Pinch punch, first run of the month.
4.98 miles (why different each day?) in 47:49.
Track du jour: American Girl, Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers.
'Help me load this sofa would ya hun?'
A misty mountain morning, the sun working hard to burn away hazy layers loitering in the valley. No zeppelins today, more a shapeless fog that made it look as though the people of Lewes had risen early for a communal ciggie.
My legs show no sign of seizing so I'll carry on this daily pilgrimage until I get complaints. Certainly none of those from the dogs who enjoy these early outings. Of course they get to lounge around the rest of the day, licking their privates and snoozing. It is, as they say, a dog's life.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Of course. Dosg's life is wondeful if your owner is cool and give you good food. I am sure that dogs also enjoy one small early jogging if they can sleep a lot later (with a sausice inside the stomac)
4.99 miles (where'd that extra 0.01 come from ?) in 49:24
Track du jour: All Along The Watchtower, James Marshall Hendrix.
I'd thought this might be a rest day but the best laid plans and all that . . .
Looking out the bedroom window I could see tree tops swishing in a stiff-ish breeze, early sun lighting the landscape. These mornings are too good to miss.
The bad news is that my cellulitis (cue bad jokes about flabby knees) appears to have returned. What I thought was hayfever is something rather less innocent; I'm off to the quacks this morning to bag a script for antibiotics.
The run was the sort of run that suggests the original idea of a rest day was the right one; sluggish, tight legs, back playing up . . . but it was a beautiful morning. In the hollow between Wicker Man Hill and Blackcap we encountered the rusty cattle. Calves, looking all of a ton a piece, loitered around the trail. Tess, the irreverant, trouble-seeking white devil, decided to dash up to and around one of the youngsters. To her surprise (and my delight) Mother Cow intervened, breaking off from her demolition of the local flora to charge the wicked whippet. Serves her right. Fortunately the heffer didn't group us all together as one mighty irritant; I don't think I could have out-run her, certainly not up the hill anyway.
A rest day may well be on the cards - I'll see how the legs feel tomorrow.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Wow, what a fabulous run!
Took my own advice yesterday and enjoyed a morning off, letting the aches and pains in my legs subside. I did look longingly out of the window as another beautiful day blossomed, but sometimes you just have to rest up. This morning I felt a good deal better. If I were to measure it I'd say I felt fifty percent rested - still a little tight in the legs, but otherwise good.
There are times in a round of golf (they're rare as hen's teeth for me these days) when you tee up the ball, take your driver and step up knowing you're going to hit a belter. There's no rational explanation, no reliable ritual for repeating the experience; it's just a feeling that comes over you as you squint down the fairway; this one's going miles! Stumbling out of the door this morning in a flurry of dogs, leads and earphone wires I just knew I was in for a good one.
Starting a little later than usual after an excellent evening consuming Tim and Mandy's stock of fine red wine over a delightful evening barbeque the temperature was up and rising steadily. A firm, cool breeze came straight off the sea out of a hazy, cloudless sky, cutting across my east/ west trail to provide the perfect aircon essential in the heat. There was no conscious effort made to push it but I felt good from the off, climbing into the outward ascents with a relish I'd not felt in a while.
I kept an eye on my pace; sub eight minute (miles) on the gentler climbs, sub six on the drop off Blackcap. I let my stride lengthen on the downslope, like letting out rope on an abseil, easily, steadily, controlled. It was good to run these faster sections rather than letting my weight fall onto each step as I normally do. I worked hard on the climb to the stables, again maintaining sub-eight pace all the way.
Home in 44:52 with a fastest pace of 4:23 (kms) - still slower than the breakneck 4:06 with Moleman last Saturday. I can go quicker - I have earlier in the year - but rarely have I felt so good about a run.
More BBQ indulgence awaits this evening at the home of the Plodder, Captain Tom already off to the brewery for five litres of heavenly Harvey's. Tomorrow's scheduled ten miler looks like being a good deal more pederstrian, especially with hotter weather in proespect. First, a visit to Seaford beach and a restorative plunge in the English Channel.
