January

[Sweder]

A butterfly beats its wings in China . . .

. . . and I get flattened on the Sussex hills.
That had to be the toughest five miles I've run in training, comparable with the hell that was Mile 18 plus in my first London Marathon back in 2003.

According to local weather sources the winds were up to 70 miles per hour (around 112 kmh). I'd have to say that was a conservative estimate. Clouds drove across the sky like dirty grey sheep driven by the force of God, thundering into the east to disappear in a bank of mist and rain. It could have been worse; the icy barbs cutting into my frozen face could have been rusty nails; as it was it was all I could do to keep one eye open in a futile attempt to stay on track. The climbs to Wicker Man Hill and Blackcap were directly into the teeth of the monster. It took all my effort to gain half a metre per step. But if I thought running uphill into the wind was hard going it was as nothing compared to the lethal rollercoaster of the descent.

Shoved without ceremony down the slick hillside I was blown along like a big untidy bundle of rubbish. Steering was limited, most turns achieved by use of my arms as flaps. I focused all my attention on landing my feet, acutely aware that the slightest mistake could lead to an ignominious and extremely painful tumble.

Finally, mercifully, more by luck than judgement, we arrived home without major mishap. The hounds stared at me as we stood, dripping and shivering together in the hallway, each delivering a look that required no translation.

Hard-earned miles in the bank, but they’re usually the best kind.
Now, off for a nice hot shower!