Another less than satisfactory shuffle up to Blackcap.
I'm not sure what's up but there's something amiss in the engine room at the moment. There's way too much effort required to knock out these standard runs. I may be under the weather or just pining for the fjords . . . it's hard to put your finger on it.
As it turned out I came home in around 46 minutes - that's above average for this run despite feeling heavy and lack-lustre most of the way. I'm out alone tomorrow so will map out a route from home to the Big W via Blackcap on Sanoodi or MapMyRun. Should get me over the ten mile mark. The forecast is for rain and wind a-plenty; should be right up my alley.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well, it was never going to be too good after yesterday and so it came to pass. A doleful carcass-haul along ten miles of the South Downs Way in suffocating heat/ humidity, loping out from Lewes to Ditchling and back.
Yesterday’s visit to London included a healthy lunch at the excellent Italian Kitchen in New Oxford Street (home to a most agreeable Tuscan-bred Chianti) followed by a visit to Fame – The Musical. This proved popular with my girls and I must confess to rather enjoying the female cast members cavorting around in rather fetching costumes.
We moved on for an indulgent supper at the Hard Rock Café (Phoebe's choice, much to my delight).
For once in my life the ownership of a small piece of plastic – the HRC All Access card, purchased in New Orleans back in 2001 – proved invaluable. On arrival we faced the mother of all lines to get in. I reached for my wallet.
‘Hi – All Access card?’
‘You’ll ‘ave to speak to Sebastian.’ I followed the direction indicated by the wafted hand, spying a flustered-looking fellow in reading glasses and liveried shirt. He looked hot, sweaty and thoroughly harassed.
‘Sebastian?’
‘Sorry sir, there’s a minimum two hour wait.’
The Queue, mostly tourists, predominantly of the amply-built North American variety, eyed me suspiciously flashed the purple and silver plastic at the maître d'. Sebastian, himself obviously no stranger to the fuller plate, let out a rather weary, here-we-go-again sigh.
‘Yes . . . well . . . hang on.’
He disappeared inside, returning with an oblong plastic object that he looked hell bent on inserting somewhere with great force. It turned out to be a rather clever little beeper that would go off when the next table became available. I thanked him profusely and, to the wide-eyed disbelief of the assembled septics, dragged my family to the bar, stuffing the gently flashing object into the waistband of my shorts. No sooner had I got my fingers wrapped around an ice cold lager (I know) than all hell broke loose in my pants.
‘We got a table!’
More furrowed brows and evil looks but we were on our way to the cool booths in the back and couldn’t have cared less.
Once seated I exchanged my apology of a beer for a Triple Platinum HRC Margarita (served in a souvenir glass). Several thousand calories and a few more alcoholic drinks later I staggered into the Hyde Park evening pondering the wisdom of downing vast quantities of deep-fried tortilla and red meat the night before a run.
It all came back to haunt me as I hauled flabby arse over the baking hills.
Hundreds of walkers and cyclists lined the route, taking part in the South Downs Way Challenge, a walk/ run/ cycle fest. The event is marshalled by the Gurkhas, one of the toughest, hardiest regiments known to man. A group of lithe, tanned fellows beamed at me as I chugged past their Blackcap post, each one in full battledress looking lean, mean and capable of yomping from here to the North Pole on nothing more than a Mars bar and a bottle of pop.
Even the hounds seemed lethargic. Last nights' deluge sweated out of the ground providing a clammy membrane for us to run through. I gasped for air, sucking on an Espresso Hammergel after five miles, gulping down regular mouthfuls of water and wondering what on Earth I thought I was doing out here. I took five at Ditchling Beacon, watching more Gurkhas pack their drinks station into unfeasibly large pack packs ready for the route march back to camp. Stuff 'em I thought unkindly.
Turning for home the full horror of what was going on hit me in the face with the force of a medium-to-stiff breeze; up to this point I'd enjoyed a tail-wind. Oh God!
There was nothing for it but to plunge onward and pray that the Hammergel did its stuff before I collapsed. It must have, as some time later I crested yet another hill to spy the Blackcap camp below me. Merciful heavens, I’m going to make it! The last couple of miles seemed to take forever, yet I got through them, finally lurching into my driveway looking like an ice sculpture recently landed in the Sahara.
