prepare for the steps’ she panted as we slogged up Telscombe Tye. The race starts on a fairly secluded section of the Wall, covers a lot of pretty barren, sparsely populated dusty terrain and rejoins the Wall for the finale which includes running up 900 fairly large steps.

‘You’ve come to right place’. Gazing out over the Downs, the Ouse Valley and the great plains of the Sussex Weald leading into Kent I felt this applied to all of us this morning. I’ve rambled on about the wondrous views on this run before, but it bears repeating. Our course today took in The North Face and Yellow Brick Road, the YBR being a 2 mile straight climb into the wind. There’s no super strategy for getting through this; it’s head down, focus on the ground in front and plod in a steadfast manner ‘til you reach the top. To be honest I’d whinge a great deal more about it, but given that we had neither bitter cold nor rain to contend with, today’s dance with Dorothy was a comparative pleasure. I stopped at several points to snap shots of my fellow runners and the landscapes beyond, losing ground to Rodge and Sarah in the process. I chugged alone across the tops of the Big W, looking down on the village of Kingston and across the valley to Lewes, the Downs and my Blackcap run, the Cap herself bathed in fabulous sunshine.

Passing the entrance to Death Valley I recalled how desperate I'd felt at this point a few short weeks ago, soaked, frozen, battered by the elements. No such problems today and I embraced the climb to Castle Hill with a grin. Rodge and Sarah passed the gate leading into the Nature Reserve and the sheltered descent.
‘Hey!!!’ I bellowed. ‘This way.’
They waved and turned to join me on the slippery slope through the gorse and thorn bushes. I slurped a gel (Apple/Cinnamon), at once revolted by the thickness of the goo and pleasantly surprised by the distinctive flavour.

Deep into Death Valley the wind dropped, allowing the sunshine to work its warming magic. I felt great; my ankle complained (as it did all morning) but otherwise all systems checked out OK. At the end of the valley the path cut through a small farm holding where Clare, another Sunday regular, joined us having cut through on a shorter circuit. We picked our way gingerly through the cattle-churned slurry and on to the foothills of the Snake. Rodge and I rejoined for the climb, again chatting easily as we ate up the sheep-strewn hills. Rodge lives in Woodingdean, the village nestled at the top of the climb, and runs up my beloved serpentine track 4 or 5 times every week.

‘I was out one evening last week when Chris (a lady who runs with our group occasionally) caught me half way up. We chatted and she told me she’d finished London in 2:54.’
I was impressed. Not the sort of chap to speculate on a lady’s age I can safely say Chris is unlikely to see 40 again.
‘She’s 51’ Rodge cut to the chase. ‘The record for her class is 2:51 and she reckons she’ll have that this year.’
I felt a surge of pride at the thought of ‘one of ours’ holding a FLM record. I hope she makes it with bells on.

We took the double-back from the Snake’s head, chugging down the track towards the reservoir and the road to Rottingdean. We ran easily, well-matched for pace; Rodge chatting away merrily, Sarah taking in the stunning sight of a shimmering English Channel, me just happy to be there. And happy to be feeling so darned comfortable. I know, I’d planned an ‘easy’ one, yet I didn’t expect it. With the hard-top plummet into Rottingdean in sight I felt great, energised and ready for a strong finish. It dawned on me we’d not been caught and passed by Sam on his trusty mountain bike, and I cautioned my companions.
‘Listen out for the hiss of Sam’s bike – he usually flies past on this section.’
‘Well done you three!’ that familiar bark from behind.
I turned to see the Red Peril, wraparounds wedged beneath the rim of his crash hat, hunched over the handlebars, hurtling towards us with alarming speed.
‘Right on cue!’ laughed Rodge.
Sam slowed to chat with us, asking us how we felt, reminding us that the last few miles were where the real work would be done today.
‘After the Windmill put your foot down.'
Yep, I was feeling pretty darned pleased with myself. Well paced for 16 windy, hilly miles, a short (yet vicious) hill to come and 2 and a half miles of reasonable slog home. It’s in the bag, another belter.
And there it was; the pride that comes before a fall.

Not so much a fall, more a mini-collapse, in the manner of the English middle-order in the nineties. I made the Windmill climb OK, walking the harshest section to avoid tiring wheel-spins in the thick mud. But at the top as I set off for St Dunstans something was missing. My Va Va Voom finish, absolutely positively guaranteed not half a mile back, was gone. Oh I plodded on with aplomb, to be sure. No problem, chugging into the headwind, trademark tilt forward and all. But as Rodge easily lengthened his stride I realised he’d be finishing on his own. I consoled myself in the knowledge that this is run number one of three, that I’d improve next week and again the week after. I remembered my triumphant blast down Wilson’s Avenue last year, when sparks shot from my heels as I hurtled seawards in a haze of endorphins. This will come soon enough; today was all about foundation, building a base for the run-in.

I reached the Marina a minute behind Rodge and two ahead of Sarah. Paul, having finished a good quarter of an hour earlier and looking horribly fresh, confirmed the distance at a shade over 19 miles. 3 hours 10 in all, good time and mileage banked over some challenging terrain. We’ll do it all again next Sunday and one more time the week after. Then it’s taper time.

An hour later I sprawled on the sofa, drained, ankle throbbing, a couple of Nurofen swimming through my system to blunt the edge of the aches and pains. Looking back on the last seven days I’m generally pretty happy with things. I realised today was the first weekend in three I’d not run a road race. No clock and very little concrete had conspired to give me a relaxed, comfortable run, the perfect antidote to a hectic lifestyle.
Here’s to more of that.