Blimey, the year’s barely into its fourth day and here I am missing a morning run. The alarm, the latest Nokia mobile dog-leash, was in severe danger of an early bath in the frog pond that sits directly below my bedroom window. It’s all been too much lately; Christmas, New Year, parties, relatives, visitors, alcohol and then last night’s visit to the Dominion Theatre with Mrs S’s Mum on her 79th birthday to see
We Will Rock You. (For the record they did, totally).
But this is no way to carry on; there’s work to be done, miles to be banked. Once I’d reached the point of no return, or in this case no chance of getting out before work, I decided on self-flagellation. I opted for the same penalty as
the last time I gave myself a talking to about my running, almost a year ago to the day; a run along the dreaded, soul-less A27 after work. And thanks to the sun only working half days at this time of year it’ll not only be cold and boring but extremely dark.
I rushed home from work actually looking forward to the run. I rarely spend time pounding pavements, preferring the soft caress of mud and grass and the benefits enjoyed by my creaking joints. But with a long, arduous road race ahead I’m aware that concrete or asphalt mileage is required to ‘acclimatise’ the limbs. It took ten minutes to swap work clothes for shorts and long sleeve top and I was out the door with a cheery wave to the family.
‘What about your Spag Bol?’ cried Mrs S from the living room.
‘Microwave. See you in a bit.’
And I was off into the night.
A half mile in and I’d left the artificial lights of the town and joined once more with the busy road that stretches from Lewes to Brighton. Stars shone above like sequins stitched into an inky black canvas. A blue glow on the edge of the surrounding hills suggested a fair-sized moon was not too far away from an appearance. This would be most welcome as trying to pick out safe footing along the ravaged cycle path in the dark was no picnic. Add to this the blinding headlights of the on-rushing traffic and a persistent, strengthening headwind and I was finding the going a little tough. Just shy of two miles I passed the Texaco garage, all neon and fluorescent lights against the hulking shadows of the downs. The path narrows here and I tried to take up a position between the curb, where less than a metre away cars and trucks hurtled past at sixty miles per hour, and the hedgerow. It’s a fine line between lethal traffic and sinister barbed tentacles snaking out of the darkness to scratch flesh and snag fabric.
An assessment of form yielded disappointment. Rather like when you find the left-over left-overs lurking at the back of your ’fridge well into the New Year I felt slightly ashamed. Extra poundage and lack of road form colluded against me. It’s one thing to see the evidence of your indulgence register on the scales, but I
feel heavy. Not only that I feel
slow, to;
cumbersome. It might all be psychological nonsense but hey, we all need something to whine about, right? Besides - lest I forget – this is about banking miles. No medals tonight, no PBs, just steady plodding, burning fat, toughening legs.
The path to Falmer, my intended turning point at just about four miles from home, climbs steadily for the last half-mile, and I was pleased to note my effort increasing easily with the slope. I’ve always attacked hills. They need to be shown who’s boss. If you fold under pressure and give in to their gravity-induced negativism you’re done for, so best get the pedal to the metal and get ‘em out the way. I was in the process of doing just that when a light from the rear caused me to look round sharply.
‘Cheers mate!’ as the cyclist, head down, legs churning against the hill, whistled past. I lumbered after him feeling a little less cocky and more than slightly un-nerved as his bobbing yellow back disappeared into the gloom.
At the turn, puffing indecently close to the bright lights and warm hearth of the Swan Inn alongside the Falmer footbridge, I realised I was going to enjoy the homeward leg. Up here above the motorway the breeze became a wind, a useful ally as I set off toward home. I lengthened my stride on the downslope, estimating the same distance took half the number of steps needed on the ascent. The traffic, still busy and zooming past, came from behind now; rather than dazzle the headlamps helped pick out the pavement ahead as the treacherous brambles seemed to recoil from the light.
Overhead clouds knitted together to blot out the stars but
La Bella Luna was up there, illuminating the places where the clouds overlapped, accentuating the appearance of a celestial duvet. As I watched the blankets parted and an almost full moon beamed through the gap, quite splendidly seated in the heavens. I grinned, gunning the gams to beat a path for home.
I fair flew back (by my modest standards). Even the kilometre climb to the Prison failed to slow me down, my head full of races past and those yet to come, a constant commentary running within me. I smiled as the path rose to meet my heavy tread, the optimism rising with each passing step. OK so I’m carrying an extra kilo or two; that’ll be gone soon, and who knows? Maybe I’ll head for AlmerÃa lighter than ever before . . .
. . . Shhh! It's rude to giggle. Besides, we can all dream, can’t we?
Lurching into the kitchen the heat and smells of recently served home-made Bolognese sauce blasted my frosted senses. I glanced at the clock. An hour and ten minutes for around eight miles; not too bad, all things considered. Now, let’s try not to miss any more morning runs. Then again, perhaps I’ll shift my schedule around a bit; these roadside plods can be as good for the soul as they are for the soles.
