Another day lost to lethargy and recuperation I'm afraid.
Despite the best come hither attempts of the morning sun I held fast in my bed until the time to run had passed, diving into the shower and slinking off to work like the lowest scoundrel. Chastened, I've resolved to nip off early, hoping to grab a twilight dance in the hills.
Meanwhile Im looking for my next challenge, a future race to tickle the tastebuds and keep the running juices flowing for the rest of the year. And, by George, I think Ive got it. The Foulées de la Soie is a remarkable cultural adventure through four provinces in China, with daily runs of between 11 and 21 kms through terrain as varied as cities, jungle, desert, mountains and historic landmarks. Ive only just located the website, and even at first glance I can see the level of commitment required if only in the time it takes to complete the program, up to 15 days might be prohibitive. Ill let others judge, but as life experiences go this seems to be right up there.
There's the small matter of Cape Town to negotiate first.
Not to mention a merciless flogging at the hands of Moyleman this Sunday
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The best laid plans . . . I ended up rushing home through ugly Friday traffic, desperate to catch the last of a beautiful spring day. By the time Id thrown on shorts, an old vest and squeezed into my decrepit, mud-crusted off-roaders there was barely time to chase twilight's last blush into the western hills. Turning at Blackcap, I marvelled at the strangeness of the half-light, the last vestige of the dying day picking out wisps of straw-coloured grass, tufts of close-cropped, highlighted hair in the looming darkness of the downs. The orange glow of towns and villages twinkled across the Sussex plains like distant campfires. I ran home, peering into the gloom to seek out the trail, Gypsy and Tess keeping close counsel.
You could say running across uneven, slippery terrain in the near-dark a few weeks before the biggest race of your life is at best risky and at worst an act of madness. But I've rarely felt as alive as I did tonight, and wouldnt have missed it for the world.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Reminds me of running through the pot-holed, chaotic darkness of Pune a couple of weeks before Bombay. There was a certain life-affirming madness to the whole episode. I imagine gamblers must feel this way when they're on-a-roll. It's what it's aaaalllll about. Be lucky.
You need to be careful running in the dark up there Sweder. You might get jumped by a posse of vigilante rabbits keen to wreak terrible revenge for your crimes of the other day. Remember what happened to Sir Bors when he encountered a similar bunny at the entrance to the cave of Kyre Banorg. You probably need your own holy hand grenade of Antioch, just to be safe.
Anyone uncertain or complacent about the dangers of rabbits needs to consult the sacred scriptures, viz. Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
glaconman Wrote:Reminds me of running through the pot-holed, chaotic darkness of Pune a couple of weeks before Bombay.
A timely reminder to revisit those excellent reports, G-Man.
For anyone who's managed to miss out, heres a link to Glaconman's Indian adventures.
Some of the most vivid and uplifting run-writing around.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thanks for the mention Sweder. Seems like a long time ago now. Probably because it is.
By-the-way, if you're keen for another taste of our time in India we made a short documentary whilst we were staying on my parent's farm after the Bombay marathon. It's about a really great bloke who turns up at the farm every few days collecting old bottles. It was alot of fun to make.
glaconman Wrote:By-the-way, if you're keen for another taste of our time in India we made a short documentary whilst we were staying on my parent's farm after the Bombay marathon. It's about a really great bloke who turns up at the farm every few days collecting old bottles. It was alot of fun to make.
This is no handy-cam and Windows Movie Maker effort, gman. That's a professional effort. You'd better spill the beans, fella. It's a bloody good production - I've seen far worse films win short film festivals.
Just a perfect day,
Problems all left alone,
Weekenders on our own.
It's such fun.
No Jack Bower update, this, rather the latest instalment in the Two Oceans preamble.
What a pleasure it was to run on semi-dry tracks, through fields which behaved like ordinary farmland rather than pan-dimensional people-swallowing quagmires. All this under the welcome gaze of a sun emitting real heat from a cloudless sky as it soared unhindered to its lofty perch. Four hours in shorts and vest and I can honestly say the only time I felt at all chilly was waiting at Saltdean for ten minutes to see if any other Jog Shop Joggers might show up.
Moyleman had charted a course for today's adventure. This included starting an hour earlier (no bad thing with the prospect of a dawn gun in SA), loping three miles out to Saltdean, nipping off for a tour of the Famous Residences (including the infamous 'Somme-on-the-hill' leading up to Rottingdean lane) bringing us back to Saltdean for a potential rendezvous with the main group at 9.30. We hadn't counted on flying around the extra five mile loop, however, finding ourselves ahead of the game by at least ten minutes.
