A chilly start to the month, especially having basked last week in the generous warmth of the Almerían sun and incomperable hospitality. Three cobbled together miles on Friday interrupted by work calls (NEVER tale your 'phone on a run!) left me feeling robbed. I've not had a run cut short like that before and I didn't like it one bit.
February is all about getting some regular, gentle mileage banked for me. Lard is reaching alarming levels around my middle and I really need to do something about it. A return to the gym is essential to work on that 'upper body strength'. Having been away for some months it's a bit like visiting a distant relative that you prbably should have seen before now. The longer you put that first visit off the worse it gets.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A poignant week for people of a certain age, for football fans and in particular followers of Manchester United. Wednesday sees the fiftieth anniversary of the Munich air crash that shook a nation and a sporting world. The 'Flowers of Manchester' lay decimated, broken bodies strewn across a frozen runway. News spread like a vile illness; players dead, United finished, the end of the Busby Babes.
There will be a deluge of coverage this week, tributes paid, special kits worn, to commemorate the loss of a generation of footballing talent. As a life-long United supporter I'll soak it all up with mixed emotions. That frozen afternoon in Germany not only saw tremendous loss of life and talent, it also created a force that survives within the club today; a burning desire to succeed. If the tragedy was to have any meaning for those left behind it was to continue investment in precocious, youthful talent, to play football illuminated by dazzling skill and attacking flair. It hasn't always delivered victory, and the modern United have certainly bought as much talent as they have created, but their flair has warmed the hearts of supporters and neutral observers for decades and is as fitting a tribute as any to the spirit of the Busby Babes.
What does all this mean for 'other' football fans? How are they supposed to feel about something that, frankly, happened to 'that bloody football club' so many love to hate? Sympathy? Give us a break. Wealth drips from the ramparts of the Devilbowl, money yielding yet more riches and, occasionally, trophies. Their fans are brash, arrogant, liable to celebrate wildly, dismissive of all others. Their manager is an irascible, gum-chewing yobbo who picks fights with all and sundry, refuses to speak to the national broadcaster and greets any implied criticism with flame-thrower vitriol.
Bobby Charlton, celebrated survivor and England great, said last week that Duncan Edwards, just 21 years old when he succumbed to injuries sustained in the crash, was the best player he ever played with. Charlton played with Best and Law, watched over Cantona and Beckham and currently sits in his seat at Old Trafford under his big fur hat delighting in the frolics of Rooney and Ronaldo. He played with Bobby Moore for goodness sake; the boy Edwards must've been some player. The Busby Babes, say observers of the time, were 'nailed on' to win the European Cup in '58. They'd just held Belgrade 3 - 3 away to qualify for the semi-finals where a make-shift side were destined to lose 4 - 0 away in Milan. The world lay at their dazzling feet, thier National sides ready to greedily gobble up their burgeoning skills. Championships, FA Cups, European glories, even World Cups were theirs for the chasing. As a mark of respect and in part in recognition of the potential of those lost UEFA offered United an unprecedented second slot for the '59 European Cup competition. The English FA refused, reiterating that only the champions, Wolves, could take part. Of course the FA never wanted United to take part in '56, fearful that the European game might, as Busby had foreseen, be the future.
To understand the impact of Munich '58 on the nation imagine the same thing happening today. Imagine the Arsenal team, packed with fabulous young talent, decimated by tragedy. Fabregas, Adebayor, Almunia, Gallas, Flamini . . . Arsene Wenger given the last rights, not once but twice, as Busby was. Or the current United side. Rooney, Ronaldo, Vidic, Giggs, Hargreaves, all dead or fatally injured. Imagine the hours of television, the miles of newspaper spilling off the news stands. Those boys in '58 weren't millionaires; they were lads, staying in Manchester digs, living at home or with landladies, some on apprentice wages, their bright futures stolen by cruel fate in an accident that would probably never happen today.
I'm certain the tribute at Old Trafford on Sunday, when United play City, will be marked with respect. Everyone in Manchester, Red or Blue, wept floods of tears at the time. A minute's silence is the only right way to mark such a solemn occasion. Whilst I don't expect the rest of the country to show much sympathy, it might be a good time to spend sixty seconds to reflect on what happened on that day fifty years ago, when a nation held it's breath and everyone who remembers knows exactly where they were when they heard the terrible news.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Savage winds screamed in off violent seas as we gathered for our 9am departure from Brighton Marina. I'd gone for shorts and vest, horrified to see myself alone amongst forty souls clad for an Antarctic expedition. Two and a half hours and fifteen brutally hilly, windswept miles later my frozen fingers were wrapped around a steaming mug of Mac's coffee in a scene reminiscent of Ice Cold In Alex.