Summer, it seems, has finally arrived.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
4.98 miles in 46:12
TdJ: Texas Flood Stevie Ray Vaughan
An evening at Chateau Plodder combined with early soaring temperatures meant a cooling of ambitions this morning. Slightly groggy from the combination of Harvey's and SP's very own Poor Man's Black Velvet - made with Guinness and Scrumpy - I decided on a routine five. That was even before stepping into the Martian heat ray scorching my front patio.
Another flawless blue sky, so perfect that the half-lit moon decided to hang around for half the day to enjoy the scene, joined by a merciless sun. No sign of my friendly southerly zephyr though I donned the i-plod and set off to some mellow Pink Floyd, determined to take it easy in what could fairly be called brutal conditions for running with a woolly head. Within the first half-mile I was slick with sweat, droplets chasing off my forehead and down my nose to splash onto my chest and legs.
Plenty of horses and the occasional cyclist out today but very few runners - in fact only one that I passed, an impressive fellow in a bright orange Nike sleeveless, thundering down the west face of Wicker Man Hill as if persued by the Devil himself. I plodded on, feeling the death ray burning into my back. Good job I'd opted for my own Nike sleeveless, this one a reflective-white/ blue striped number inlaid usefully with anti-death ray material.
What I'd perceived as breathlessness revealed itself to be the merest hint of a westerly breeze, pushing into my sweat-soaked face on the homeward leg. It was just enough to make the journey bareable and keep the pace steady. In the end I was delighted - and slightly surprised - to have dropped only a minute twenty off yesterday's flying lap.
That twenty seconds can be criutial in sport - just ask Lewis Hamilton. Or Fernando Alonso for that matter. I watched the qualification debacle from the Hungaroring yesterday and it was screamingly obvious to all but McLaren super diplomat Ron Denis that the fiery Spaniard's nose is horribly bent out of shape. Moments before the start of the last qualifying laps the two McLarens pitted for a tyre change. Hamilton held pole by an impressive margin, but with fuel loads lightening the final effort would prove decisive. Alsonso was first in. Change complete, lollipop removed, Hamilton waiting and pit crew waving frantically for him to go, Alonso slowly, carefuly checked his watch, adjusted his undergarments and, when he was absolutely certain that his team mate and championship rival couldn't change gear and get out in time to grab pole, spat out his dummy and sidled out of the pits like he was off to the paper shop.
Last night the FIA demoted Alonso five places on the grid. Of course what should have happened is he should have had his racing overalls pulled down and had his petulant bare botty smacked in front of the cameras.
More early morning efforts lined up this week. The back's still playing up so with no gym on the horizon it'll be daily hill runs for a while longer. Hooray!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Last night the FIA demoted Alonso five places on the grid. Of course what should have happened is he should have had his racing overalls pulled down and had his petulant bare botty smacked in front of the cameras.
... isn't that what the pit girls are for?
Actually, it looks like that spurt of petulance from Alonso cost him dearly - a distant fourth to Hamilton makes life much more difficult for him. Justice, after all.
5.02 miles* in 47:43
Cloudy, windy, drizzly, lovely.
A 'recovery' run taken at a flat pace (no fartlek). Track du jour was, fittingly, Sweden from the Stranglers' Black & White album.
Let me tell you about Sweden
Only country where the clouds are interesting
We enjoyed a veritable cloudfest over the hills, airships of all shapes, sizes and demoninations, bourne on a strong sou'westerly, mingling in the turbulent heavens. The air was charged with the smell of hot iron and the threat of heavy rain, though only the occasional smattering fell during the run.