An hour forty, actually not bad for what is arguably between ten and eleven hilly miles. I’ll map it on Sanoodi – which will no doubt tell me that my run was a nice flat eight! – and publish the results here. Sofa time!
[SIZE="1"]Run elevation[/SIZE]
[SIZE="1"]This map is interactive![/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Although it might not feel like it at the time I suspect you're making excellent progress by getting through all these "uncomfortable" runs, You´ll see...
Good report, thanks Sweder. If you can manage 10 hilly miles in 1:40 just a few hours after an evening out like that, then things aren't too bad, believe me. By comparison, my excuse last weekend -- a trip to the Hampton Court Flower Show -- looks decidedly lame. As indeed do I at the moment. Had a good weekend in Manchester but my right big toe is giving me grief. Not sure if it's a recurrence of gout that I had trouble with a few years ago (it feels like it), or a hangover from the stubbed toe mentioned a couple of weeks back. I'll know more in 24 hours.
But well done. You keep having these belting nights out, then complaining that your runs the next day don't seem to be quite right! There might just be a link....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Sweet, gloriously talented, much-loved Kelly Johnson lost her long fight with spine cancer last night.
It was expected, but is no less hard to bear for all that. I'll miss the old bag - she was a ray of manic sunshine in an often gloomy world. Thoughts go out to her loved ones and especially Jax and Denise who spent the last eight weeks by her bedside.
To learn more about the most under-rated* rock guitarist of her generation visit here.
I'm off to the pub to wish her a safe trip in my tried and trusted manner.
Oh, and to warn the angels to get some earplugs.
It's gonna get loud up there
[SIZE="1"]* Under-rated by 'the business', that is.
Anyone who saw Kelly play knew just how good she was.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A day that started with the arrival of much-feared, terrible news ended in the best way possible under the circumstances; with an evening run. It's funny how things work out some times.
I'd had a crap day. It's daft to say I struggled to focus - Kelly was a beloved friend yet we didn't exactly see one another every day, or every year come to that. But she played an important part in a key stage in my life, introducing me to rock and roll on the road, giving me a precious insight into the life and mind of a rock and roll genius. She was more than that, too. My mate Glenn wrote today that Kelly filled a room, that whilst she shunned the limelight it followed her like a faithful hound, demanding her attention all the same. Its almost a cliché to say she had ‘presence’, but she did; she was special, and anyone who spent five minutes in her company came away with a gleam in their eye and something precious in their heart.
By the time I got home tonight I was done in. I'd exchanged e-mails with mutual friends throughout the day, offering condolences and swapping stories. There was as much laughter as there were tears. Driving home through the forest towards the sun-dappled downs I'd cranked up the stereo, blasting out riffs that were pure Kelly, mostly from Not That Innocent, her last recorded studio work with the band. But the bravado of my fist-pumping, foot-slamming journey faded as I pulled up outside the house, mentally dishevelled. I needed a run.
Saddling up the hounds for an unexpected yet obviously welcome late outing I searched for my i-pod. What I needed I reasoned was a good old-fashioned thrash through the hills to a Girlschool soundtrack. But what's this? Bloody thing's out of juice! With light starting to fade and the smells of supper bubbling away on the stove I reluctantly grabbed my DAB. Nicky Horne it is then.
A perfect evening for running. Yet more heavy rain had fallen overnight. Once again the sun had done its best to suck the moisture out of the earth, leaving the air heavy and moist. A cool breeze drifted out of the west - my preferred direction for this particular route as I get a tailwind on the homeward leg. Despite yesterday's fatigue and the heaviness in my heart I set off at a fair pace. Mr Horne laid out some excellent opening tracks to help my rhythm. I'd written to him earlier in the day to suggest an homage at some point.
Reaching Blackcap bathed in sweat, the heaviness hammered out of my chest, I stood for a moment drinking in a view of which I shall never tire. To the east, along the homeward trail, Wicker Man Hill sat bathed in late evening sun. High cloud ran across a pale blue sky, lacy fingers reaching out to the ocean. Below, the Big W sat on the northern ridge of the East Brighton hills. I tracked the ridge westward, past the valley of the Snake, into the gap revealing the sea and Kemptown flats, finally into the west, the silhouettes of distant hills nestled in half-mist. Below our vantage huge rust-red rugs, Aberdeen Angus cattle, lounged in the meadows chomping on lush grass.
