No, MLCM is right, your stuff is getting worryingly fascinating. You've got a good way of getting stuck into the great paradox of running - torture as pleasure. Interesting that you're starting to think about what to write while running. I do that too, but like you, forget 90% of it by the time I get in front of the keyboard.
My output has tailed off a bit recently, it's true. I have some marvellous excuses though.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Time: 21:15
Distance: 4.4 miles
Duration: 00:42:01
Location: Lewes Town Centre
Conditions: Dray, calm, clear night. Damp under foot (Road/ pavement)
And now I see that my life has been so blue
With all the heartaches I had till I met you
But Im glad to say now thats all behind me
With you here by my side - Eric Clapton, Bad Love
That's a fairly presice time for you, Sweder. It's usually a stab in the dark on the pace front - you know, times rounded up. And that mileage looks a little accurate . . . Que Passa?
OK, I confess: I found the stopwatch feature on my mobile phone today. I've had the thing almost a year, was fumbling about trying to sort out my start time and 'bing' there it was. Having discovered this technology I elected to run a course that I could later drive and record a fair approximation of distance via my trucks' odometer. Welcome to the Matrix . . .
Recovery runs . . . not really the done thing in Lewes. You see, Lewes, the sumptuous County Town of East Sussex, repleat with Castle, plethora of public houses and historic buildings, is like a minature Rome: it's bloody hilly. So when one sets out for a gentle lope to push a bit of O2 through one's taught fibres, one finds oneself including rather too much hill work. I'm going to need a recovery run to recover from my recovery run . . .
Out of the house, left then right and down the steep hill and onto the A275. Right past the Victoria Hospital and on to Lewes Prison. HM Prison Lewes, last of the Victorian man-cages eschewed by the majority of contemporary penal custodians, protected by flint walls and barbed wire, occasionally (but not this evening) illuminated by the flickering beams of the Police helicopter searchlight.
I been to the edge, an' there I stood an' looked down
You know I lost a lot of friends there baby, I got no time to mess around - Van Halen, Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love
Across the traffic lights and down into Winterbourne Crescent. A couple of years ago during heavy rains in the Autumn someone took the decision to open the sluice gates on the River Ouse at Uckfield. This, as the rising tide from Newhaven, swollen by the torrential rains, engorged the river at Lewes. The resulting clash of two impressive bodies of water caused the Winterbourne, a subterranian stream that winds beneath the town, to rise up and invade homes the length of Lewes; and so the great flood of 2000 came to pass.
I climbed the hill past Roche Diagnostics (I had written to Roche in 2003 for support in my first FLM. Roche develop test meter strips for diabetics, and I thought it appropriate that they might sponsor me in my efforts for JDRF. They thought differently, deeming my letter not worthy of reply) and then left into Southover High Street. This is a lovely part of an attractive town, the highlight being Anne of Cleaves House situated opposite the impressive Southover Church. I sped past, enjoying the freedom of running on near deserted roads through English history. To the station, nodding a cursory glance towards the Dripping Pan, home of Lewes FC - the Mighty Rooks. Currently 2nd in the Nationwide Conference South having gained leapfrog promotion last season, and all this on a ground where, playing for Kingston Village Seniors, I hit the crossbar from 25 yards. Under floodlights!
I'm just a gigolo and ev'rywhere I go
People know the bar I'm playing
Pay for every dance selling each romance
Ooh, I could say - David Lee Roth, Just A Gigolo
On past Lewes station, up station street, a warming 1 in 4 climb to the high street at the top. Through the lights, past the Town Hall and The Lamb, one of the towns' 30+ pubs and purveyors of alcho-pops and a reasonable pint of Guinness. To the T junction and Lewes Police station (closed - all communications via an intercom), left past the Elephant and Castle (live sports, pool tables and lots of students), left again skirting the Paddock, common play area and summertime home of Sussex sport 'Stoolball'. Up another (bloody) hill, into Prince Edwards Road (nice houses, leafy lanes) and 1/2 mile (uphill) back to the A275. I glanced at the flickering face of my mobile: 25:22. Darn, another circuit required.
