June Bugs

[Sweder]

A warm, hilly half marathon is just the sort of run to find you out if you're out of form.
On a scale of one to ten I’m about a five – not hopeless but far from my best.

The NPS Lions (Seaford) Half Marathon is a cracking local race.
Just over 400 entrants (more than half of those on the day) make this a cosy little adventure. I’d heard tell of this race from my fellow Sunday runners, rolled-eyed talk of steep hills and stunning valleys, of a high quality course with room to run. My preparation had been tardy to say the least; a week on the lash in Hamburg following similar pursuits in Glasgow and Houston. I’d managed to squeeze in the occasional plod but I knew as I gazed into the bathroom mirror this morning this one was going to hurt.

One of the many pleasures of taking part in a local event is you recognise some of your fellow runners. I’d arranged to meet up with Rog and Chris and was delighted to see Remy and Jill arrive, closely followed by another Sunday whippet, Mike. Sue, a recent convert to running at whose house I’d enjoyed fine hospitality yesterday evening – Paella, Guinness, Rioja – strolled along with her fit-looking training partners.

Somewhere close to 9 am the starter appeared on the Rugby Club steps.
No electronic gizmos here – he simply bellowed to the assembled runners.
‘Make your way to the start – it’s just along the road a bit. I’ll see you there.’
We drifted off en mass, the chatter rising easily into the cloud-streaked blue of a beautiful June sky. Visitors speckled the sea-side path, bemused by the shuffling procession of numbered souls ambling west as if called by the Moorlocks in the Time Machine. Another brief yelling session from our starter, a blast on his ref’s whistle and we were away.

I’d resolved to start super-slow, to build gradually and see how things went.
Why is this so hard to do? Men of greater mental strength than me confess to failure in the heat of the run. It’s so annoying, and potentially so destructive. A mile in I found myself chugging along at a decent pace, Chris and Rog either side of me, already climbing from sea level into the downs that would be our host for the next two hours. The route continued up, growing steadily steeper without respite. Some of the early hares had already started to walk up the narrow trail, causing a traffic-jam. Chris dropped a cog, accelerating through the long grass along side the path. Rog followed, as did I, passing a great number of walking runners. We reached a gate, the cause of further congestion, Chris vaulting the adjacent fence. Again Rog and I followed, and for the first time today I wondered what the hell I thought I was doing. A mile later, still ascending, I realised I’d have to stop. My breathing was ragged, too fast and ineffective. A loose lace offered me an easy out, and I took my time to secure my right boot as my mind raced.

OK, let’s start this again.
I could still see Chris and Rog moving steadily towards the summit. I shook my sweat-soaked head, staying down on one knee; I’d have to let them get right out of sight or I’d be trying to catch them for the next ten miles, a fruitless mission with one likely, unpleasant outcome.

I stood up, noticing the 3 mile marker just ahead.
Nice and easy, steady pace, run to your breathing pattern.
Mercifully the blistering heat, the cause of much concern this morning, had yet to materialise, the hazy high cloud doing a sterling job of blocking out the sharpest rays. I took advantage of each drinks station, sipping water for much of the journey. The circuit took us across from Bishopstone to the South Downs Way along the Greenway Track. Here, around five miles in, the undulations settled. We approached the Cuckmere River along the SDW, the riverbanks bedecked with tall lush grass and burgeoning shrubs.

Despite recent record rainfall the riverside path remained cracked and dry, uncomfortable for those who selected road shoes for what was to be a dry run. A regular on the downland tracks I’d pulled on my Addidas Climacool Adventure Team Series offroaders – slogan: Destination Anywhere. They coped admirably with the twists and turns of the rutted track, and finally I felt my body settling down to a steady rhythm.

The Cuckmere Valley is a veritable wonderland of natural beauty, teaming with life. To either side the Sussex Downs loomed above us, great guardians watching over our colourful procession. I realised we’d have to climb the hills to our right before the finish; the last mile and a half would crest the Eighth Sister, Seaford Head, before dropping dramatically alongside the 18th at the municipal golf course, described by no less a connoisseur than Peter Alliss as one the most beautiful golfing views in England.

A detour through the gorgeous village of Alfriston brought us into momentary contact with the world of Man. Buses squeezed through the narrow streets, pedestrians dicing with trouble as they wobbled along the constricted pavements. The scene had me thinking that everyone and everything was holding their/ its breath as traffic jousted with people for the right of way. Our strung-out band of puffing runners wormed our way through, thankful for the brevity of our visit as the route returned us to the peaceful riverside.

Shortly after the 8 mile mark I caught up with Jill and we chatted about the day and future races. Jill and Remy have committed to taking part in the Windmill Marathon, a brutal hilly 26 miler held in the potentially debilitating month of July. There’s a Fifteen that literally runs alongside the race; I suspect this might be more my cup of tea. We zig-zagged across the A259, passing that great tourists favourite The Golden Galleon pub. A handful of walkers, no doubt ready to set off for a pre-pub lunch stroll, scattered gentle applause as we wove through the car park.

The climb up the Head was short and steep, though much less so that the fearsome western ascent. Back on concrete for a few hundred metres I recalled the Yellow Brick Road of our long runs in March. I applied the same approach today as I do to that tough section; head down, chug along, never look for the end (which I knew would appear way too far off until I actually got there). At the summit we turned left, heading for the perilous cliff tops. To our right golfers meandered along fairways kept tight by local rabbits, their cheery, relaxed countenance at odds with our puffing, sweaty endeavour.

Another right hand turn along the cliff top path, the trail rising once more.
As we approached the end of this elevated section it occurred to me we’d be hammering down a severe drop to sea level any time now. My left achillies, a constant source of niggle all day, issued a timely reminder that a fell-runners descent was not on the cards. As Jill put the hammer down, embracing the chance to blast down the slope, I reigned in, taking great care to keep a steady footing on the rutted ground.

Below me Seaford seafront stretched out to the west, heading for Newhaven and Brighton beyond. This truly is a breathtaking view, one that is very hard to do justice in pictures. I snapped a couple anyway as one or two brave souls plunged past me, hair flying, arms waving wildly to maintain an illusion of balance.

The last few hundred sea level metres took me past the new beach huts, wooden constructions replacing the ugly pebble-dashed concrete blocks resident for as many years as anyone can remember. I know this stretch well – this is the home of Seafront Plodder, the flat, sea-breeze-cooled pavement that he and I first tread in the January of 2003, our first London Marathon still four months away. I’d looked for SP today to no avail. No doubt off beating tennis balls to a pulp somewhere, or maybe wallowing on his sofa contemplating the first beer of the day.

Finally, the finish line, and a purple-ribboned medal offered by no less a dignitary than the Lady Mayor. Thank you, your worship; where’s the bloody bananas? I’m famished!

Finished in a shade over two hours, but to be honest very happy to have got round at all. Chris was waiting, fully recovered and grinning manically. He and Rog had come in well under two hours, Rog already headed for the car and a change of togs. We followed suit, in no way deterred by this early Sunday hour; we would find and consume Guinness! And of course we did, with grateful thanks to the (cough-cough) public house for granting early sanctuary to thirsty lost souls.

A huge ‘thank you’ too to the wonderful marshals and helpers at the numerous water stations. The course, as you might imagine, rambles a long way from habitation, yet the fine folks of Seaford hauled and dragged water containers to all parts of the circuit to ensure our hydration. We salute you.

[SIZE="1"]Photos LtoR: Chris(Mike)Ash; Starter; Early climbs; Cuckmere; Last descent; Rehydration: Rog/Chris/Jill/Remy;Ash for Remy[/SIZE]