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October
Managed to drag my weary bones down to Brighton this morning for a gentle plod along the 10K route. There's something timeless, even magical about seaside towns out of season. Saturday nights' revellers emerged from hotels and guest houses, bleary-eyed and a little unsteady on their feet, peering suspiciously at the joggers and cyclists weaving through their zombie-style meanderings.
The smell of deep fat frying from the donut stall at the Palace pier gave me incentive to speed up in my first mile. A smart westerly breeze offset the warm sun as I plodded past the decrepit, sinking wreck of the West pier. The Meeting Point - Sunday morning papers-coffee-and-breakfast al fresco - bustled with cool couples, shades and crombies a-go-go.
Unsure of the turning point for the 10K I looped to eastward, in hindsight about half a mile too soon, but in terms of fatigue and following yesterdays' 5 miles, about right for me today. Breeze at my back my pace increased and I felt almost like a runner again, passing any number of ample, lycra-clad bottoms. Back past the remaining open pier I hit the gas just a tad. The legs responded, albeit reluctantly, and I arrived at the car breathless and exhilarated.
I drove home slowly, following a route that my usual Sunday companions would have taken earlier, in the vain hope I might spot a familiar face or two on their run for home, 16 or 18 hilly miles tucked away. The route took me within a stones' throw of the head of the Snake, and I felt a twing of regret, like passing the home of an old lover.
It can't be long before I'm back in her coils again.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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