January

[Sweder]

A beautiful day for a difficult run. We decided to add a couple of miles to the Snake route, doubling back behind the serpent into Rottingdean, up Windmill hill and around St Dunstans for a two mile cliff top finish into the westerly breeze.

It was all pretty routine, save perhaps for the pace which thanks to myself, Chris and then Sarah in that order was pretty swift. We were joined later on the route by Gary and, briefly, at the head of the Snake, by fellow TOM entrant Dave. Despite the clear skies and relative lack of wind there was no sign of the expected cold. My Thierry Henrys looked incongruous in the bright sunshine; three miles in I was cooking in my windcheater.

My problems started as we cleared the downslope behind the Snake at around mile eleven. There’s a half-mile section of tarmac, hard, unyielding road. I recently calculated that my beloved Addidas Climacool off-roaders, just shy of a year old, have clocked up well in excess of eight hundred miles. Shamefully that’s at least three hundred miles past their bin-by date, and as I thumped onto the hard standing the lack of cushion and spring became instantly and painfully apparent. After barely one hundred metres I got an almighty pain in my upper abdomen on the left hand side. Stitch! Blimey, I haven’t had stitch since I was at school! You were always told to run off stitch – a euphemism coined for a sharp and persistent stabbing pain in the side or stomach whilst running or playing sport – so I plodded manfully on. My companions rightly struck out, taking full advantage of the gentle slope into Rottingdean. I watched them go unable to respond, all the while listing to port, my left hand clamped over the afflicted area.

I suppose from another point of view I must’ve looked pretty comical, loping along in a kind of run/ shuffle, a lycra-clad Quasimodo in fruitless pursuit of his Esmeralda. There was no humour in it for me. Having reached the village and crossed the main road the pain eased slightly, allowing me a run at the dreaded Windmill Hill. I made it half way, the others only fifty metres ahead and above me, but already partly recovered from the climb. As I walked the last few steps the others set off to disappear behind St Dunstans as I continued to limp-lope behind. Once back on the soft cliff top grass the pain eased and finally vanished, allowing me to pick up the pace for a sprint finish. I was less than happy with the run though, stretching out at the meeting point as I refilled my lungs. As I reached to stretch my left leg up onto the parapet something squirmed in the bundle of glands and gristle buried in my left groin, causing me to wince and quickly lower my leg. Ouch! I tried a couple more moves with similar results before limping off to the café for coffee and fruit cake.

At Macs the fellow from Brookes was already seated and I confessed my embarrassing shoe story. He paled as I detailed the mileage, staring first at my mud-plastered boots and then back to my apologetic and equally mud flecked face. We agreed I should make it my priority to source replacements before next Sunday and I left, chastened, to bathe my wounds and rest my twisted groin, the injury almost certainly resulting from my awkward gait. In fairness I do have my barely used Sauconys (I just don't like 'em!) and some old Mizunos (no longer fit for purpose). I just really, really love my Climacools and I can’t find their like in this country. Some net surfing’s in store, methinks.

Fifteen miles in around two hours thirty.
Looks like a repeat next Sunday; here’s hoping I’ve invested wisely by then.