November Chills

[Sweder]

The inevitable verdict is in; burn the Witch.
Saddam Hussain, undoubtedly a modern-day monster, the so-called Butcher of Baghdad and our favourite pantomime villain (after Christano Ronaldo) was sentenced to death this morning for ‘crimes against humanity’. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Unlike Guy Fawkes, admonished as much for his failure as for his attempt to blow up parliament, the former Iraqi leader is destined to follow Mussolini to end his Dictatorial days at the end of a rope. Can it ever be right to take a life? Is there ever justification to commit murder, albeit in the name of Good or Right, albeit perhaps revenge for the hundreds (thousands) of voiceless, chemically cleansed Iraqis? I guess it all depends on your point of view.

The hanging of Saddam Hussain will do little for those who died on his orders. It will do nothing to calm the gathering storm in his former country, a land so riven by civil war we can expect to read and hear about the horror for years to come. It will add belief to those who continue to fight in his name and resolve to those who would wire themselves with explosives and walk into the streets of their enemies to maim and kill.

Last night in Lewes we paid our own special homage to the self-styled leader of the Free World, a man who many say prosecuted the war in Iraq as a gift to his father, to 'finish the job'. A thirty foot high effigy of George Dubbya Bush leaning on the UN building, ‘Poodle’ Blair in his lap, was dragged through the town last night before being set alight at the Commercial Square site to the ringing cheers of thousands of Lewesians and our bonfire guests. Lewes bonfire effigies are constructed in such a way that first a series of fireworks go off from various parts of the anatomy before the whole thing catches fire and finally explodes, a carefully prepared charge of Semtex at it’s heart to finish it off in grand style. The explosion sends shockwaves through your chest and your ears ring for several minutes afterwards. It's great - just like a Motorhead gig.

Unlike many of the torch-bearing townsfolk I awoke with a clear head to watch the sun rise on another fabulous November morning. I’d resolved to limit my Sunday run to The Wire – an eight mile gentle out-and-back along the cliff tops above Brighton and Rottingdean. As often happens with my plans to take it easy it all went the shape of the pear rather quickly. First up I met up with Barry, a fellow JSJ-er who had recently taken part in the Reykjavik marathon. Andy, this sounds like one for the calendar. During our easy outward lope he told me all about the fabulous moonscapes of Iceland and the many unique attractions, echoing your enthusiasm for the place. After ten minutes I was mentally googling for next years' sign-up page.

We chortled as some of the newbies hared off over the first couple of hills, knowing the fun that awaits them in the weeks and months to come. We were then joined by Barry’s mate Glen. Glen it turns out took part in the Marathon of Britain, a one hundred and seventy five mile epic crossing the Malverns and the Cottswolds on route to the finish in Nottingham. Glen was ‘looking for a hilly trail’. I should have realised that Glen was actually an emissary of Satan but sucker that I am I swallowed the bait.
‘Well, I suppose I could manage an easy Snake run.’
I could almost hear the deep rumble of Beelzebub’s laughter as he ticked off the capture of my immortal soul. I looked across at Glen and realised what had just transpired. The poor fellow was horribly deformed; he had no stomach! That is to say, where his stomach should have been (as was clearly evident to look at Barry and myself) there was nothing but a ghastly washboard flatness. Oh shit.

We bade farewell to Barry, Lycra Tony and his Hilltop Virgins at the top of Saltdean Hill, turning landward to stomp up Telscombe Tye. The sun beamed down on rolling hills, our panting breath invisible in the rapidly warming air. The tough climb ensured our silence until we reached the farmhouse at the summit.
‘Fabulous views’ breathed Glen, looking across the downs towards Lewes. The town nestled in a peaceful veil of mist, the chalk walls of The Cliff gleaming white in the sunshine. Fabulous indeed.

We chatted about past runs, marathons and Glen’s exploits. His recent challenge had demanded a fifty-mile day, one he managed in fourteen hours. We share a marathon PB – 3:52 – his gained in Rotterdam, mine in Paris. Despite his obvious fitness advantage Glen’s running pace matched mine stride for stride and we ran and talked easily into the foothills of the Snake. I cautioned him about the ubiquitous badger-made man-traps and the series of false ‘last corners’ on the two mile climb. Glen seemed undeterred, glad of the hill practice absent from his usual roadwork. We fair flew up the sleepy serpent as she dozed in the warm sun. Her scales, dry and rutted, offered fair purchase to our flying feet. There was no danger of her tightening her coils or nipping at our heels today. The last straight appeared and I gunned it to the top full of pep, imagining a cheeky bounce off her sleepy head as I reached the summit. She’ll have her revenge one of these days, but without the debilitating North Face and YBR to sap the strength from my legs today there was no contest.

Glen arrived moments later, puffing and grinning in equal measure.
‘Whoo! That was tough – I was hanging in there for a bit.’
That’s as maybe, but within a few seconds he was off again, fully recovered.
We crossed the Woodingdean road and detoured through the residences to the racecourse, crossing the track to bound through East Brighton Park to the finish.

Goodness knows how far we went – somewhere around thirteen miles – in around two hours. Time and distance are irrelevant really; it was just a fabulous morning to be out in the hills.