April, you Fool

[Sweder]

9 am on a blustery Sunday in April. A group of colourfully clad runners gathers atop Brighton Marina. Two outriders decked out in bright red weatherproofs and cycle helmets circle the group, maintaining balance before the start.

Across the road a stout man in his forties locks his pick-up truck, fumbling with keys, water bottle, shades and carry pack. He glances towards the pack as they depart, running easily to the east, the cyclists holding station to the rear. The latecomer dashes across the road, puffing hard to catch the peloton. He reaches them on the first hill climb, moving through the pack to reach his friends. Once he’s regained his breath the man starts chatting with the group, finding out who’s doing what today. Most of the runners are London-bound and will complete a minimum of 19 rugged miles in a shade over three hours. Just one man, Chris, a tall, accomplished runner, is a Paris man. He will ‘do the wire’, the good Good Friday friday circuit; 4 cliff top miles out, 4 back. The latecomer decides to settle for this; there’s little to be gained in pushing too hard seven days before the Big One.

They run as if on air, the strong wind at their backs pushing them up the climbs. Life is good. The chatter extends to travel plans; trains, planes and automobiles, hotels, meals, pubs to visited, re-hydration strategies, all are covered and re-covered as the grassy hilltops slip by.

Above Saltdean, the Lido behind them, the two Paris men bid farewell to their London brothers, the pack crossing the road to head up Telscombe Tye and turn into the teeth of the prevailing wind. The two plod on, reaching the eponymous fence, pausing to swig water and take in the sunlit sea below.

Moments later they’re heading back, the blast of April’s breath ruffling their shirts. They’re grinning, still chatting easily, soaking up this easy morning. Their long miles are behind them, banked after weeks of icy, wet, windswept battles on the naked Sussex hills and in the muddy, rock-strewn valleys. They swap opinions as to just how tough will be the grind of the Yellow Brick Road today, full-on into the unrelenting gale. They laugh unashamedly, no sympathy for their London brethren; their dues are paid. The long climb up from Saltdean and into Rottingdean passes gently. Both men dislike the hill, but today it is no more than a bump on a log, a minor inconvenience to be discarded under steady, even paces.

The Marina appears in the near distance, a shade under seven miles after the start. The wind blows harder, the gods giving full vent to their anger at the disrespect shown by these two lazy lopers. The men grin wider. They are comfortable, running easily. They are happy, they are feeling good, feeling strong.

They are ready.