Are you ready for the new sensation?
Well, here's the shot heard 'round the world.
All you backroom boys salute when her flag unfurls.
Well, guess who's back in circulation? - David Lee Roth, Yankee Rose
I started a smaller, tighter loop, forgoing Southover for Western Road (The Meridian, Black Horse) the Bottleneck (Two Brewers, The Rainbow, The White Hart) and up to the Town Hall and the Lamb and repeat to finish. This second section felt good too, although the legs were a little heavy. SP's observations came to mind, and I checked my posture in the window of Ask - a stoop to draw the envy of Gollum. I drew myself up, trying to straighten my back, and looked up. Part of the reason for my hunched style is my need to stare at the road/ pavement immediately in front of my feet. This may come from a lot of offroad running, where care must be taken over potholes, gifts from dogs and cattle, and the occasional broken bottle.
I did feel better, and I must say SP may have something with this stoop = back pain thing. More investigation required. Finally up the slope at the end of Prince Edwards Road and right to the foot of South Way. I stopped the clock at 42:01 and walked up the last 1/4 mile, hot, sweaty and very happy with my nights' work.
Too late, my time has come
Sends shivers down my spine, body's aching all the time
Goodbye, ev'rybody, I've got to go
Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth - Queen, Bohemian Rhapsody
. . . ah yes, the lyrics. I'm sure some of you might think that, with this elaborate system of running a drivable route, using a mobile as a stopwatch, mounting my truck and driving the route for an accurate measurement, I might be better served investing in a GPS watch. But you see, my portable technology budget was blown last year on a portable DAB Radio (for crystal clear 5 Live coverage and fabulous classic Rock from Planet Rock, the Rock Specialists).
Planet Rock provided my soundtrack tonight, and they featured the work of David Lee Roth. Personally I think Van Halen (Hagar) sucked after DLR, but there you go.
Thank you for watching
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Got me too... really should learn to read slowly and carefully, just like my English teacher told me soooooo many moons ago.
I agree about the stooped running/back pain thing. I did that too, and when I started running with a more upright stance, not only did the back pain go, but running became a whole lot easier. Something to do wtih gravity according to a book I consulted.
Interesting choice of music there Sweder... lately I have been mesmerised by Eric Clapton's 1996 Hyde Park concert DVD, which is simply stunning. Even non-Clapton fans find it brilliant. Cheaper than a Garmin too.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha . . . sub 5 minute miles . . .
that's good, Andy. I'll work on my headings in future
Not sure what that means Nigel, but thanks for the feedback
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Circuit: (tonights' times in brackets)
Warm up (3 x 400 metres, gentle jog untimed)
2 x 200 metres (00:36, 00:40)
1 x 1000 metres (04:37)
6 x 200 metres (00:43, 00:40, 00:37, 00:38, 00:38, 00:40)
1 x 1000 metres (04:51)
2 x 300 metres (01:14, 01:14)
1 x mile (4 laps) (07:41)
1 x 400 metres cool down
Following last weeks' attempt to cram a meal in pre-race I elected to snack mid-afternoon. Despite a chicken salad bagel at 16:00 followed by a banana at 17:00 it was tough watching the family tuck into Tuna Pasta Penne at 18:00. I consoled myself with the certain knowledge that my scientific approach would yield best practice for future sessions.
Another change from last week; last nights' recovery run. I elected to rest last Monday and felt tight-legged at the track. Tonight I felt better, enjoying the 3 lap warm-up. A bigger crowd tonight (around 30) with a couple of proper whippets setting the pace, so less track room but more to chase.