The dogs looked at me, a little nervous.
Is he planning to go on a long one again?
I dunno -we haven't had our dinner yet - I hope we're going home.
Yep - I think we're going home - he's lumbering off down the slope again -
Off we trotted, down Blackcaps' eastern face. I stuck to the main track, keen to avoid an ankle turn in my light-headed state. And then I heard it - Nicky Horne's announcement of the sad news, telling his listeners how to find out more, where to leave messages. Then he made my day.
He simply said 'Kelly Johnson' - and played Hit and Run, the title track from Girlschool's excellent second album, followed by Please Don't Touch, the collaboration with Motorhead - as Headgirl - that charted in the top five back in the days when you actually had to sell a few records to get on Top of the Pops. I ran like the wind, a huge grin on my face, liquid streaming from my eyes. The tears of sorrow were swiftly drowned by tears of joy as I listened to the music, songs from my youth that held so many precious memories in their refrain. They lifted my heart, straightening my back as I pounded those hills to the hammering beat of Denise Duforts' drums.
I can't remember what came after that, musically or running-wise. It was all pretty much a blur. All I know is I got home in something like forty-five minutes, glistening inside and out, a very different bloke from the frazzled lump who crawled out of his truck just an hour before.
Enjoy.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Five windy miles this morning. Quite a battle outbound, a stong blow clattering into my headphones from the south, blustery so no discernable advantage/ disadvantage. Still felt humid out there - that, or there's a lot of residual fluid that my corpulence needs to disperse.
Track du jour today was classic Beatles; A Day In The Life. Alice picked it for me, outlining the composition as starting in a Lennon style, switching to pure McCartney - the bouncy Woke Up, Got Outta Bed . . . reverting to Lennon for the closing section. I listened intently after his preamble, appreciating his view that this is the defining Beatles track, even though I disagree; Eleanor Rigby has always been my favorite. There's something about her keeping faces in a jar by the door that really appeals to me.
I hope I find some form soon. Moyleman has something hiddeous lined up for us this Sunday
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
stillwaddler Wrote:You've had quite a week of it. Thank goodness for healing runs. Stay with it.
Yep, I'll echo that. Where would we be without the Swede? Commiserations mate, but 'thanks for sharing', as the yanks would say. I know if it were me, I'd just retreat into my shell as I always do when things aren't going so well.
On the subject of which...
I've hit a bad patch. Man-flu, painful toe, 3 kilos of lard acquired since last week. I know I shouldn't, but it's hard to avoid the thought that a glass of Fuller's might just be the perfect answer to all my problems.
I know I should write about all this, but I don't want to depress us further. Oh where is the optimism of the spring?
I know the answer to that. It's in all of us, if only we looked. Tomorrow will be different, I'm sure.
Sorry to hijack your thread, Sweder.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
andy Wrote:I know I should write about all this, but I don't want to depress us further. Oh where is the optimism of the spring?
I know the answer to that. It's in all of us, if only we looked. Tomorrow will be different, I'm sure.
Sorry to hijack your thread, Sweder.
No apology required mate.
I was just writing to a friend (who's been indulging in some serious introspection) on the subject of listening. It's because you guys listen - and occasionally comment - that I write some of my personal thoughts here. It is good to commit things to paper; its even better to have someone commiserate or offer advice . . . even a friendly arm around the shoulder. It's all good.
As for depressing . . . ain't gonna happen.
I see good in everything, eventually. There's a lot of good coming out of this week's events. For one thing my writing splurge lead me to contact Dotun Adebayo, the presenter of Brief Lives on Five Live. He's agreed to do a piece on Kelly for his show this Sunday. For me its about people knowing about the person - Kelly was very special as well as/ apart from being a fabulous guitarist. She helped me more than she could know at a really tough time for me. I've not written about that yet - I might not ever - but 1979 - 1982 was an incredible time in my life that she and the band were a central part of. Its part of the process, doing her proud, saying 'thank you' in my own small way.