We did see Barry, he of the recent Reykjavik marathon and in seven days time taking to the streets of Rome to race around that wondrous citadel. We wished him well on his gentle eight-miler, figured everyone else had gone to Hastings for the half and set off as a duo. This time we took the Jog Shop route (Telscombe Tye, North Face, Yellow Brick Road, top of the W, Castle Hill, Snake, double back to Rottingdean, St Dunstans and home). Just as we bounded eagerly across the fields towards the North Face a familiar voice rang out behind us.
‘I recognise those bloody leggin’s!’
Paul the Goat, running solo, steamed past us like we were standing still, elbows set at a sickeningly jaunty angle, back straight, legs kicking high to spray clotted mud behind him like some manic lycra-clad rotovator. Turns out Paul should have been at Hastings but a severe case of shin-splints had him in fear of the hard standing. He scorched ahead, flying up the near-vertical escarpment, his muttered aside about the ‘blasted heat’ lingering in the air. By the time we reached the top and turned towards the YBR he was a mere dot on the horizon. We’re hoping for a sub-three Paris from him next month; just a shame there’s so few hills for him to enjoy.
All-in knocking on the door of 24 miles, and, aside from a mild grumbling from slightly sore calves, relatively painless. Moylesey offered me the option of heading straight on at the top of the Snake, cutting a couple of miles off the route. Although I’d been labouring (noisily) through the valley from Castle Hill into the serpent’s foothills, by the time we reach the summit I’d convinced myself that shortcuts get you nowhere in this time-on-your-feet game, so it was on, on in the finest hash tradition. Chris put me to shame in the last half mile, kicking for home as I looked on, more than content to jog in a minute or two later for a noon stretch above the marina.
23.78 miles in bang on four hours; good work on a perfect day.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Slipped out before seven this morning for a gentle five across the hills. Not much wind to speak of, though a blanket of wispy cloud did enough to block any warmth from the rising sun. Another outing in shorts and short sleeve T . . . I could get used to this. My right calf continued its low-level whining, reminding me that at this stage quality rest is as important as mileage.
An odd week ahead for me. I will travel to Antwerp on Saturday, missing not only my first Sunday run this year* but also St. Patrick's Day in Lewes, an event I usually commit to with great gusto. All is not lost, however, as I happen to know a superb Irish pub in the shadow of Der Katherdraal, the largest gothic church in the low countries and home to active Catholic worship since 1124.
I can think of few more appropriate locations to tip my cap to my favorite Saint.
In order to keep the mileage up I'm working in an early morning Saturday session. If there's time this will be a 'double snake', around 22 miles with, as the name suggests, two laps of the 'short' snake route.
[SIZE="1"]*Just for the Stat Monkeys;
10 consecutive Sundays since Jan 1st - 17.4 miles average[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Despite a continued whinge from my right calf I went for the Double Snake this morning, and jolly nice it was too. Pretty chilly out, but dry; in fact in some places on the high points of the Downs the ground was cracked after a week baking under a strong Sussex sun.
We managed two loops, though not strictly in accordance with Moyleman's plotted route. It felt weird to be flying up the Snake only six miles in, the two of us warbling away like a couple of old-timers, barely bothered by the two mile ascent. Second time around the story was a little different and certainly more familiar; heads down, focused, breathing hard, elbows pumping, not a word between us. We were linked by some telepathic bond, each determined to maintain the pace so long as the other did. At the summit we elected to carry on through East Brighton Park, missing out the double-back, dropping a mile or two off the route. During one pit stop for gels and water we encountered an inquisitive pair of newborn lambs. My heartless greeting 'Mint Sauce! Mint Sauce!' did little to deter them, so I snapped a photo as their mum looked on.
In all somewhere near 21 miles in 3 hours 20 on what we've decided was our 'mini-Stinger' route. We had four major climbs (or 'stings'); a three-quarter mile muddy track up out of Saltdean onto the Downs, the Snake (twice) with two miles of meandering ascent, and in between a first time assault on the path from Rottingdean back up onto the downs. We also ran Windmill Hill in reverse, a weird yet satisfying experience, I can tell you!
My leg had started moaning again by the time I chugged home, but there was still plenty fuel left in the tank. Provided I can rest up between runs and repair whatever damage I've done I'll be right as rain for Cape Town. Except there is no rain; in fact recent reports are of 27 degrees and strong sunshine. Oh well, I'll just have to douse myself at each water station.
Finally, by way of treating myself, I popped along to the Jog Shop to procure new road runners for the TOM. I plumped for the Brooks Adrenaline GTS 7 (with Hydr-flow soles and full-length MOGO midsole . . . apparently). I've a new-found respect for Brooks, having lived in Adrenaline ASR hybrids for the past month. As expected the GTS 7s slipped onto my feet like they were made to measure. I'll rack up a couple of eight-milers in them over the next couple of weeks then wrap them up for April 7th.