All times compare favourably with last week, but the one I'm really interested in is the mile. The object, according to the coaches, is to run the sprints at 90% of top speed to tire the legs quickly, and then push hard through the mile. It sounds good, but the reality is painful. The 2 x 1K interludes between speed sessions provide ample time to cook up reasons why you can't do the mile. One or two debutants did just that, watching gleefully from the stands as we hammered out those last four circuits. I walked off, head held high, grinning foolishly at them; OK, so I'm knackered. But quitting before the end of a track session is more habit-forming than a Hi-ball before breakfast (apologies to Sam Snead).
My aim tonight was a mile inside 8 minutes. Frankly I'd have been happy with anything inside last weeks' 08:23, so I'm pretty darned chuffed with 07:41. The dining experiment certainly paid off, as has a weeks' hard work. It'll be tough to show the same improvement next week, but as I told myself as I left the shadow of the Withdean tonight, 8 minute miles on track night just won't cut the Mu'tard no more.
Rest day tomorrow (except that I have to drive to Birmingham and back) and an 8 mile offroader on Thursday. Hope the wind drops a tad by then.
Thank you for watching.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Time of day: 11:15 Hrs
Location: South Downs (Black Cap, Falmer, Lewes)
Conditions: Sunny, still, warm Muddy in places
Distance: 8 miles (estimated)
Run time: 01:22:26
Soundtrack: Talksport Talk At The Test: 4th Test from Johannesburg
Companions: Gypsy, Tess, Willow
I had always intended taking the morning off to run to Black Cap, but two things confirmed the decision. Firstly Phoebe, my daughter, woke up looking like an extra from the Sixth Sense and was obviously staying home from school. Secondly, this is by far the most beautiful day of 2005, and I simply had to get out and enjoy it.
I worked through the early part of the morning, keeping an eye (actually an ear) on Phoebe. Thankfully her sickness did not prevent her from eating - a major problem for insulin dependant diabetics - and she wolfed down a good breakfast and mid-morning snack. I scheduled my run between snack and lunch and arranged for Granny to pop 'round for an hour to cover.
Having dressed for running from first thing I received constant badgering from the three hounds. Somehow they knew I intended to take them today - I don't often, as my evening runs are road based and not suitable for inquisitive, cat-chasing cannines.
We set off into an immediate mile long uphill climb. I could see the bridle path was going to be pretty boggy so we ran through the vacant sheep field up towards the racing stables and on up to Black Cap. The views today were breath-taking; South West I could see the Brighton/ Shoreham skyline and the hazy ocean beyond; South East the crest of Seaford Head, preamble to the Seven Sisters, rose from the misty foothills. To the North, from East to West I could scan the Weald, up past Hever Castle all the way to the hills adjacent to the M25. Simply stunning, and in places very Tolkein, in a Peter Jackson stylee.
Feeling good and not wanting to miss anything I elected to push on towards Ditchling. As we approached the point where the National Trust trail divides I noticed a couple on horseback plodding steadily off to the right. To prevent the dogs causing havoc with the horses and so ruin their peaceful morning I turned left, assuming I could loop around the adjacent sheep fields at some point and return to the foot of Black Cap a couple of miles later.
I am reminded at this point of the early part of Thomas Harris's novel, Silence of the Lambs. Jack Crawford (FBI) is speaking with student Clarice Starling, making conversation before revealing her daunting task. Starling is reminded of one of Crawfords' early lectures, where he used the cliched example of the word 'assume'.
'Never assume. You will only make an ASS out of U and ME', he'd said.
Well, I made a complete ass out of myself this morning. Not only did the left hand path degenerate into a quagmire some 500 yards on (I accrued an impressive number of thick 'booties' despite my best efforts to pick gingerly through the sludge) I soon realised my 'loop' assumption was ill-founded. This path continued, unbroken, to the horizon. I was probably only a couple of miles from Falmer, where I could return to Lewes along the A27, but the company of dogs ruled this out as an option. I plodded on, perhaps for a mile or so, and accepted the inevitable; I could either cut through the occupied sheep fields to my left with three excitable dogs . . . or I could turn back. Quagmire or not, this was a no-brainer. Explaining how I'd managed to get our beloved pets shot for sheep-worrying to Mrs Sweder was not on the agenda. Back it was then.