The newbies were keen to add some mileage, having, in the words of Nathan, a youthful bundle of sinew, lithe limbs and boundless energy, 'murdered' the Snake last week. We added North Face and Yellow Brick Road to our thirteen route, and by the time we'd scaled the serpent every man jack of us was pretty much spent. The expected sprint though East Brighton Park turned out to be a wheezy, arthritic lumber. Addressing pale, weary faces I assured them all they'd done good work and, in a few short weeks, would be adding the top of the Big W, Castle Hill and Death Valley to complete a corking seventeen miler. The goodbyes were mumbled, farewell Shearers lettace-limp, but they'll bounce back soon enough. This is a good batch.
Whether I'll be taking them on that wondrous journey remains to be seen.
I've no long races booked. For now I'm more than happy to plod along on Sundays to meet up with old friends and for the banter. As work and travel intervenes I'll struggle to keep the required mileage up, liable to fall off the pace and left far behind. For once it's nice just to let the chips fall as they may (around my middle mostly). There's a lot to be said for running free.
News from Almerían PBer Steve; another 21k PB today - 1:53! Details to follow as and when received. For now, nice one mate!
Calls for a celebration surely . . . (sound of Guinness Draughtflow [SIZE="1"]TM[/SIZE] can opening)
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Aye, well done to Steve, and indeed to Sweder for following up so well from last week. I've managed just a couple of wafer-thin challenges this week to keep the limbs from seizing up, but will start to add a bit this week.
El Gordo
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I've avoided the dreaded 'recovery' runs in recent times. These forrays into the hills a day after long training runs are made for masochists. It's all rusted joints, aching limbs and knackered lungs, never a thing of beauty and usually laced with pain or, as our Almerían friend would say, discomfort.
There was discomfort a-plenty as I laboured across the downs a little after sunrise. That evil, knifing wind that had frozen my limbs yesterday lurked over the first brow, dancing in gleefully to sear tired flesh from frozen bone. Thankfully I had the incomporable Alice Cooper to keep me warm. It's Alice's birthday today - 112 - and the Evil One had been given licence to indulge. He treated us to a twenty minute slice of vintage Zappa, a full orchestral piece to smash the senses and mangle the mind. My track du jour though was a fabulous piece of world collision. Pat Boone, the celebrated sixties crooner, had apparantly taken a shine to one of Mr Coopers' better known works, so much so that he recorded his own tribute. So, as I dragged my heavy carcass up yet another muddy, bone-chilled climb, I was seranaded by Mr Pat Boone singing 'No More Mister Nice Guy'. Surreal.
I was sorry to hear the news that the good people of Barcelona had resorted to greeting Lewis Hamilton, in town for some pre-season F1 testing, with monkey chants and general racist abuse. Surely our Spanish friends can come up with something a little more acerbic? The powers that be at the FIA have announced they are to consider withdrawing the circuits' licence for this season. I doubt this will happen. Surely a far more fitting punishment would be to deduct ten points from Fernando 'The Incredible Sulk' Alonso who's petulant dummy-spitting started this whole furore in the first place . . .
I'll get me coat
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thanks SW, received and replied.
I've amended the Munich note and published a copy on the RC blog. I wasn't sure that was still active but saw Ana's Almería report on there so . . .
Stole out for a quiet, contemplative plod across the downs this morning.
No track du jour save the whispering wind and rustling trees, the cold keeping me honest as I toiled along heavily mudded trails. Five miles banked.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
There are days when it's all doom and gloom - 'Black . . . BLACK!' as Johnny from the Fast Show would say. I rumbled out of the garage this morning, spluttering as if on contaminated fuel, tires worn, joints shot, pistons creaking and groaning. Mr Cooper, what the bloomin' heck were you playing this morning? A pile of MOR tosh, mediocre trash, hardly what we bears need when emerging from hibernation. I wanted pumping basslines, crashing drums, screaming guitars. I got Tom Petty - I understand Refugee might be poignant in this day and age but it don't cut the mustard when it's a pick-me-up I'm needin' - Moody Blues and - for the love of God - Phil Bloody Collins.
There's no poetry in my soul at the moment. I'm running off-key, getting through the miles like an inmate doing his chores. For sure the landscape's still there, the dancing sunlight, wavering grass, patterned skies, but as Blackcap loomed large on the horizon I ignored it all, placing one heavy foot in front of the other. I'm not worried; it'll come back soon enough. I have to get through this work-a-day phase, shed some lard, oil the wheels. If I mix any more metaphors I'll be in line for a spin on Masterchef; apologies, but its symptomatic of my current malaise.
