There’s some conjecture amongst the Jog Shop Joggers as to whether the Big W should keep its name. In reality the tough section resembles two ‘V’s with a connecting stretch of downland ridge between the first climb and the second descent. Having revisited the section in the still warmth of this morning I can settle the argument; the W simply stands for ‘walk’.
The early cliff top miles were cooled by a gentle sea breeze as we set off eastwards. Paul, Dave, Chris, Steve, Kadir and I were joined by Jill, Remmy and Terry, three people with whom I’ve shared many a wintry battle across these hills. Remmy has lined up a return to the Amsterdam marathon, scene of his first race over 26.2 and for him a chance to set the record straight. Barely warmed up and into the first 10k he'd suffered a calf injury on his debut, running on through considerable pain to finish in a creditable yet personally disappointing 3:26. Whilst many of us might dream lazily of such dizzy heights Rem was gutted. Judging by his impressive form today he's right on track for some sweet revenge.
A sleepless Friday night and nowhere near enough catch-up yesterday left me resigned to a gently-paced outing. The relative warmth (insert withering antipodean comments here) confirmed my tactics and I happily chugged along at the back of the pack chatting with Jill. Approaching the North Face we gawped in admiration as Paul fair flew up the steep trail ahead of us. Remmy, Chris and Steve, no slouches on the hills themselves, trailed in his wake.
Without the fierce headwind and lashing rain the Yellow Brick Road was a much less formidable foe. We continued our conversation in reasonable comfort along the concrete path, enjoying the views over Kingston and on to Lewes away to our right. Any energy saved was spent with the ease of an unshackled WAG in the foothills and trails of the mighty W. A sharp right turn off the YBR lead straight into a perilous, bone-shaking drop; knees shuddered, arms flailed as our band of runners careered towards the welcome shade of the deciduous wood far below. After looping along a rutted track through the trees we started the viscous, strength-sapping climb, the loose flint and crumbling dry mud adding to the challenge. The Fit Dogs hammered ahead leaving we lesser mortals to stagger and stumble behind, floundering like debris cast off from a shuttle breaking orbit. Around half-way up sleep deprivation and lactic acid launched a combined assault and I took my first walk-break.
There’s no shame in this; in fact it could be a useful policy in the weeks and months ahead.
As I hauled my carcass up the chalky track I considered this further.
1) You should always listen to your body (if not the weaker parts of your treacherous mind) on a training run. There’s no valour in breaking something with no glory on the line - if you need a rest, take one.
2) I’m not a mountain goat. Whilst some of my companions have developed hooves and super-sprung achillies I have not.
3) Walk-breaks are something I’ll need to embrace if I’m going to complete the TOM.
We re-grouped at the summit, chests heaving, sweat pitter-pattering onto dusty trail shoes. A few minutes later we did it all again, tearing down a rough, rutted trail only to U turn at the base to clamber up another brutal, sun-drenched track. I walked for a hundred metres or so, smiling cheerily at a lady in a purple running vest as she hurtled towards and past me, grinning as one does when one is on that narrow bridge high above the twin gorges of peril and exhilaration.
Once again we filled our lungs at the crest of the ridge. Remmy announced his intention to cut through Castle Hill and dive back down to take on the Snake. The responses, delivered in a variety of witty and colourful ways, were unanimous; he’d be travelling alone.
The six miles home were a struggle. Having jumped aboard during the two heartless climbs of the W fatigue appeared to be in no hurry to abandon my weary bones. I ran-jogged alongside Chris, a man also suffering - his girlfriend arrived home at four this morning making just enough noise to wake him - and Jill. Of the three of us Jill seemed the least troubled, her action as smooth as ours were ragged.
We finished by running through East Brighton Park, the echoing cries of portly Sunday League footballers ringing in our ears. 'Early ball, early ball - easy! Awwwww!'
On me 'ed, son.
17 miles in around 2:45.
There’s plenty of hard work ahead.
[SIZE="1"][COLOR="Purple"]Photos:
1: Catching their breath at the top of the North Face L to R: Steve, Remmy, Jill, Chris and Kadir.
2: Plunging down the first section of the W [/COLOR][/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
When September ends . . . again . . .