I should tell you at this point how things were going in the cricket. Before I left the house, England had won the toss, elected to bat and lost Marcus Trescothick. Robert Key, a man who seems to know what a knife and fork is for, joined Andrew Strauss and survived through to Lunch. I started my run as the two came out to bat, and settled into an easy rythmn as Mike Atherton, former opening stalwart and many-time saviour of England, described the action via my portable DAB radio. Strauss is in imperious form; his bat appears to be 3 feet wide, and he wields it with the authority and confidence of a man born to play test match cricket. Pollock, by far the most impressive of the South African bowlers, plugged away without reward, unlucky not to have Strauss trapped LBW on 70.
Key, playing for his place in the absence of the injured Butcher, played conservatively, nervously prodding and poking about at the crease, as if his form was somewhere just beneath the crusty surface of the wicket. Strauss kicked on. As we bounded down the sunlit hillside of Black Cap towards the stables, he began to open his shoulders and treat the Jo'burg crowd to some lofty hitting. One Nicky Boyer delivery was met half-way down the pitch and planted into row 12. I hoped this fine young batsman would reach his hundred as we neared the end of our journey, but sensibly he resisted the temptation to complete a perfect morning for the slightly podgy, mud-splattered listener crossing the Downs into Lewes and played each delivery on its merits.
Finally, sadly, our wonderful run came to a close. The dogs were as happy as I (if I had a tail I'd've been wagging it furiously at this point) and we crashed through the back door, making for our respective water bowls.
I figured 1 hour 22 (82 minutes) approximate 10 minute miles . . . we'll call it 8 miles. I will get SP out on this run one day to verify or correct these estimates. But as Glaconman remarked in his excellent introduction, we need not be quite so obsessed with times and distance. At least, not on a day like today.
Strauss reached his 5th test hundred as I made cheese and pickle sandwiches for Phoebe. As I write, an hour after my run, he's still there on 120, with Rob Key nurdling his way to 82. In the words of Ritchie Beneaud, 'What a fine days' play it's been out there today . . .'
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Not so hot when you know we were 227 for 1 . . . we've got Hoggard in as night watchman so its 263 for 5. The other man in is Vaughan, hardly a man bubbling with confidence . . . Flintoff and Jones yet to come . . . we should be looking at around 400, but it sounds like a decent track so very much in the balance. SA have a new ball just 4 overs old and a nights' sleep. Am I sounding a little pessimistic?
Actually I listened to the cricket on my portable radio whilst I ran. I haven't seen any of this test so far, and suspect with all the work I have to catch up on I won't get to until Saturday. I quite like the radio commentary, although I prefer the BBC crew to TalkSport (apart from the excellent Atherton).
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yep, that's my one contribution to the flora and fauna in Chez Sweder. Mrs Sweder is the green-fingered one in our gaff . . . I keep that pot of decrepit earth and withered foliage to remind myself never to waste another moment dabbling in the green arts. I'm the Anti-gardener, or Incapability Brown if you will
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Time of day: 18:45 Hrs
Location: A27 (Lewes to Falmer and Return)
Distance: 8 Miles
Duration: 01:18:57
Conditions: Dry, Cold
Soundtrack: Planet Rock via DAB (intermittent)
And it all started so well.
Pleased as punch with myself, I was. Got into work, looked at the calender:
14th January . . . blimey - me and Mrs Sweder got together on this day 21 years ago. Not a formal anniversary, you understand, but an important one - a private one, one only we two would remember. And I had remembered! There are serious brownie points to be scored today, my friend!
12 hours later, and I'm shot to hell. Not a terribly taxing day, although more down to my lethargy than the lack of work to complete - it'll all be sitting there for me on Monday. And now I'm home, pulling on the lycra running pants, my mud-caked Mizunos reminding me that I'd not cleaned up from yesterday's glorious run, with a feeling of impending doom rushing up like the first storm clouds across a still desert plain.