Anyroad I'm getting off this subject - I'm starting to hack myself off with it now! Suffice to say it's good to talk, whether over a pint of Fullers - (Homer Simpson voice) Mmmm! Fullers . . . or here in the forum.
After all, that's what forums - and pints - are for
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Excellent initiative -- and result -- re Five Live. And good on them for taking it on. I usually listen to the show. There's a version on R4 as well, called Last Word, though they may be a bit highbrow to consider her.
I'll look out for it. Good work.
I don't know much about Girlschool though funnily enough I'm on the band's mailing list. Not sure how. Perhaps I registered, thinking I was signing up for something else But seriously, it was odd because their very irregular email arrived at exactly the same time as yours last night.
Anyway, she obviously had some good friends around the place.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Thanks to a sore back (picked up golfing on Friday when, in the midst of a nationwide apocalypse we managed to avoid a single drop of rain) I blew out Moyleman's two hour hillfest. With the girls off early for a dance comp I opted for a gentle lope across to Ditchling. Ten hilly miles in 1:39, very nice too. There's something wonderful about going out with the intention of taking it easy. Almost without exception these runs end up being both enjoyable and surprisingly quick.
Track du jour: Runnin' With The Devil, Van Halen.
Without doubt one of my top three all-time attended gigs; Finsbury Park Rainbow opening for Sabbath in '82. Sensational. Watch out for very big hair, serious hip-wiggles and some wonderfully OTT vocals.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thanks Nigel.
It seems fitting that the sky's been crying pretty much since I heard the news. In fact all I can think about just now as I sit and watch the rain splash onto the patio is that wonderful Stevie Ray Vaughan song.
The sky is cryin'....can't you see the tears roll down the street
The sky is cryin'....can't you see the tears roll down the street
I've been looking for my baby
And I wonder where can she be
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Thanks Nigel.
It seems fitting that the sky's been crying pretty much since I heard the news. In fact all I can think about just now as I sit and watch the rain splash onto the patio is that wonderful Stevie Ray Vaughan song.
The sky is cryin'....can't you see the tears roll down the street The sky is cryin'....can't you see the tears roll down the street I've been looking for my baby And I wonder where can she be
Great song, but one I would always associate with legendary Chicago bluesman Elmore James first and foremost (he of Dust My Broom and Shake Your Moneymaker fame). One of those musicians forever linked to my student days. Back from the pub, on with the very loud and crackly Chicago blues and dub reggae albums. I've become far too old and respectable to say what the LP covers were used for while these sounds were throbbing through the house.
25 years on, I would like to belatedly apologise to my poor neighbours.
Kings Albert and BB also covered the song. My first introduction to it was by SRV but I've since heard some of the others. There's [COLOR="RoyalBlue"]a great clip on YouTube of SRV playing this as a guest of Albert. [/COLOR]
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I was determined to have horrible run this morning and hey presto! a real trudge. Such a shame, as the good Lord had made every effort, dousing the hills liberally throughout the night before hauling the sun into a clear blue sky. Clouds hovered nervously on the horizon not daring to set a fluffy white foot nearer less that foot be vapourised in an instant. A cooling breeze out of the west completed a near-perfect scene, yet still I lumbered, rusty, grumpy, determined to suffer all the way. It was criminal really, my inability to embrace the gifts laid out before me, but there it is; sometimes you're just not up for it. Guilty as charged, M'lud.
After a lacklustre stretch I spent ten minutes under the shower letting the water hit me, easing the temperature control towards cold so as not to carry on sweating afterwards*. I felt like Bob Hoskins after he'd murdered Charlie from Casualty in The Long Good Friday, the camouflaged evidence of my crime swirling around the plughole. Now, if only I had Helen Mirren waiting to comfort me . . .
Yesterday's visit to the gym was no different. Everything felt like an impossible task. I even hit the treaddie - usually a no-no - in an effort to spice up the session, but every one of the fifteen sweat-splashed minutes was purgetory. I'm going through a tough patch but it looks like I'll have to get in line for my tea and sympathy.
Five warm hilly miles in well over fifty minutes. Ugh.
[SIZE="1"]* Is there anything more annoying after a run?[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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