February 2017

[Sweder]

Moyleman: Part Two

21.07 kms
2:28:54
Ave pace: 7:04 mpk
Calories burned: 2023
AHR: 143 bpm
Elevation: 498 metres

   

Up with the lads for a bitterly cold, wind-lashed half marathon in the Moyleman hills. 
We needed to reconnoitre the second half of the route, to assess access, trail conditions, all that jazz. After last Saturday's ugly slog I felt sure I'd do better. OATR is running the section on the day, so this was to be a good workout for him, schooling those muscles in the rise fall and rise again of this, the generally accepted tougher of the two halves. 

We drove out to Southease YHA and set off up Itford Hill. The start of this section is a five mile climb. After a while, we were caught and passed by a couple of runners, a supremely fit young woman, lean golden legs shining down from scant, tight shorts, and a gent of similar age to ourselves, more conservatively preserved against the elements. We would play tag with these two all the way up Firle Beacon to Bo Peep farm. The Lady was in training for the Steyning Stinger, a course to rival the Moyleman as a test of endurance and hill-craft. A good friend of hers will take on the Moyleman in two weeks. Today they were following the South Downs Way from Housedean Farm to Eastbourne. 

I noted her running style was remarkably efficient, feet barely moving off the soft turf, legs giving the impression of someone gently warming up. This reminded me of Steve Scott and some of the Jog Shop Joggers, and of Chris McDougall's descriptions of the Tarahumara in Born to Run. Their running style looks effortless, as if they could run all day like that. They probably can. 

   

We three, OATR, in fine form, bouncing along like Tigger, CharlieCat, getting back into running after a brief dalliance with the ski slopes of Europe, and I, turned north to drop down the hard road from Bo Peep to the Old Coach Road. At that turning CC5 offered us a nibble on his fat balls. Sorry, on his Fat Balls, a bespoke concoction attributed to Naomi Ayres, featuring chia seeds, dried cranberries, honey and 'other stuff'. They were delicious. 

The Old Coach Road has undergone a transformation of sorts. In years past this has been peppered with bomb craters filled with brackish rainwater. Those holes are still there in places, but the worst section, just after Honeysuckle Cottage, through the woods, has been all but levelled. OATR set a cracking pace and I dropped off. I've decided, somewhat late in life, that it pays to know your optimum pace and stick to it. I'd ditched MAF for this one - you can't really run uphill for the first miles at under 125 bpm, it's antisocial - but I wanted to get round and still feel vaguely human. The lads kindly waited for me at the turns.

Through Farmer Pyle's underpass (by prior arrangement; this is NOT a public thoroughfare), across a Somme-like ploughed field, skating across monstrous tyre tracks, trying not to snap an ankle, towards Glynde village. Sad news to bring you, here. The Trevor Arms, a delightful flint-walled public house. renowned for a fine, varied menu of local ales, parked plumb in the heart of this gorgeous Sussex village, has closed. I don't know why. We stopped to peer through the windows. Posters proclaimed refurbishment, but these were dated 2016 and there were no signs of recent activity. On through the village, left into the lane, up through the access gate (nobly guarded by a brave Blackbird) and onto the foothills of Mount Caburn. 

   

MAF or not, I'd decided a while back to walk Caburn. You can heckle all you like; I know my 'strong stride' pace is a match for my 'desperate chug' pace. This was borne out as I kept the gap between myself and OATR (chugging) honest all the way up. CC5, who had picked up a blister shortly after Bo Peep, was right behind me. He wasn't enjoying himself, a look of confusion writ across his furrowed brow. One thing leads to another. The blister had forced him to change his cadence, which in turn was messing with his muscles. The man was not happy. Up, up, up we went, all the way to the summit, where we regrouped. Then down the long drop into the valley, across to the edge of the golf course, up, up once more before the final, glorious plummet into town.

   

We ran along Cliffe High Street, past cold-eyed shoppers and curious children, up the passage to Harveys Yard, where we hit the gates as one.
'Beer sets you free' I muttered. They knew what I meant. In two weeks 275 runners will pour through these gates, another 25 having completed the first Half as lead-off relay runners, as we pour their pints, serve pizzas and dish out mementos. It's quite possibly my favourite day of the year. I can't wait.