Rounded off a week of challenging hill sessions with another belter this morning. Thanks to someone on here dragging me out for 'a' beer to celebrate his birthday I was feeling slightly fuzzy. I'd planned a relatively straightforward ten miler, Ditchling Beacon and back. By the time I'd crawled out of bed, pfaffed about for a time feeding dogs, cats, taking tea up to the Mrs, the cool morning rain had made way for blazing sunshine. I reset my targets, aiming for a Blackcap round trip, incorporating a first - for me - ascent of Sweder's hill.
Like their master, the hounds are not fans of the heat. We three laboured, breathing hard. At the top of Sweder's hill I turned left, taking the bridleway alongside the old race track and behind the stables. The trail narrowed, nettles and brambles closing in on my bare legs until the trail was swallowed up and I was wading through a sea of violent foliage. I cut my losses, banking right through a thornbush and across the race track, back to the familiar flint track, which offered leafy respite from the sun. The morning rain had organised the dust, laying a soft, even spread over the ground, a delight to run on. All too soon we broke cover into the sheep fields. The temperature rose with every step, coaxing last night's beer from every pore. At least I had the ability to sweat; all Ripley and Murphy could do to cool down was pant faster and use pleading eye signals to beg me to head home. They got their own back by drinking greedily from several sheep troughs on the route as I looked on, wishing I'd brought some water.
I banked 9.8 kilometres. In the last mile or so my legs screamed, the accumulated rigours of over 1000 metres of climb over three tough outings in six days taking its toll. I stopped three times (happily never on a climb). Once to say hello to fellow Moyleman planner Brian and his mate Fi as they returned from a reccie of the Lewes Downland Ten route. Again at the Blackcap trig point, to let the dogs catch their breath and to stretch my steadily coiling legs. The last as I entered Landport Bottom. A group of elder folk adorned in floppy hats and rather a lot of biege, out for a morning stroll, approached. I held the gate open as they shuffled past, sweat running freely off my nose to splash onto my sodden chest. I smiled. The last man, pushing eighty, leaned carefully on his gnarled walking stick and smiled back.
'You look absolutely knackered, son'
A week of lighter running beckons, a few short, sharp sprints before a long, slow run at the weekend. I'd like to get back to ParkRun, too. It'll be good to meet up with some of the Brighton crew, and to measure my fitness with a couple of flat-ish 5Ks.
On, on.
And I Would Run One Hundred Miles