Despite cooler conditions I still managed to sweat up my own storm. It's amazing to me; no matter how much liquid pours from my body during a run I still can't dip below the dreaded ninety kilos. Must be all that hydration I managed over the weekend
[SIZE="1"]* Includes a detour at the trig point for an unscheduled bathroom break.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Ana Wrote:As always, you always, thinking about Alonso :mad:
Not at all; Alonso is a very talented driver. It's just a shame that, as a double world champion, he hasn't behaved with a little more dignity. A true champion would show his class where it matters - on the race track
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
8 kms in 45:58
TdJ: Substitute - originally by The Who but covered on this occasion by The Ramones
Damp hills in a chill wind under partly cloudy, partly blue skies - pretty much ideal conditions for my constitutional. After yet another day of rest - again, legs just too knackered yesterday morning - I felt fresh and up for a quickie (ooh err missus )
Alongside the superb Ramones number Mr Cooper played Heroes by David Bowie. The song did well on release but I never cared much for it. In some perverse way I saw it as a rival to No More Heroes, which in some respects it was, but I also saw it retrospectively as the first step on a slippery slope for Bowie, a step which led to the slide into the monstrous debacle that was Tin Machine. I get very upset about Tin Machine. The Music world - at least the printed part of it - closed ranks in an Emperor's-New-Clothes kinda stylee and tried to tell everyone that this was good, we should embrace Bowie's latest cutting edge incarnation. What utter bollocks. Tin Machine was an abomination, a rudderless mishmash, a cacophony of nonsense. Those of us waiting for the return of the Thin White Duke were to be sorely disappointed. Throwing darts in lovers' eyes? Throwing bombs in listeners' ears more like. Pah.
Speaking of Tin, and metal in general, I see there's plans afoot to release the live-action movie version of the Stan Lee classic Iron Man, featuring the unlikely casting of Robert Downey Junior in the eponymous role. I wonder if they'll use the Black Sabbath number of the same name at any stage? Seems churlish not too . . .
Good to see Andy finally hit the trails again last night. There's a horrible twilight zone for runners where it's been a while since you've hit the streets and you start to wonder if you ever will again. It's a relief when you break the ice and find that first dip isn't quite as painful as you'd feared.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I noticed "Heroes" made it to the Rolling Stone Top 50. I'm not a big fan of the song myself but I am an admirer of Bowie elsewhere in his career. Sorry, no time to discuss -- must dash to work.
A week amongst the sunflowers and vineyards bordering La Gironde has left me mellow, reflective and slightly dependant on daily samples of Pineau des Charantes. I am not, however, bereft of running mileage. As in 2005 when we first holidayed in this wonderfully fertile region of south western France Ive been getting my morning plods in - early too, so as to avoid the beastly effects of the cruel mid-summer sun. Sunshine may well have been banished in northern Europe but not in these parts; weve seen plenty as my gently darkening skin will attest.
Outings vary in pace and length. Pleasant, leisurely three-milers, complete with friendly bonjours offered to the local fauna; here a mentally deranged grey stallion, flicking his sun-bleached mane and trotting alongside as I sweat my may past his enclosure; there a family of waddling ducks, the mother quacking her polite reply whilst ushering her brood to the safety of the long grass; and, mercifully behind the sturdy chain-link fences, the apparently rabid guard dogs defending local dwellings one reasonable earth-tremor away from rubble. The hard-fought, lung-bursting flat fives are a personal novelty. I note with eyebrow suitably cocked a la Roger Moore that my average pace on these longer sojourns is no quicker than my best Blackcap efforts.
This morning called for something a little different. Heavy cloud had slipped in under the cover of night, erasing the spectacular display of stars both stationary and shooting to wrap the region in an early morning blanket of matt dullness. Rain, steady, relentless, splashed on the generous sun shade covering our al fresco dining table. I clapped my hands as I skittered down stairs to launch the first brew of the day; perfect running weather at last! Id not really scheduled anything special but as hit the start button on the 205 the thought occurred that I should take it easy to start with in case I fancied something a little more taxing. So it proved; an unscheduled, out of the blue - well, dirty cloudy white really - half marathon. Leaving the complex of stone-walled cottages and onto the narrow winding trails, some tarmac, some blended stone and dust, leading through endless fields of drying, dying sunflowers and ripening Merlot grapes. The former have a tantalising odour as they reach the end of their summer duty, following the raise, arc and descent of their yellow god across the heavens. As the oil, so highly prized by the farmers, floods their fibres they emit a perfect facsimile of freshly lit home-grown. Its great once you get used to it, and so long as you dont succumb to temptation and seek the nearest gangaweed dealer.
