A Friday night/ Saturday morning of affable ale-quaffing and a lustrous variety of anonymous nightclub cocktails left me little hope of a successful outing this morning. Unshaven, eyes stuck together with sleep-glue, I staggered through the house at an ungodly hour trying to locate my running ensemble. Thankfully Mrs S and Phoebes were up and at ‘em preparing for a dance comp* so hot fresh coffee was at hand to wash down my hastily prepared toast and honey.
A gentle sea breeze cooled our band of seven as we embarked from Brighton Marina, heading east under a clear blue sky and a sun that climbed with indecent haste above the coast. The first seven miles were tough but uneventful. I chatted easily enough with Chris and Rog about expected conditions in Cape Town, both next week (when I hope to run Chapman’s Peake) and next April for the TOM. We bade farewell to Ade as he set off for The Wire, a recent house move and imminent new arrival limiting his free time; lucky swine! The climb out of Saltdean, always tough, took a large bite out of my limited resolve. Reserves were further depleted on the ascent of Telscombe Tye, the sun-baked ground dry, dusty and cruelly unyielding.
Distant yachts barely moved, tiny white triangles leaving harbour to start a fine day's sailing in the Channel glistening below/ to our left as we headed west, the breeze deserting us to leave us at the mercy of the blistering heat. I dropped back, taking ever more frequent slugs from my water carrier. Rog seemed happy enough to stay with me and we loped along as the fit four drove on, seemingly unaffected by the harsh conditions. A quarter mile short of the Snake I announced a walk break. Again Rog agreed, himself suffering with a tight right calf. As the entrance to the serpent’s lair appeared over the ridge we noticed a large number of walkers, all wearing what looked like race numbers, armed with sturdy rucksacks and floppy sun hats. A brace of Ghurkhas in full battledress guarded a military tent – and then the penny dropped.
‘South Downs Way walk’
‘Aaah . . . lot’s of walkers then.’
‘Yep . . . best start running then.’
‘Umm-hmm . . .’
We set off on a gentle lope, brushing past a collection of solid-looking men and women, almost to a man (or woman) equipped with one or two walking sticks. Walking sticks, it seems, are not immune to the ravages of technological advancement. Most on show today appeared to be of graphite construction, some apparently collapsible in a telescopic style, and many of varied and interesting colour. Through the foothills and at the gate that marks the Snake proper my companion announced serious cramp in his right calf. We stopped, Rog stretched out, and we decided, given
a) this was only a training run and there were no medals at stake
b) Rog was in considerable pain and
c) It was bloody hot and getting ever bloody hotter
we would walk to the top. Decision made (with, frankly, no hint of argument from me) we chatted easily, taking in the stunning views over Death Valley and the Lewes hills beyond. At the summit I bid Rog farewell (he lives near Woodingdean, a short limp from the top of the Snake), setting off once more at a modest jog towards Brighton Racecourse, Wilson’s Avenue and home.
During my heavy, gravity-aided plod down the steep drop that is Wilson's, the marina spread out below, I came under attack. A young seagull, apparently concerned that this large white blob thundering past as it preened on an adjacent rooftop was some sort of threat, launched itself into a series of Stuka-style dive-bomb sorties, swooping ever lower with each run. Happily for me the bomb-bay doors remained closed and I hurried on with the warning screams of the ugly creature ringing in my ears.
A disjointed effort, with seven reasonably paced miles to start, a couple of miles walked and the last three jogged gamely for a total of around two and a half hours.
Not great, but infinitely more than I'd imagined possible at 7am.
* [SIZE="1"]An altogether more successful day for the ladies. Phoebe made the finals in her solo, pairs and rock n roll pairs, taking first, first and second respectively.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
