February

[Sweder]

Well, that’'s as tough an outing as I’'d like to see for a while.

Torrential rain, violent hail storms and a battering wind, and that was just the first ten minutes. Relentless foul weather had ravaged the cliff top trail leaving our much-depleted, huddled group to battle into the east, shaking fists and hurling good-natured insults at the cruel heavens.

Conditions grew considerably worse when we left the seafront, the inland fields swamp-like, every step greeted with a splash into sucking mud beneath the standing water. My thigh held up well. I'’d strapped it heavily before leaving the house, reasoning if it was going to ‘go,’ today would be the day.

The path down to the foot of the North Face had disappeared in a sea of mud. The descent was as treacherous as any I’'ve had to make, the subsequent clamber up the steep hill sapping my strength. We paused for a team photo at the summit before heading off into the teeth of the wind, towards the cesspit that was the prequel to the Yellow Brick Road. Here was good news; most of the bovine effluent from last week had dispersed, run across and down the slopes to the south by the torrents of water coursing off the adjacent fields. The cows remained, oblivious to our lumbering, and mercifully we were on the tinted concrete for the long haul up the YBR. Except, there was no mercy. This was akin to running up a glass slide in a powerful wind tunnel. My leg muscles clamped firm, seeking any kind of grip through my woefully inadequate shoes.

At the top of the trail my thigh tightened slightly and I dropped back. This was the deal I made with myself:– first sign of trouble, drop the pace and stay comfortable. I watched, unable to respond as Chris, Steve and Paul bounded across the tops of the Big W. The drop into Death Valley proved less dangerous than last week, mainly thanks to a hammering gale sweeping up out of the valley acting as an efficient airbrake. The tracks from the foothills of the valley to the disused farm were slick with rain. I slid-skated along the trail, leaving the path to run on the muddy field, but picked up so much excess on my boots gave it up as a bad job.

And so to the Snake.
I'’ve written a lot about my battles with this slippery foe, so today I'’ve posted a small movie to give you an insight into what it was like this morning.

[SIZE="1"]Movie 1 - conditions[/SIZE]


[SIZE="1"]Movie 2 - views[/SIZE]


I didn'’t stop at the top, feeling reasonably good, chugging around the sharp left-hand turn and back down the slope behind the Snake. I sucked down the second half of an Espresso Hammer Gel (the first part went at the top of the YBR) before tackling the ugly field-edge towards the road to Rottingdean. I slid like a loon, desperate for grip, at last (and for once) relieved to reach the tarmac. Gary caught me a few hundred yards along the road, cursing the conditions and muttering oaths about ‘'never again’'.

I walked Windmill Hill. –There was no choice and even less available footing, the only route with any traction almost through the brambles skirting the mud-slide. Down past St Dunstans and back onto the cliff-top I caught a few of the main marathon group, the first (last in her group) running quite well alongside the redoubtable Lycra Tony on his trusty push-bike. I wheezed encouragement as I staggered past, genuinely impressed by the efforts of these courageous newbies, many of whom covered fifteen miles for the first time today. It's doubtful they'll ever have a tougher test.

Eighteen miles in around three hours in harsh conditions.
Good mileage, valuable time on my feet and no discernable damage to my right hamstring so in all a good mornings’ work. Totals for this week: 36 miles/ 58k (TOM 'safe bronze' schedule: 77k)

[SIZE="1"]L to R: Approach to North Face; Mud-pluggers; Top of the W; YBR; Death Valley[/SIZE]