February

[Sweder]

I got home at lunchtime, face pale, legs plastered with drying mud, hunched in the doorway trying to find my laces on my heavily camoflaged boots.
Mrs S looked up from her paper.
‘Are you OK love?’
I stole a line from Marcellus Wallace in Pulp Fiction:
‘Naw; I’m pretty f*ckin’ far from OK.’

Mr Wallace goes on to inform the gentleman who has just (foolishly) brutalised him that he’s going to ‘call a couple of hard, pipe-hittin' n*ggas to go to work . . . with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch’. Those same solid, weapon-wielding individuals must’ve paid a visit to the Jog Shop Jog course today and got medieval on my ass. I can’t believe being whacked in the legs with lead pipes could actually feel any worse than that, that . . . there’s no other word for it Nigel; brutal hammering.

Sam ‘the Legend’ Lambourne, his legs and push-bike coated in thick, cloying slime, said it was ‘as tough a winter track as I've seen.’ By the time I limped home I’d left every ounce of effort out in the hills, my torso frozen and pink, fingers numb, face crusted in salt. Conditions underfoot were appalling; flooded fields, homicidally slippery slopes, man-swallowing mud-holes, all set to the soundtrack of a howling wind which seemed to take evil pleasure in appearing in our faces at every turn.

After a swig of water and half a gel at the second stage on the Snake the wheels came off. Remember Dick Dastardly in Whacky Races? At fifteen miles there was a ‘Ping! Boing! Spre-doing! Clunk!’ and my gearbox, in the shape of my stamina, leg-strength and lung-power, lay scattered behind me on the hillside. I could almost hear Muttley laughing in the bushes.

We'd met above the marina at nine, congratulations offered to Paul the Goat on his 1:21 Sussex Beacon PB. Scottie was off skiing with his family, otherwise he’d have got the same for his commendable 1:26, and my companions generously acknowledged my cheeky PB in the same race.

Six miles in and the North Face was its usual intransigent self, the approaching drop almost impassable. The Yellow Brick Road offered a constant headwind yet the three amigos (Chris and Gary with me, Paul the Goat and Prawn having crested the horizon a while back) ploughed gamely on, keeping a fair pace and enjoying one of very few sure-footed stages. We plunged down the perilous first drop of the Big W, but as we reached the first turn Chris suggested carrying on all the way into the village. The turn itself and early stages of the return climb were a swamp – there was no good to be done there. We agreed, following the path all the way to the bottom of the valley and along the main road into Kingston Village.

Ten minutes later I pointed out the Juggs pub and the adjacent field, home to the mighty Kingston Kestrels, the junior football team where I had the pleasure of coaching and managing a fabulous crop of players for six years. Undoubtedly my finest time in sport, watching untainted youth play from the heart, bearing no relation to the over-hyped, petulant nonsense that plagues the professional game. The climb out of Kingston was long and arduous, the chalk-flint track taking a heavy toll on our legs as we clambered up the 150 metre ascent. I felt an imaginary bungee chord tugging at my back as I hauled myself up the slippery track. My house is less than a mile from Kingston; I could almost smell the hot tea and toast. At the top we scampered westward towards Woodingdean, happy to be running free on soft turf once more. Half a mile later we hung a left into the Castle Hill Nature Reserve, the drop down into the valley running with rainwater and slicked in wet mud. We ran as if on hot coals, one bad step away from disaster, down into the valley leading to the foothills of the Snake.

Which brings us back, not quite Quentin-style, to where it all went a bit Pete Tong.
Moyleman and Gary pulled away as I ran out of gas and I let them go, remembering some sound advice on Ultra running; sometimes you have to stop and press ‘reset’. So I did. I strolled along, slurping on a hammer gel, swigging water and letting my breathing calm down. Recovered, I set off at a modest pace, lumbering up the soggy serpent's back, unperturbed by the sight of my companions shrinking into the wind-blown distance. Sometimes you have to hold your hands up. We’re all guilty of running outside our comfort zone from time to time; I'd simply pushed too hard to keep up with better runners and the conditions had found me out.

Once I’d rationalised the situation I relaxed. The last five miles were hardly an example of quality distance running; it hurt like hell but I got home, albeit in a sluggish 3 Hours 40. It’s hard to be too disappointed after well over 1500 feet of ascent through foul terrain, and I’m not. What I will do now is schedule a mini-taper for the week ahead (before Steyning) – a couple of gentle hilltop plods and no Friday night road session – in the hope that a little rest will go a long way.

The hot aprés-run shower was almost indecent.
I stayed under that steaming, stinging rain until the hot water ran out, hands against the tiled wall, staring at the filth running off my legs to swirl around the plughole, taking most of my aches and pains with it.

20+ miles, 3 Hours 40