April, you Fool

[Sweder]

Another excellent event courtesy of the fine people at the Jog Shop.
40+ runners assembled above Brighton Marina for a leisurely 3.5 mile eastward lope followed by a balls-out, eye-popping 6k thrash to the finish.

I pottered along to meet up with Remy, Jill, Nigel, Terry et al.
Word of my Parisian adventures had reached far and wide thanks to Nigel (not running today – groin strain) and Kadir (hi-fives and wide grins exchanged). I accepted the warm congratulations and told a few tales about encroaching crowds and anarchy at the water stations. The general consensus was Paris will be on the agenda for a few more Sunday Strollers in 2007.

A strange blend of high and low cloud with a twist of sea-mist, a boisterous westerly breeze and intermittent sunshine created a muggy, humid atmosphere. The outward plod was comfy enough (if a little warm), the springy-turfed cliff tops a welcome alternative to pavement pounding. Give me steep hills on soft ground over flat concrete/ tarmac/ cobble stones any day. I ran with Remy as we considered possible Autumn races; Berlin, Dublin, Amsterdam . . . the opportunities are endless. Sam 'Yoda' Lambourne hobbled out with us, his shattered left leg held almost straight, shoulders rising to accommodate his awkward gait.

As is traditional we re-assembled at the Wire, a chain link fence stretching from the road to the cliff edge. Sue, an old friend and recent convert to running, jogged in.
‘That wasn’t so bad! Easier than last year.’
I quietly pointed out we’d enjoyed a fairy decent tail-wind; that same breeze awaited us with malice aforethought. At least it would cool us off.
When all were gathered Lycra Tony, confusingly sporting a pair of jeans, called us to order and sent us on our way, strolling back to his car to beat us to the finish line.

I started very slowly, painfully aware of two things:
1) that my legs would not appreciate a flat-out burn, and
2) that the two hardest hill climbs fall in the first mile.
Halfway back I got a few warning signals from both hamstrings; nothing more sinister than fatigue, but enough to keep me steady. The last half mile was pretty tough. I needed a fair bit of puffing and panting to hold off the young lady I'd caught napping on the last incline. As I crested the final hill, the Marina laid out below and to the left, I heard a high-pitched squeak. I looked up; there amongst the finishers, waiting friends and families, was a small, brown-clad figure bouncing up and down, long blond hair flying in the breeze.
'That's my Dad! That's my Dad!'
Phoebe and Shayne had come to watch, and the racing element had clearly engaged my daughter.
'Come on Dad - you're 19th!'
I rolled in, indeed in 19th place, happy to have completed the course but definitely tired and glad it's all over. I ran past the finish into Phoebe’s arms. She beamed with pride.
‘Well done! You were 19th! That’s great!’
19th never felt so good

Before the start I'd hoped for a sub 30 minute homeward leg (last year I managed 27 minutes, but that was pre London).
'What time'd I get?'
Tony tossed a Brooks-sponsored Jog Shop/ Good Friday Run shirt at me and consulted the list.
'Ash, Ash . . . 29:59.'
Yeehaw. I'll take that. Another perfectly judged race

Sam rolled in some time later, sweat pouring from his brow, teeth set against the pain of running with a dysfunctional knee. I joined the crowd in welcoming him home. He spoke to a few people before approaching our group, eyeing my new T-shirt.
‘What you think of the shirts? Not bad for free, eh?’
Not bad at all, Sam. You’re a class act.

There's the Lewes 10k on Monday or a possible pre-London outing on Sunday morning. I can't do both, and I've never done my hometown 10 before. Might be nice as gentle stroll. Both are off-road so attrition on the joints is not an issue; I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.