It's going to be a bad run.
In some ways I'm not altogehter unhappy about this. I've had bad runs before, and on at least one occasion it was on a Sunday 4 weeks before London when I should have been breezing through a 20-miler. I have no problem with a ropey saunter on a Friday night in Januray, unaccompanied on a dull, expediant route.
But there's that dull ache in the pit of my stomach;
this is going to take a lot of EFFORT.
Wired for sound I loped off into the night, winding down the 1.5 miles from my front door, past the Prison and right again, down to the roundabout and the A27. This is the no-brainer route, the route for desk jockeys who really don't want to have to think AT ALL; just plod out for 4 miles, turn around and plod back.
Planet Rock served up a mediocre soundtrack, although Seven Seas of Rye perked me up as I hit the start of the gentle climb up to Falmer . . .
. . . and there it was. Or rather, wasn't. Pop, crackle . . do like to be beside . . .crackle . . . silence. Pop. Crackle. Nothing. Bugger.
Living in Lewes, and particularly being perched atop one of the high points above the town, radio and TV signals are not an issue. But take a few little steps in any direction . . . welcome to the Dark Ages. I'd lost Planet Rock. The option to switch to FM and pick up some vestige of Radio One was disguarded immediately; it would mean stopping and untangling the horrible mess I'd made of various water carriers, zipped up pockets and headphone wires, and despite the insistance of my customary early-run Demon , stopping was not an option. No, I'd plod on in silence. So I did.
Funny, with no companion, no enticing screnery and only the relentless (muffled) roar of the homeward-bound traffic 15 yards to my left, I started to pick up on a few aches and pains. That ankles' a bit dodgy . . .hmm, the left calf's not quite right . . . 10 minutes of this and my will to live was looking through the travel brochures. At the Texaco garage the roadside path detours behind some shrubbery, and the cold comfort afforded by oncoming headlights is denied.
Black. Black, black . . . I'm thinking of the Fast Shows' Johnny, the morose, manic depressive artist who defaces his work with broad strokes of his brush as his lady companion tries to restrain him. BLACK. Dark Thoughts lurk in these shrubs; thoughts of failure, of injury. "This was a mistake . . . you've been over-doing your training . . . 2 weeks with a nasty infection and you're up to 30 miles a week already - what WERE you thinking of? . . . "
Pop. Crackle . . . timeless classic from . . . crackle. Pop . . .
Electronic intro music . . . space-age base-line, staccato drums . . .
ELP - Fanfare for the Common Man! Ah, music may well be the food of love . . but 'tis also the bringer of hope and the lifter of hearts!
My body lifted, the crouch I'd subconciously accepted banished, and there - the path between the shrubs opened back out onto the road. Headlights lit up the path ahead and I started to stride out, meeting the rising path with determination, a maniacle grin spreading across my face. 'Thank you, Emerson Lake and Palmer' I muttered (for the first and almost certainly last time in my life).
Up to this point I was seriously concerned about my diary entry. Whilst it's acceptable that I should suffer an off night (or two) I had not wanted to inflict my pain upon you, dear reader. But now, as I raced (I'm using the term 'raced' here) up a healthy incline towards the (hopefully) future home of Brighton and Hove Albion, the radio experience reminded me of another altogether more serious break in communications 35 years ago, that at once froze then lifted the hearts of a watching world.
Lovell, Haise and Swigert. Three exceptional sons of Man, taking what was then described as a 'routine flight' into Space. A year before, man had walked on the Moon, and the Apollo series was continuing what some considered mundane work to further our knowledge of our closest celestial body. What transpired on April 13th 1970 is immortalised in the 1995 film named after the mission; Apollo 13.
