6:45 am in the Sweder house. I lay still, duvet pulled up under my chin, listening to the storm raging outside the bedroom window. Violent blasts rattled the glass, followed by the loud hiss of trees bending in the maelstrom.
Ten minutes later I’m stood in my modest office watching those trees writhe, wild dancers at an all-night rave. Heavy grey clouds scudded across the garden, heading inland from the coast. It was raining but the usual pencil-sketch slash formed by the raindrops was smashed in the teeth of the gale to leave a cavorting mist to cover everything in a slick sheen. I sipped my coffee, took a bite out of my toast and wondered what on Earth was wrong with me. I was grinning from ear to ear.
I packed a couple of gels before setting off for the marina. Last Sunday had been tough, and I’d no doubt we’d be matching the distance today. In these conditions ‘tough’ wouldn’t quite cover it. I never once doubted that Chris would be there, but I was pleasantly surprised to see him joined by Purple Plodder, Micheal, Steve, Gary and Kadir as I pulled up, late, to the rendezvous. Quite a party on such a lovely late summer day.
The outward lope to Saltdean was easy enough. The wind, even stronger along the cliff tops, pushed firmly into our backs. Even the hideous climb out of Saltdean was a comparative doddle. We bounced across the road, up Telscombe Tye, behind the farmhouse and west nor’ west across the downland ridge, all the while chatting easily as the wind whipped about us, still mostly from behind. I explained to PP that it usually takes me four or five miles to get into my stride. She agreed, but having set off from Shoreham (some six miles west of the marina) at eight this morning she was by now pretty much warmed up.
I felt much better today, confident that I'd last the course, though aware that more testing times lay just ahead. Micheal took off across the open farmland towards the North Face, Chris PP and I in damp pursuit. Visibility on the downs proper was at around one hundred metres in all directions, heavy mist (or was it cloud?) blocking the views fore and aft. I hoped to measure any improvement on last Sunday by seeing how far up the NF I could run without stopping. ‘Quick feet’ I thought as I bounded up the muddy, rock-strewn goat-path, watching Mike disappear into the fog. I caught up with Chris and we huffed and puffed to the summit, knackered but delighted to have got all the way up in one go. Much air-sucking and gel-swallowing followed as the rest of our group appeared.
‘Come on, Nosh Nosh!’ Kadir set off up the sheltered trail behind the farmhouse. A gaggle of runners appeared at the mouth of the ‘tunnel’ heading down the slope towards us, exchanging wild grins and friendly waves as they thundered past. In the windless peace of this short trail I chatted with Kadir about training and plans for Cape Town. He was dishing out some useful advice when we exited the sheltered track and staggered out into a scene from hell.
‘Fuckin’ Ell!!’ I heard Kadir’s expletive but nothing more.
A foul tempest rushed up from the ocean/ our left, seemingly dragging half the English Channel with it to hammer our frail bodies as we fought our way across open farmland. I couldn't hear a thing above the fierce roar; every shrub, tree and blade of grass within sight bent as if in supplication. Before us the Yellow Brick Road beckoned, a mile of unforgiving climb ruthlessly exposed to the full force of God’s wrath. It was like the scenes of Hades from Constantine, happily without Kneau ‘Cuprinol’ Reeves.
Conversation impossible we hunched up and battled across the muddy fields towards the eponymous pavement. I waited for my ‘squeezy gel’ to kick in, knowing it was too soon. Inevitably I fell behind, the dark shapes of my companions fading into the swirling mist. I got my head down, focused on the road a few feet ahead and plodded on. My left ear seemed to fill with water then went numb as the infernal assault continued. I ran in a most ungainly stance, leaning to my left against the wall of wind, staggering as much as running. Imagine if you stop; for every second you rest the road adds ten metres . . . that crazy logic kept me going when every fibre of my being screamed for me to roll into a ball and wait for the sky to fall. Finally I caught a glimpse of a few dark shapes that might be runners huddled together by some bushes. It was Chris, Gary and Steve.
‘Sod this for a game of soldiers, lets head off this way.’ Chris pointed towards the sea, into the teeth of the storm.
‘It’s into the wind but it heads downhill in a bit. It does mean taking on the Snake, but it’s still a better option.’