I'm starting to get excited.
For now I'm off down the pub with my son to celebrate St Paddy's Day in the appropriate manner. My trip to Antwerp is postponed thanks to a track fire in Wandsworth and the subsequent cancelation of all Eurostar servies for 24 hours. (sigh) what's a boy to do?
[SIZE="1"]Here's looking at you, kids.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
What a sorry tale of woe I was this morning. Slightly hung over (following an intense bout of Guinness testing in Antwerp on Monday night), even more hunched than usual thanks to a freshly perforated disc and still nursing a sore right lower limb I shuffled into the wintry chill.
An easy lope followed under blue skies, the occasional puff of white cloud sliding by under the watchful gaze of an impotent sun. Willow* rejoined us this morning. Tests revealed she is suffering encephalitis in her spine, a condition that if spread to the brain is fatal. Treatment is via heavy duty anti-inflammatories and seems to be paying off. This was her first major outing in three weeks and boy did she enjoy it; bounding across the tacky turf as fast as her little legs would carry her, pre-Raphaelite ears flapping comically, looking for all the world as if she was about to take off.
I reached Blackcap in fair condition, breathing settled, aches and pains no more than a dull reminder. Below me a lone tractor ploughed fields in Plumpton, a flock of seabirds fluttering behind like the farmer’s own personal ticker-tape parade. With a freshening wind behind we made good time on the return run, passing several racehorses heading full gallop in the opposite direction, jockeys curled up tight behind the stretching necks, johdpur-clad backsides bouncing above the sweat-flecked beasts.
According to my kitchen clock (that’s as hi-tech as I go these days) around 48 minutes for the circuit, a good time considering the damage. In accordance with the laws of Sod work is more intrusive than ever; its feast or famine in my line of business so I’m not complaining. Back to the grind.
[SIZE="1"]*It occurred to me someone might not know that Willow is a cocker spaniel. [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sounds like you're the one who should be taking the heavy-duty anti-inflammatories there Sweder! That's rotten luck re your perforated disc - what's the prognosis for TOM: do you have to ease back the training?
Nope, it'll barely affect my schedule.
I'm officially into the taper now, 3 hours planned for Sunday, 2 hours the following Sunday with gentle leg-spinners in between.
Of more concern are the calf strain (better than its been for the past 2 weeks) and a new niggle; I managed to catch my foot on the patio door today and strained some hitherto unknown muscle at the base of my left shin, just above the ankle. It's an odd injury and one that whilst it feels relatively minor is annoyingly persistent. I'm icing it now to be on the safe side, and may limit Friday's outing to a flat-ish roadside five (required to break in the new boots).
Expect more pathologic hypochondria in the days and weeks to come; standard pre-big-race fare in this neck of the woods I'm afraid.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
No running to report. I’m trying to balance recovery with performance; it’s proving to be a tricky juggling act. One mid-week run for the second week, er . . . running, a long one in prospect this Sunday a beacon in the gloom. The ailments have at least responded to the rest, as has my midriff. I mounted the scales this morning to see 92 kilos flash up for the first time in weeks; ugh. No doubt last night’s epic adventure with the mighty SP, featuring enthusiastic quality control in a number of hostelries, plus a triumphant return to the pool tables in the Two Brewers, was a factor. Speaking of recovery, I felt suitably jaded when Mrs S kicked me out of bed to make the tea. My thanks to the Big Fella for a timely return to the pubs though; this running lark's been getting way too serious of late.
As I shuffled mournfully into the kitchen Rick Wakeman, broadcasting his mixture of eclectic sounds and terrible gags from Planet Rock, stuck on a classic Tubes number. My morning cross-training consisted of some alarming pogo-ing to White Punks On Dope, much to the concern of the hounds who until my eviction had been snoozing on our bed. Happily my son didn’t emerge from his daily hibernation to catch me bopping about in my boxers – that sort of thing can have life-long ramifications.
So it’s back to the Honey-Do list – you know, ‘Honey do this, Honey do that’ – in time for the ninety minutes of frustrated screaming at the inept English team trying manfully to eek out a draw in Tel Aviv. Happy days.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:..... in time for the ninety minutes of frustrated screaming at the inept English team trying manfully to eek out a draw in Tel Aviv. Happy days.
Yep, one can hardly feel optimistic though it will be good to see Andy Johnson up front. He knows this is a rare opportunity for him to impress now that the sidelined Crouch sees to have become first choice, so perhaps it will give him an extra edge. I wouldn't fancy being a defender around Johnson and Rooney.
But.
But we know it rarely goes to plan.
Prediction: 1-1, with an England player sent off. Rooney probably.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