Venting gas shortly after breaking into Lunar orbit the spacecraft suffered a potentially fatal explosion, putting the lives of the Astronauts in extreme peril. The mens' wits, aided my their earth-bound sickly crewmate Mattingly and a frantic Nasa crew, got them through. The heart-pounding climax, diligently re-told in the movie, revolved around a 4 minute, 32 second period of radio silence as the stricken craft re-entered Earths' atmosphere. During this period many abandoned hope for the crew; it had been said that if nothing was heard after 3 minutes the worst could be expected.
And then . . . pop, crackle . . . 'Houston, we are go for landing, we are go for landing'.
Not quite Emerson Lake and Palmer, but to those families and colleagues at Mission Control, the sweetest music ever heard.
I reached the White Swan at Falmer, tempted by the bright lights and convivial sounds eminating from the pub, checked my 4 mile split - 00:40:34 - took a swig of quality H2O and headed back towards Lewes. I'd managed to reach my Will To Live via cell phone. It was in the depature lounge at Gatwick, tapping its fingers and watching the boards for a flight to anywhere. And now it was back with me, pounding the cycle track into a slight head-wind, Ritchie Blackmore's Rainbow yammering in my ears (not a big fan of 'Since You've Been Gone', but there it was).
The break in radio transmission wasn't the only experience I shared with the Apollo 13 crew this evening; venting was also an issue. For some odd reason one of my work colleagues bought a job lot of donuts from the local supermarket. Accepting that I was bound to burn off any excess intake later, I dutifully scoffed three of the blighters. And they were taking huge delight in reminding me, with every other step, that they were far from finished with THIS palooka.
Spookily the pop and crackle returned just as I once again left the well-lit roadside for my sojourn into Helms Deep. This time I knew the blackout was temporary, I knew 'they'd' be coming back. I stepped up the pace to hurry the return. I worked out that I'd get good DAB reception at the foot of the mile and a half climb up to the Prison and on to my house. This would be the boost I'd need to push on, to finish on a natural high.
I settled into a steady pace, convinced I was easily out-running my out lap, although the headwind suggested the split would be well balanced. The point of re-entry approached, and I smiled knowlingly as the first faint crackles appeared in my headphones . . . pop. Spark. pop. fart . . . there! What's that . . . can't make it out yet . . . hope it's something really uplifting, a thumping, driving beat to carry me up this blasted hill, an ANTHEM . . .
. . . Rod bloody Stewart. Not only Rod bloody Stewart, but 'You Wear It Well' by Rod bloody Stewart. Is someone having a laugh? It's not EVEN funny! Oh, sod this, I'm going for it anyway . . . fuelled by a sense of anger and injustice I pounded on, blocking out Rod's gravelly groaning rasp, cresting the brow of the hill in reasonable style.
The rise to the Prison is steady and a little steeper than the outbound incline to Falmer, but the last 1/4 mile to my house is a pig. I'd need more than Rod the Bod, I'd need some serious liftage . . . and then, without fanfare or kerfuffle, there it was. Deep Purple, Smoke On The Water. I THANK YOU!
I relaxed once more, safe in the understanding that however poor this run had started it would end in style.
In all, the time wasn't bad. I know the 8 miles is accurate as this was my utility run last year and I measured it, albeit by car. 9.82 minute miles on a night when I'd quite expected to slump in a weeping heap is not altogether bad.
Reading this back I see that even for me this a disjointed, rambling, drawn-out and somewhat tedious entry.
Just right for tonight then.
Thank you for watching.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder, do you have some kind of exotic brain-implant device which translates your thoughts mid-run and then emails them to your home computer, or do you really manage to bang this stuff out post-run mid-endorphin-blast?
Anyone who can go on an 8 mile run, and believe it to be a bad run just because they lose a bit of radio reception, really doesn't have that much to worry about.
Time of day: 09:00
Distance: 12.4 miles
Terrain: Offroad - hills/ downland
Conditions: Dry, cold, soggy underfoot
Duration: 02:01:00
Safe in the knowledge that my bad run for the week was banked on Friday I embraced a fabulous January morning. Sunday pre-run customs observed - up at 07:30, nip down the newsagents, purchase milk and Sunday papers and deliver tea and papers in bed to Mrs Sweder - I set off to Brighton Marina.