I ran through the hamlets of Billeride, Givrezac and Tanzac, at each turn setting off the local alarm-dogs. Strong winds clattered across the fields from the west, a reminder that Id face a tougher test when I turned that way. Rain came and went in squalls, blessing the land with a generous dousing before swirling off to pastures new. I didnt complain at the soakings; without giving todays route a second thought Id left home without water or food (except a hastily scoffed banana before the off), so each and every freshener was welcomed with slightly sun-tanned yet freshly goose-pimpled open arms.
Ten miles in and I realised if I wanted the thirteen point one Id have to improvise. The route Id taken would bring me home just past the eleven mile mark; some jiggery pokery would be required. Luckily Id covered a number of local trails in previous days and figured out a wiggly route to eat up the extra two-point-one. As it turned out I stopped the watch point three of a mile (whatever the hell that is in new money) from base at 1:55, a reasonable effort given I was alone and taking it fairly easy.
The rest of today was spent much as the previous week has been; nose in a book, lips caressing the edge of a glass filled with a variety of local produce; Pineaus rouge et blanc, a very nice vanillary Metard and an entirely agreeable Borgogne Aligote. Ill be onto the vin rouge in a bit and no doubt pouring a generous measure of Pastis to accompany this evenings in-house screening of The Aviator and the pass-the parcel of various bars of chocolate. Oh, and if any of your wine buffs have an inkling where I might get my hands on a case or two of a Medoc Pontac (2003) Id be eternally grateful for a lead; we polished off a couple of bottles of the blood-red velvet in Port Maubert last night and it was heaven in a glass.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Nice holidays Sw, I can smell it...
Well I didn't miss you too much, because I was also enjoying another wonderful country, Italy.
I am happy that you have plod a little bit (cause you has promised it) and hope you began the return with energy.
Sweder Wrote:Oh, and if any of your wine buffs have an inkling where I might get my hands on a case or two of a Medoc Pontac (2003) I’d be eternally grateful for a lead; we polished off a couple of bottles of the blood-red velvet in Port Maubert last night and it was heaven in a glass.
Can't say I've heard of Pontac, though Medoc is a very well known appellation in Bordeaux of course -- available in all supermarkets in a variety of guises. Just did a brief Google search but the meaning of Pontac isn't obvious. There are a couple of chateau names including the word, and apparently a Bordeaux wine family with that name. Not sure which relates to the wine you enjoyed.
Thanks for the plod-report. Good to see Le Swéder in good form.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Yeah, well, to be honest my recollection of the precise name may be a little . . . hazy. I blame the Patis, which is alarmingly efficient at inducing that holiday mood . . .
More plodding this morning, a swift 4.5 miles on a marvelous misty morning. Last night we joined some fellow gite-dwellers for apperatifs and an impromptu recital by a talented fellow here to play a concert. Matteaus hails from Normandy and spent many years studying Mongolian throat singing. I know how that sounds but the results are startling; whilst playing a beautiful Mongolian cello much in the style of Jimmy Page on the live versio of Dazed and Confused the goateed maestro produced an unholy sound from deep in his throat. We all looked for the gadget he must have employed, but as we searched in vain he stopped playing the instrument to focus on the magical ringing song. Great stuff; we're off to a medieval church tomorrow to witness a full performance, accompanied by classical singers. Avec St Emilion a-plenty, naturellement.
Even more fun yesterday afternoon was a visit to the karting circuit at Saint Gernis de Saintonge where the family took to the tarmac for a mini-Grand Prix. You find out a lot about your loved ones when they strap on a race helmet and get behind the wheel of a racing machine. For example, I learned that Mrs S drives an exceedingly wide kart, and the Pheebster is destined for greatness should she ever get over the horror of the hair disaster caused by the sweaty lid. The really tricky part for me was climbing back into my two ton pick-up truck and driving home without taking every apex and stuffing some poor unsuspecting farmer into a ditch. More of the same today I fancy, and a couple of gentle plods to round off the week.
This fortnight will yield something in the region of 120 kilometres - around 90 running, the rest cycling. Good hard-top mileage for a hillside loper, and reasonably effective against the ravages of French cusine and holiday sloth.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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