Sign posts and marshals are rare commodities on the Jog Shop Jog. One of the latter waved to us cheerily as he held open the gate leading to the foot of the North Face.
‘Little incline coming up’ he chortled.
Thanks mate.
I pushed on, keen to build a little momentum, mindful of the genius of Spock’s slingshot method in Star Trek IV - The Voyage Home, certain the ultimate logic would apply here. And in some small measure it worked. At least I was halfway up the goat-track before I realised I was oxygen-deprived, feet working overtime to navigate the humps and hillocks of the well-worn trail. I passed a few less-committed bodies, huffing up the hill with heavy treads and heads bowed, no doubt sampling the delights of the course for the first time.
I smiled to myself. There’ll be a few here today who’ve no idea what’s in store. Oh, they’ll have heard tales of hill climbs, no doubt visited the Jog Shop Jog website (still proudly displaying details of last years’ race); but until you’ve met these landmarks head-to-head you can’t really appreciate how merciless they can be. I confess to a certain smugness – I’ve paid my dues, in spades.
I paused at the top. Rog pulled alongside, dropping his hands to his knees. We drank deeply from the clear morning air, eyeing the water station.
‘Time for a gel.’ I grabbed a beaker of water from the table.
‘Yellow Brick Road next – yippee!’
As expected/ hoped for the wind was kind, bowling along at a fair rate of knots from behind and to our right. We continued our banter as farmland made way for the eponymous road, the sun at our backs, clear skies all around. Life was good, and the YBR, such a monster into a Westerly, rolled over like a puppy.
Ahead and to our right I could make out runners descending the first stroke of the Big W, reminding me of tougher tests in store. I took a swig from my water bottle and turned to Rog.
‘Big W mate – watch out, could be slippery.’
And it was. I tried running on the ridged path hosting the most tufts of grass in the vain hope I might find some grip, but ultimately settled for a flat-out lung-busting suicidal plummet. Somehow this worked, even when it came to hurdling the vicious cattle grid halfway down.
‘Risky!’ shouted some Captain Cautious type as he slowed to open a farmer’s gate alongside the track.
Bollocks, I thought, plunging on towards the copse on the edge of Kingston Village. I’d thought about this section more than most before today. My last two attempts at the W resulted in a large amount of walking and I was quite prepared to go that way again. Except I felt good. Perhaps the gel had kicked in, maybe it was a false dawn and I’d run out of steam halfway up. I bounded up the rocky trail, passing another cluster of walkers, until the tightening in my right leg bit sharply. I pulled up right away.
‘Alright?’
‘Yeah, right legs a bit tight. Think I’ll walk this bit.’
Rog joined me and we managed to stomp to the top at a reasonable pace, running the last hundred metres 'in case there's a photographer at the top.' There wasn't.
‘Same again?’
‘Love to!’
And we were off along the grassy trail to the second part of the W. We chose to walk from bottom to top, aware that the next climb to Castle Hill was, whilst runable, still pretty harsh. Best to keep something in reserve. Ten minutes later Castle Hill Nature Reserve hove into view and Rog and I were back on the jabber, Cape Town the main topic.
‘Bloody Hell! You two are trying to make this look easy!’
A wild-haired, moustachioed runner in a bright yellow vest with black hoops drew alongside.
‘What are you chattering about?’
‘Two Oceans – doing it in April.’
‘Just done the Comrades meself – ta-ta!’ – and with that he was off, heading for the gate. A silent glance confirmed that we weren’t having that and we set off in hot pursuit, catching then overtaking the fellow on the steep drop through the reserve.
‘Get down quicker with heavy legs!’ I quipped as I plunged past the Harry Enfield Scouser look-alike.
‘Specially when you’ve got seven pints of Guinness in each one!’ yelled Rog, two steps behind me.
‘Wayhay – Snake next!’ he bellowed.
Almería 2004 sprang instantly to mind, Nigel and I hammering up the Ramblas, me chanting my Snake mantra.
I felt an homage coming on.
‘The Killer awoke before dawn’ I yelled.
‘He put his boots on. He took a face from the ancient gallery and he
WALKED ON DOWN THE HALL . . . ‘
Terry McDermott (for it was surely he) had backed way off by now. We crashed through another gate and into the somewhat disappointingly grassy plains of Death Valley, on towards the foothills of the Serpent.
As I’ve said before, the first half mile of the Snake is deceptively tough.