Another excellent group in excess of 20 runners. As expected we extended the run from 10.2 miles to 12.4 miles to exclude the Telscombe residences and the unpopular ploughed field climb, to be replaced by our dear old friend, the Snake.
The Snake is a 2 mile winding climb from downland valleys to the crest of the South Downs. The beauty of the Snake is its deceptively gentle elevation. Thanks to the continual twist and turn of the track you never get to see the peak of the climb, so you're never completely sure how far you've travelled or more importantly how far there is left to go. Those of us who'd had the pleasure of this route last year have the advantage. We know two fundamental things; that one needs to run conservatively, to maintain a firm yet steady pace, to tame the beast without recourse to rest; and that the climb does in fact come to an end. The newbies amongst us would, I knew, be wondering if we'd be met at the top by a large set of gates and a white-clad person named Peter. They would also run out of puff two thirds of the way up.
(Change of tense alert: not sure why, it just seems appropriate at this point)
Jim Morrisons' words from Apocalypse Now drift across my mind.
Ride the snake, ride the snake
To the lake, the ancient lake, baby
The snake is long, seven miles
Ride the snake...he's old, and his skin is cold
The best part of 2 bottles of red wine at a friends house last night have emerged, converted into perspiration, and soaked my Tshirt. I feel far from old, but my skin is very cold. The Snake is my friend. The Snake will wrap me in her coils, she'll keep me warm. I love the Snake.
The Snake is my friend.
I follow two excellent hill climbers, unable to gain ground but happy to maintain a gap of some 50 meters. There's something about the hideous rasping of my breathing on climbs that I'm happy to keep private. We reach the top, sucking in crisp, clean air and survey the valleys between Brighton and Lewes. 'All down hill from here' declares the larger, fitter of the two. Indeed. So, waiting for the first of the intermediate runners to reach the rest point we set off, a gang of four, eager to finish and get to the warmth of the Asda cafe and a hot cup of coffee.
A soggy, mudpit infested horse track links the top of the Snake to Brighton Race course. This is negotiated rather than run, the objective being to reach the racecourse without injury (booties optional).
And then to Wilsons' Avenue, the mile-long 'drop' from the racecourse to Brighton Marina. Fit Large Man and I are still together, the other 2 just behind. Without exchanging a word or a glance we step up the pace, hammering down Wilsons on the grass verge. We're racing. At least, I am - I think Fit Large Man is running easy, but I'm in danger of losing control of my lower limbs as gravity takes over. Tears stream, torn from my eyes, and the vista before us takes on a Monet style. The pace continues, neither one trying to gain an advantage, but neither slowing. This is exhilarating! This must be what real racing must feel like. Bloody hell! Breathing is not an issue or an option - it's just happening as we hurtle, shoulder to shoulder like twin kamakazi's, towards the Marina.
We reach the foot of the main hill where the road kinks upwards like the end of the Olympic ski-jump ramp in Oslo. We'll slow down, I tell myself - but we don't. Muscles, limbs, lungs are on autopilot and the pace hardly drops. Finally we're at the traffic lights, around the corner and up the rough track behind the gasworks, easing up. My hearing, my eyesight, are restored, my heart is pounding, teeth bared in a maniacle grin.
What a run! Wow! I have NO idea what time we've done, and I don't care!
I've just completed the last mile of a 12 mile slog at Paula-Speed!
Our companions finish as we stretch out above the Marina. Sarah checks her Garmin: 12.4 miles, and we estimate FLM and I finished in 02:01. I'm delighted and ready for my coffee and cake at Asda. Happily for the Sunday shoppers I have a change of T-shirt in the car.
Same again next Sunday - I truly cannot wait.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
JANUARY 2005 - Back in Action
