August

[Sweder]

Eleven-fifteen on a warm, sunny Sunday morning.
I’m chugging wearily over the crest of Wilson’s Avenue, the splendour of the Brighton Racecourse grandstand hogging the horizon to my right, a shimmering English Channel below and ahead.

I am in pain. Muscle-burning, joint-mangling, teeth-clenching pain.
Behind me a shade over fifteen hard, hilly miles; somewhere below and to the east Chris and Welsh Paul are hammering along the Gallops and across East Brighton Park. They’ve been kind, these two; shown compassion, slowed to what to them must’ve seemed like a crawl to accommodate my cumbersome lumbering, finally free to finish in style following my Oates-like detour. Perspiration pours from my brow, down my already-drenched torso and across the sweat-slick fabric of my shorts to splash off my shuffling, battered legs.

Some two and a half hours ago I’d forseen this very moment. With the news that my only companions were to be a rapidly strengthening Moyleman and the horribly fit Welsh Paul came the realisation that I was in for a tough morning.

For the first six or seven miles I held my own, head down, arms pumping, breathing hard but controlled. We’d scaled Telscombe Tye, crossed the hogsback west towards the Snake only to take a forty-five degree diversion north across sheep fields towards Breaky Bottom Farm (real name) and the North Face. I’d even managed to keep relatively close up that unforgiving ascent, calf muscles burning, lungs heaving in protest. We’d stayed adjacent on the sheltered pathway behind the house with superlative views, running strongly into the exposed fields beyond, a cooling sou’ wester sweeping up the hillside and into our ruddy faces.

Somewhere on the endless, mind-numbing slog up the Yellow Brick Road I’d let them get away from me. I’d paused – oh folly! – to snap a shot of the two and by the time my cam-phone was safely stashed they were fifty yards ahead. The gap grew and I settled into my own rhythm, resigned to my fate. I trailed them up that long, straight concrete path, over the collection of false summits and around the corner to the top of the hills overlooking Kingston and the Lewes valley. The lads had paused, in part to let me catch up but mostly so Chris could point out the first section of the Big W. We loped across the ridge, Chris describing the rapid descent, the cut-back through the copse some three hundred feet below and the long grinding climb up the flint and chalk track.

‘Blimey’ – Paul – ‘I’d not noticed the spectacular views. We’re usually 'heads down' and going for it by now.’ The ‘we’ referred to would be Paul and the other super-fit swine, Irish Micheal. These two could easily race these hills for fun and not break sweat; it’s obscene when you think about it.

‘See what you hares miss’ I offered through gritted teeth, bent double, hands rested on grumbling knees as sweat cascaded off my forhead like water leaking from a cheap motel shower.

A few hundred yards further on we came to the second of the drops, the third stroke of the ‘W’. I offered a silent prayer of thanks that we’d decided against adding this particular feature to today's carnival of fun. There had been some crazy talk about including the valley and the Snake, too. The cloudless blue skies and relentless burning sun had fried such nonsense before we’d started, and again I thanked my lucky stars. By now, some ten miles in, my legs were showing signs of rebellion.

Chris and Paul pulled ahead once more and I let them go; no point in breaking something on a training run. On past the drop into Death Valley and up the gently curving spine of the range. My companions continued to pull away, now just blurred figures in the distance, one all in black, the other white. Past the entrance to the nature reserve that leads to the foothills of the Snake and on up the steady climb to the Snake’s head. I calculated that by missing out the drop through the valley and the Serpent’s two-mile track we’d cut around three miles off of the standard nineteen mile pre-Paris 'regular'. Up ahead the black figure had blurred slightly into the white figure, like a 1950’s version of a Mastercard ad.

The penny had dropped with Chris and Paul - they didn’t wait for me at the main road crossing, setting an impressive pace along the muddy track leading to the Racecourse. By the time I’d crossed the road and splashed into my first filthy puddle they were gone.

So here I am, thundering down Wilson’s, momentum more from the effects of gravity on my spent carcass than from any effort of mine. Although my legs ache, that dull, tired ache that demands hot baths and pampering, my lungs remain steadfast. I’m happy with this; usually I’m playing aerobic catch-up – I can live with (and work on) under-trained legs.

By the time I reach my truck Chris is already towelled down and half changed into his ‘civvies’. We take off for Mac’s café and a well-earned cuppa, to talk of the Jog Shop Jog and the challenges to come. I’ll sleep well tonight, no doubt dreaming of running from flowing, bubbling lava streaming down the steep, slippery slopes of some endless, violently-errupting volcano. And I'll smile in my sleep, coz it won't feel half as tough as those last few hundred metres at eleven-thirty this morning.

Something approaching sixteen miles in around two hours thirty.
More midweek hill fun to follow.