February

[Sweder]

The Late Mr Swede
How is it with the ladies of the house away, my son off in Brighton at some hedonistic teenage rampage and (for me) an indecently early (and sober) night I end up scrambling around this morning desperately late? Perhaps it was the false sense of security; no tea to make for the missus, no cocoa to make for Phoebe, plenty of time to enjoy some Match of the Day with my coffee and toast.

I made it to the Marina at nine on the dot, cruel and unfortunate demises wished upon any number of dawdling Sunday drivers along the way. A small group gathered at our starting place, most people opting for the Sussex Beacon Half Marathon (starting at 10). Moyleman and I had arranged to do a six mile cliff top lope before the race as a prolonged warm-up/ to add much needed mileage. The first part went pretty well, though we kicked off a good ten minutes after the planned start. Conditions were perfect; cool, overcast, very little wind, the turf dry yet receptive. We ran easily to Saltdean (exactly three miles), returning along the Undercliff, the sea rolling in to throw spray against the beach wall, dog walkers and recreational joggers enjoying the salty morning air.

The Wrong Shoes
Back at the car (to change into clean/ dry, numbered-up shirts, and swap off-roaders for road-runners) I discovered that vital component that, inevitably, I’d left behind; my road shoes. Bugger! The Brighton Half is now entirely on hard standing. Oh well, nothing for it but to run in my Adrenaline offies; that’ll teach me to start the day with my head up my derriere (although why change the habits of a lifetime I hear SP asking). We loped off down the cycle track, both slurping on Hammer Gels, on to Madeira drive and westward towards the start.
‘Pretty quiet up ahead.’
‘Yeah – reckon they’re long gone.’
Our time calculations had not allowed for a late start or the tog-changing. By the time we reached the start/ finish the clock already showed 29:53 elapsed. Sporadic cheers went up from the volunteers preparing the barriers for the finishing straight as the two sleepy-heads chugged into view.
‘That way boys!’
‘Hurry up, you’re well behind!’
‘Come on lads!’
Sam Lambourne turned from his Jog Shop stall to great us with a growl.
‘Where the hell have you two been?’
‘Er, long warm up’.

For the first half mile we were clapped and cheered by the café-dwellers lining the wide Madeira Drive pavements. I have to say we enjoyed the attention – and the open road ahead. The roads had already been re-opened to traffic leaving us to weave along the busy pavements and rely on the remaining marshals to halt traffic to let us cross major roads, but there's a lot to be said for setting off after the main swarm has left. We passed the Brighton Pavilion and St Peter’s Church, Preston Circus, the Duke of York Picture House (one of the finest independent cinemas in England) and the Fire Station before the route doubled back through the lanes. Well into the second mile we caught the first stragglers, a couple of girls running (strolling) for a local hospice.
‘Come on ladies!’
‘We’re not last you know!’
‘You are now!’
Onto the prom proper I felt the race had truly started. Moylesey set a fair pace but I managed to do my share of front-running, my speed solid but not super-fast as we overhauled an increasing number of back markers. Along the front through Hove, past the King Alfred Leisure Centre and into a slingshot turn around Hove Lagoon we continued to overtake runners, offering encouragement/ appreciation where required/ appropriate. I must say there were some quite lovely female forms to admire and I offered a small prayer of thanks for this unexpected late-start bonus.

Mile 6 and Chris had the hammer down pretty well. I started working hard and realised I’d need more fuel, taking advantage of a water station to squeeze down an Espresso gel – lovely! We hailed the Peace Statue at Hove, waved to the breakfasters at the Meeting Place, a popular al fresco eatery right on the promenade, tables shielded from the offshore breeze by large yellow windbreaks. The course stayed at sea level taking us across the cobbles and past any numbers of cafes, bars and shops. The usual collection of ancient couples and new parents tempted fate with suicidal dashes across the stream of runners. Back to the Palace Pier, a short, steep up-ramp and across the entrance to Madeira Drive before the long climb out of Brighton. I started to struggle here, and by the time we’d crested the rise Chris was a few yards ahead. I let him go, deciding to knuckle down to a more manageable pace, and I started thinking about possible finishing times.

Feets Don’t Fail Me Now
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about a PB. Despite the extra six miles at the front end conditions were perfect and the course if anything was a little flatter than in previous years. We’d avoided the Pamplona-style madness of the official start and maintained a committed pace throughout. Oncluding the thirty minutes for our late start I figured 2:15 was my clock time target. Trouble was at this point my legs were none too interested in times. They were rather more concerned with pains, aches in my upper thighs, complaints from my knees and an almost inaudible high-pitched whine from my ankles. The jumble of synaptic e-mails arriving in brain central translated into requests for hot showers and comfy sofas. Too bad, legs; we’ve not far to go, so shut up.

I’m none too pleased with the organisers for the next change in course layout. Instead of plodding along the top to the marina as we had last year we took a sharp right-hander at Duke’s Mound to join a bizarre Disney-esque, maze-like routing system complete with barriers and hazard tape. At the bottom of the slope we turned right, ran for several hundred metres only to hairpin back east, opposite and alongside the way we’d just come. To seaward the finishers occupied a third lane heading west, straining for their finishing bursts, the end for them very much in sight. From above the whole thing must have looked like a 1970's arterial flow chart on the BBC's OPen University; at ground level it was far less amusing. For us there was still the joy of the climb through the cycle tunnel, the lope along the cliff top (the first half-kilometre of our normal Sunday run and for me a great opportunity to run on soft mud for a bit – I could almost hear my poor battered feet sigh with relief) before the plummet down the slipway onto the Undercliff. We turned west once more, onto the (very long) home straight. At the ‘800 metres to go’ sign I felt a tiny surge of energy and dug in for a hard finish, passing a few more runners as the race clock appeared above the sea of bobbing heads. 2:09omething. Bloody hell! That can’t be right!

I kicked again, almost (I said almost) sprinting for the line.
2:09:34 as I crossed. Less 30-odd minutes . . . blimey, a new PB - 1:39.
I was delighted, if not a little dazed and confused. Sue Gorringe, preparing for her first London Marathon, an old friend and one of the Jog Shop newbies, waited in the finishing area, grinning madly above her silver foil wrap before offering me a hug. I must’ve looked a bit odd, knackered undoubtedly but equally (and genuinely) non-plussed at my time.

Beer - A Reformed Beer Monster Writes
Strolling back to the car, a mile walk which did wonders for working the rusted iron out of my legs, I thought about something that MLCMan mentioned and I have – until now – managed to ignore. Beer. There hasn’t been a lot of beer about lately. OK, putting Almería gently to one side. Now I love a beer – in fact the only thing I enjoy more than a pint is two pints. But just lately I’ve also enjoyed running without an ugly flap of fatty skin hanging over the front of my leggings. Like it or lump it there is a connection, although to assuage all fears of long-term abstinence I shall crack a few tinnies during the footie this afternoon.

After a coffee with Chris (he struggled to get the grin off his face at my continued incredulity – ‘I crossed in a net 1:36. I knew you’d smash your PB’ I drove home to harness the dogs for a post-run warm-down on the hills. Strolling along in the beautiful peace I mulled the morning over, deciding there’s neither rhyme nor reason to life sometimes. Wrong shoes, six mile warm-up and a massive PB . . . it’s a funny old game, Saint.

Stats:
19 miles – 2:40 (run time)
Sussex Beacon Half 13.1 miles 1:39:41

Roll on next Sunday when we’re off on a full Jog Shop Jog – 20 miles including the foulness that is the Big W. Can’t wait.