I thought about the alternative, running the ridge across the top of the W and on up the exposed spine of the hills all the way to Woodingdean; it was all pretty much into the wind, and would be nothing short of brutal. I flashed him the thumbs up. Gary and Steve seemed to nod in agreement.
‘I think the others went straight on’ Chris yelled. There was no sign of them.
We set off left/ south from the top of the YBR and headlong into the wind.
I was amazed and disheartened to note that the paved track not only continued from this point (I'd never noticed before), but continued to climb.
‘When’s the downhill bit Chris?’ My whine whipped away and across the valleys before reaching him, and we battled on. After a few hundred metres the ground levelled off and finally started to drop away. I relaxed my stance a little, accepting gravity’s help with great relief. Whap! Something black and soggy bounced off my shoulder and whistled past Steve, missing him by a whisker.
‘Shit!’ Chris turned, clutching his exposed pate and dashed past me in pursuit of his flying cap. We carried on, the momentum gained too good to waste.
A right turn took us back to familiar territory – the perilous drop before the track to the Snake. We plunged into the slope, skipping over flint boulders. I grinned, as much at the madcap plummet as in gleeful recognition that my gel had finally kicked in. I stepped on the gas, storming past Chris and hitting top gear before the slingshot up the far side sucked all the speed out of my legs. We regrouped at the top before the turn north and I greedily sucked down my Espresso Hammergel.
As we caught our breath Chris spied the other three bounding down the slope behind us. They’d waited for us just around the corner at the top of the YBR, but thanks to the conditions hadn’t seen us a mere hundred yards away. Kadir had realised what we’d done and they’d followed us.
The path leading to the Snake sits in a partly sheltered valley, the silence and relative sense of calm welcome respite from the madness on the moors. As Chris had guessed the Serpent offered a mixed bag wind-wise. The first half-mile sheltered by trees, the next mile or so winding up through the hills, the wind with us. Only in the last five hundred metres did the head-on battering restart. By this time Mike had once more stepped on the gas, leaving me to run alongside the Purple Plodder. She ran easily, her breathing inaudible under my own ghastly rasp. My brain screamed ‘What the hell are you doing? This is madness! Just stop, have a rest . . . ’ all the way up that remorseless track. But I looked across at the calm, relaxed visage next to me, gritted my teeth and dug in. We hit the final straight, still climbing, still shrouded in mist.
‘Where’s the bloody gate?!’ I gasped, wild-eyed, oxygen-starved, desperate.
‘Its OK, where almost there’. Calmness personified.
Finally there it was, the dusky outline of Mike just beyond the boundary fence.
I spent a minute or two with head bent towards the muddy grass, hands gripping knees, chest heaving. Chris arrived soon after.
‘Blimey you flew up there!’
Mike started to seize up so we set off once more, splashing through puddles on the gravel track. Soon Mike, PP and I were alone, leaving the rutted path behind the houses to detour through the less hazardous streets to the racecourse. Across the main road and onto the gallops, though not the long route to St Dunstans; the thought of another mile and a half along the cliffs straight into the wind was too much. We bounded down the woodchip trail, East Brighton golf course to our left, the marina - home! - less tghan a mile away and below us. I couldn’t believe the number of golfers on the course; it must be purgatory trying to play in this. They must be daft.
Back to the marina in a shade over two hours thirty. No-one had a clue as to the distance so I’m banking sixteen based on last week’s calculations. On that basis PP managed a total of 24 inhospitable miles, admirable stuff. Happily for her Mr PP was due to collect her from the marina – another six miles in those conditions might have tested even an athlete of her considerable standing.
A quick stretch revealed no major worries; in fact I felt good. Compared to last week I’d have to say I felt bloomin’ marvellous. I celebrated at Macs with coffee, a bacon and egg sarnie and a slice of fruit cake, jabbering away about Cape Town and training as the battle-weary Chris and Kadir looked on aghast.
Thinking this through after a fabulous hot shower a pattern has definately emerged. I blew out a run on Friday, swapping diligent exercise for a night on the Guinness and roll-ups with SP and Tim. The night before the Henfield Half it was the same story – SP + Guinness = decent run. This obviously agrees with me, acting like a sort of slightly debauched mini-taper. I resolve to repeat this exercise before future long runs and record the results. Should be fun.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
When September ends . . . again . . .