I was reminded of this today as my legs turned to concrete leaving me to flounder horribly in Rog’s wake. Rog of course had been up this way three times already this week, the Snake being part of his usual eight mile circuit. I clenched my teeth and clung on, struggling to run whilst avoiding the ubiquitous, ankle-snapping badger scrapes. Another gate, and time for another belt from my bottle. Rog slowed ahead, obviously keen to get onto the Snake proper. I held up my hand in apology.
‘Sorry mate, heavy legs.’
We walked a few steps as I gulped fluid. My aching muscles relaxed a tad and we set off once more, rounding the first left-hander . . . into the teeth of a small yet persistent gale.
‘Bloody hell!’
‘S'alright, this’ll be helping soon.’
Of course. The sheep-mown grass trail twists to such an extent that no matter what the direction of the wind you’ll get help at some stage. It couldn’t come fast enough for me. I struggled all the way, teeth set, arms pumping, bulging eyes focused on the next turn, knowing only too well the intricate series of deceptions on this endless climb. Finally we were on the last straight. At least I’d catch a breather at the gate . . . but no. I’d assumed this would make a perfect water station, being a few hundred metres form the main road at Woodingdean, but our only spectators were two thoroughly pissed off St John’s Ambulance people. Is it just me or do they issue all St. John’s uniforms two sizes too small? These two had been roughly stuffed into theirs, the ragged appearance enhanced by their obvious displeasure at being dumped in the arse-end of nowhere to watch a load of nutters flog themselves up a large hill.
The course doubles back at the head of the Snake, dropping back down into the valleys to pick up the road past the reservoir and back to Rottingdean. I struggled still, my legs growing heavier by the minute. I sucked down a Hammergel (Espresso, Mmm) and another generous helping of water in the vain hope it might do some good. Weeks of pounding rock-hard exhibition halls had taken its toll, on my calves especially. The thought of Windmill Hill did little to improve my humour. Mercifully the road into Rottingdean is a gradual drop, making my weight a useful ally in the quest for momentum whilst easing the pressure on my battered legs. Windmill Hill was walked in an effort to preserve them for the final push home. I was on course to make it, too, when finally both calves gave up the ghost as if linked, like ET and Elliot. They didn’t so much pop as just go instantly granite-like and I knew I was done for. Less than two wind-assisted cliff top miles stood between me and my coveted Jog Shop Jog medal, yet it felt like ten miles and all of it up hill. The pain was hideous but I stumbled on. Rog, gallant to the last, waved away my insistence that he strike for home.
‘Neither of us have done this one before, so we’ll both get a medal and a PB!’ he beamed.
‘Try to relax your feet a bit, it might help.’
It didn’t, but the encouragement and camaraderie worked wonders.
‘Ouch . . . Aagh . . . Oooof’ the sound effects were pathetic but they, too, seemed to help.
Maybe Monica Seles was onto something after all . . .
After what seemed like an afternoon the Marina appeared and blissfully, mercifully we turned into the zig-zag descent. Below us early finishers gathered, draining beakers of water and juice, munching on cake. One or two fingers pointed towards us, heads tilting, eyes squinting in the sunshine.
“Heey! There they are!’
Warm applause greeted our last turn and we ran, chests out, side by side to the finish. Amazingly the pain was gone, washed away by a river of back-slaps and warm congratulations, grinning sweaty faces and offers of a pint. A young girl stepped forward to offer our medals. I took mine and looked carefully at it, at once realising I’d wanted to run this race more than any other, and now, finally, ill health, crazy travel schedule and SPs best efforts not withstanding, I had. Emotion coursed through me as I studied the inscriptions on the pewter disc:
The North Face. The Big W. The Yellow Brick Road. Death Valley. The Snake. THE JOG SHOP JOG.
I felt myself welling up, at once confused, mildly embarrassed and certainly relieved. I scurried off to the finishers table, grabbing a beaker of juice and checking up on the price of fruit cake. Back in control I rejoined the others to welcome home more finishers. Paul (the Welsh Hill-Wizard) had, according to Irish Michael, shot off in customary fashion, bounding into the hills like a supercharged mountain goat. Despite a week-long cold and all manner of pre-race protestations he’d come home in 2:27 to take sixth place. Chris had crossed in 3:15, Rog and I were credited with, unofficially, 3:19. I was delighted, Rog more pragmatic.
‘Told you you’d get a PB’ he grinned.
‘Now, how about a pint?’
Talks a lot of sense, that Rog.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
