May . . . the farce be with you . . .

[Sweder]

First up, apologies for the poverty of this post; I’m knackered.
Weeks of suitcase-living have taken an inevitable toll. I’m feeling permanently jet-lagged, even older than I really am, fat, tired and fat-tire'd.
Oh well, publish and be damned.

A game of two halves today if ever there was one.
A full week of debauchery (well, late-night drinking and hearty eating at any rate) devoid of so much as a run for last orders left me wary of a long run for the second week, err . . . running. Arriving on the stroke of nine at our gathering point I was happy and amazed to see a dozen or so lycra-clad fools huddled above the wind-swept marina steps. Amongst them I spotted Rog and Cam, Chris’s sister and Paris cheerleader accompanied by Dave (who I’d not met before, and who proved to be, despite knee surgery earlier this year, most adept – and swift - over wet, muddy hilltops), Ade and a couple of seriously quick hill-runners from our marathon group, Paul and Steve. Chris emerged from his car, scanning the skies for signs of mischief.
‘Looks like we missed the worst of it.’
Rain had lashed my Lewes windows early this morning, the downs trapping the thunderheads to landward. Just now the seafront was bathed in a brighter, more optimistic light.

As soon as we set off to the east I knew I was in for a tough time. Normally I use the three mile lope to Saltdean to get things running smoothly – lungs up to capacity, legs warmed through, breathing rhythm settled and comfortable. Not today. The group seemed to hare off at full pace. I struggled woefully to keep up, my lungs wheezing in protest. Cam chatted amiably about her recent running exploits, mostly short, track-based races where she’d acquitted herself well. I was interested but must have appeared otherwise, wheezing grunts my only comment on her racing tales.

I re-set my dials at the Saltdean loo-break, vowing to run at my own pace even if that meant trailing the main group. Cam (who’d run competitively yesterday and was eager to preserve her legs) kindly remained with me.
‘You go on if you want to catch the others, Ash. I’ll be fine.’
I assured her (in between heaving gasps for breath) that this was actually me running at ‘a comfortable pace’ – chivalry was not at work here. Up Telscombe Tye and across the downland ridge we ran, keeping the main group in sight but making little or no headway during the blustery climb. Large muddy pools lined the stony path across the sheep-fields, the freshly-sheared wool-givers blinking at the bipeds splashing through their sodden pasture. Spits and spots of rain began to fall from the darkening skies; we’d not get home without a soaking.

The leaders elected to take in the steep 600 metre climb through the muddy lumps and slippery hollows of the ploughed field rather than the paved streets of Saltdean. Halfway up my lungs begged respite and I dropped a cog, assuming a steep uphill 'power-walk'. The rain picked up pace in an effort to dampen our spirits but we’re no fair-weather band, we hillside lopers; we love the wet stuff! I felt something within me stir, returning to a gentle jog, gradually lengthening my stride to reel in a small group of run-walkers ahead. Into the tree-sheltered alley at the top of Farmers’ Hill I relaxed and let my breathing settle naturally. Here, after almost six miles of pure struggle, I’d found a recognisable rhythm. My pace stepped up again as I turned left (south). The scale of the weather front revealed itself across the seaward fields. Heavy black rain clouds moved with deadly purpose, sliding smoothly across the hills towards the ocean-side villages like a monstrous stealth-bomber, doors open, payload falling with steady, unerring accuracy.

A flock of close-shorn bleaters huddled alongside the hedgerow as our tail-end group, now five-strong, splashed along the muddy track. They held their ground ‘till the last moment, shuffling away from the path and into the rain-lashed field. I’d’ve felt sorry for them but they’d be back to their wind-break in a matter of moments; we still had more miles of this nonsense to endure. The track zigzagged through a gate marked with various sized chunks of rock and flint. I felt my ankle turning the wrong way as I plunged through the gap, jumping onto the other foot in time to prevent what would have been an ugly crash. Scanning the desolate scene I confirmed this was the last place one would want to pick up a hobbling injury. Hmm. Hobbling; interesting word, that. The thought formed and left, instantly replaced by the image of James Caan, tethered, helpless, staring wild-eyed at the crazed Kathy Bates as she wielded her sledgehammer. Misery; the word hardly does it justice.

Chris had waited at the right turn ahead. In the absence of Lycra Tony or Sam, and given the rapidly deteriorating conditions, this was a wise move; best to keep everyone as close together as possible. Rog, no doubt boosted by his excellent mid-week performance, was long gone, as were Dave and the two super-hares. We re-grouped once more at the top of the drop into Rottingdean. I set off with Chris, still comfortable with the pace but aware that my companion was barely working hard; he’d be off soon enough.

Half way down the hill into the village a couple of young lads, one about ten the other a few years his junior, emerged from the woodland. The smaller chap chased his older brother, calling in vain for him to wait. I remembered being this mean to my brother Jim, grinning as I also recalled that little brothers get even eventually. We caught the smaller chap just as he abandoned another attempt to catch up.

‘You’ll be alright once you’ve grown longer legs’ I offered.
The withering look he shot back was impressive for one of such tender years. My assumed slight added fuel to his jets and he set off a-fresh, racing ahead of us. ‘Go on son, give it some!’

Next up was my beloved Windmill Hill. We’d ‘Mountain Goated’ it last Sunday, and I felt sure I could do so again now that my lungs appeared to have woken up. Sure enough I made it, trailing just behind Chris. At the top Chris took about five seconds to recover. I grasped my knees and stared at the grass, chest heaving.
‘’This’ – huueeerr – ‘weather is’ – huuueeer – ‘crap!’
‘Yep – best get this finished then!’ and he was off, bounding across the hilltop and past the pitch and putt. I followed but with no intention of catching up. My recovery times are pretty poor just now, the first real casualty of my hectic, non-running weeks in Scotland and Texas. Sometimes we just have to accept our limitations.

Plummeting down the slippery slope beside St Dunstans I was struck by the vast army of snails revelling in the wet grass. Helix aspersa of all colours writhed in ecstasy, many joined, some double-stacked in the mollusc world’s tribute to Caligula. Disgusted I ploughed through their ranks, many a slimy liaison ending abruptly under the heartless stomp of my Addidas Climacools. I’ll live with the guilt .

The final westward two mile slog across the cliff tops, assisted by a rain-filled tailwind, passed without incident. I ran comfortably, happy that I’d recovered some form but committed to some mid-week ploddery to avoid a repeat of my shaky start. The tiny image of Chris thundering into the murky distance confirmed the completion of his post-Paris recovery. He’ll murder Seaford in two weeks time.

Coffee and fruitcake restored warmth and smiles in the basement of Macs.
At times and in weather such as today’s it can be lovely simply to stop running and get in the warm.