March Madness

[Sweder]

Gels, gels, gels. It’s a poser, a conundrum.
I’ve ‘found’ these wonderful gels, Hammer Brand, purchased on my recent trip to Texas. They work like a charm, taste pretty good and are amongst the least oyster-like as they slide down. So, what’s the problem?

Well, to loosely paraphrase Leo Sayer, they make me feel like heaving.
Not during a run, but in the hours afterwards. What to do? I decided to give them another go today and see if they could pass the ‘post hang-over’ test.

My pre-emptive whining this morning proved unfounded.
The wind did indeed howl for all its worth, but it emanated from the north east and so would prove to be only occasionally hurtful. Our hillside team today included a number of those absent last week. The talk was of Hastings and the bitter cold endured by all as we chugged out of our starting huddle, Sam and Lycra Tony back in their familiar, cycle-mounted shotgun roles.

I hooked up with Rodge for the outward three mile warm-up. Rodge and I seem to run well together, one of us always ready to take up the pace when the other flags. Determined to start slowly I set off in the lead group and immediately offered pearls of wisdom. This section was one of a handful into the teeth of the gale, and it would, I reasoned, help us start at the required steady pace. It did, bringing us into Saltdean in a modest 29 minutes. As expected my system had used the exercise to clean house, Guinness residue pouring from every available aperture to leave me sticky and steaming like a racehorse, albeit one that may have seen one too many nosebags.

We slogged steadily up the climb onto the Downs proper, the biting wind battering my right side but offering little or no resistance. Rodge and I chatted easily about logistics for Paris; train times, hotels and essentially re-hydration. I checked our pace on SP’s Garmin. Before he aided me in the pouring of copious amounts of black nectar down my neck on Friday, the stout fellow had helped me to download Garmin software to enable analysis and comparison of my run stats. (Spoiler alert: stats to be included in this report!). As someone who struggles to operate a sun-dial I was a tad daunted at the prospect but under Andy’s careful tutelage I’d grasped the basics. The watch told me I was comfortably slower than last week, which helped me relax and enjoy the stunning sight of a sun-drenched Lewes and Kingston Village spread before us as we bounded towards the North Face.

I made no conscious decision to run the Face today, but even as we careered down the steep slope to the bottom of the climb Dark Forces laid their plans.
You need to get this over with as quickly as possible, the cruel disembodied voice in my left ear whispered spitefully.
You could get half way up and get stuck. They’d find your rotting corpse clutching your gels and water-bottle and wonder how such a lardy lump could think he’d make it up there in the first place.
Rodge chimed in above the whispering Sprite.
‘Right – no chatter ‘till we get to the top!’
This needed quick feet. I shortened my stride, stepping from divot to foot-hold, hopping and bounding like a puffing black Billy goat.
Keep going keep going keep going keep going keep going . . . yes! Made it!
Brilliant, a triumph of lard over matter. Up yours, Doubt. Suck on that, Disbelief.
Rodge puffed along behind me, grinning like a fool.
‘Wow, you in a hurry?’

I took the warm glow of satisfaction, now a small radiant ball of heat and light, and tucked it safely between my pumping lungs, just beneath my heart, safe and snug to be taken out and savoured in a quiet moment. I felt good.

A pause for a short slurp and onto the Yellow Brick Road. Again the wind failed to slow us down and we covered the climb easily. Past the tops of the Big W and onto the climb to Castle Hill the breeze finally gave in, shoving us gently up the sheep-strewn slopes. Another glance at the Garmin showed the mile pace bobbing around 10 minutes, impressive for this rate of climb. This continued for the next 30 minutes or so. I’ll try and publish a stat post later (don’t hold your breath, stat fans).

The Snake came and went. Another face-on hammering from the wind as we started the climb, but soon enough the winding route turned us into the flow of the icy blast, the chill negated by the fabulous sunshine and our easy running. As always on this route the final couple of miles proved tough, but again our pace remained strong, somewhere between 8 and 9 minute (mile) pace. This was more than I had hoped for in the first cold, bleary-eyed hour of the day.

19.23 miles in 3:09:25, 7 minutes quicker than last week.
The essential, carefully planned slow start, advice on such to be found on most running web sites and training guides, thoroughly vindicated in the long run. Newbies take note! Once again my legs tightened horribly on the drive home, and I spent a good 20 minutes under the blast of a red-hot shower, watching the aches and pains swirl around the plughole until all that remained was the dull glow of a job well done.

And the nausea?
Well, yes, it was still there an hour after the run. The only real problem is it keeps me from stoking up on lovely carb’s in that crucial first post-plod hour. I’ll have to give this some thought before Paris. I’m due back on the slopes next week, but it may well be for a shortened run as the bliss that is the taper begins.

[SIZE="2"]Garmin 'runmap' from today's run[/SIZE]