Inside the last mile I crested Stable Rise. Before and below me sat the town, spread out, blanched by a white winter sun. The landscape appeared in layers, like one of those paintings you get asked to do in Art when you go to Big School; you know, you draw a series of horizons then paint each one a slightly different shade of blue. The shades were grey, edges spiked by the sillhouettes of leafless trees, punctuated by the castle turret and brewery stack, but the painting was familiar all the same. As this vision swam before my sweating brow it dawned on me that I'd seen eight race horses going through their morning warm-up, run through fields stuffed with sheep without so much as an untoward muscle-twitch from the hounds and hadn't seen or heard a car since I left the house forty minutes ago.
Led Zep appeared in my earphones - Four Sticks; not perhaps my favorite Zeppelin number by a long chalk, but, as I reflected on the muddy descent to homeward, sometimes, even when all seems gloomy, your blessings are just around the corner, waiting to be counted.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
'Fun Run'. It's an oxymoron isn't it? It certainly was this morning.
Had this race started at nine a.m. I'd've missed it completely. The 10:30 kick-off gave me time to collect my thoughts, struggle out of bed, splash some cold water on my fur-covered face and study the bloodshot, half-asleep eyes staring back at me out of the bathroom mirror.
Last night saw the inaugural Mayfield Golfing Society Dinner & 'Dance'.
'Dance' because, as it turned out, and in spite of the womenfolk making great efforts in the gladrags department, there was no dancing to be found. Instead it evolved into a Harvey's/ Dinner/ Chilean Merlot/ Lots More Harvey's evening. I regret to say I was well on the way to Three Sheets city, holding forth loudly, so I'm reliably informed by a scornful Mrs S, on a wide variety of subjects. I was not alone. The Tipster (of Waterford Debauchery fame) joined in, gleefully ordering up fresh pints even as I pulled on my jacket to leave.
All this I had cause to regret as I gazed out across a sunlit yet ominously frosty Lewes. I drove off to Henfield to meet up with Gary Christie and Moyleman of this parish. They seemed concerned at my dishevelled state, Gary particularly worried at the amount of dried mud caked on my runners.
'You'll have to take it easy' he opined, studying the decrepit footwear. 'Those things must weigh a flippin' ton.'
Tactically I blew it from the off. When under the weather, or assured of a modest performance, it is advisable to start near the back of the pack. The Henfield stewards saw fit to march us for what seemed like several miles across soaked fields to the start, Moyleman suggesting we might be walking the first four miles before running the rest of the Henfield half route. By the time we'd been called to order and set on our way I'd become so disoriented I'd failed to notice our station near the front of the pack. The first few miles saw a procession of able-bodied runners cruise past my sweating corpulence, no doubt wondering what on Earth this cadaverous ugliness was doing on the trail.
The psychological effect of seeing half the field stream past, on top of already feeling like death warmed up, was hard to bear. I got my head down and stuck to my task, trying to regulate my ragged, rasping breath and control the evil pounding in my frontal lobes. At mile four I managed to look up, taken aback by the stunning views out across the Sussex lowlands. Flooded, frozen fields glittered in the sunshine as they thawed. The mighty mound of Ditchling Beacon loomed out of the horizon like a misty purple leviathan breaking surface on a shimmering sea. By now our snaking human chain pounded the banks of the river Adur. A perfect pair of Swans slid serenely across the mirror-flat surface, watching us with heads on one side, a mixture of curiosity and bafflement on their regal faces.
I slogged along the riverbank, clambering clumsily over styles, searching desperately for the Five Mile marker. It just wouldn't come. I felt like part of an elaborate movie shot, when the camera dollies back whilst zooming in. This creates the effect of stretching the background; the climb back to the road seemed to get further away as fatigue took a hold. Back on the trail I spied a fellow struggler just ahead; it was 'Owen Hargreaves' - that is, the fellow who'd skated past me some thirty minutes earlier, long hair flopping, white football shirt dry and clean. I reeled him in, happy to have an achievable target at long last. I pulled alongside and saw the despair in his eyes as this wreck of a man slowly, noisily pulled ahead. This tiny victory filled me with hope and renewed resolve. Even the sight of a small wiry lady flying past, her MP3 player no doubt feeding her an up-tempo rhythm as her sharp elbows pumped furiously, propelling her pink vest and black three-quarter Lycra’d legs with impressive energy failed to dampen my enthusiasm. Instead I fell in behind, lengthening my stride, for the first time today really eating up the yards. I kept pace with her for a few hundred yards, past the Six Mile marker - hey! Must’ve missed the five . . . until she stepped on the gas once more and left me for dead.
I didn't care though; we were on the homeward stretch. I hadn't collapsed or broken down on the roadside as I’d feared I might a while back. I chugged on, through leafy lanes, thanking the wonderful marshals as I passed each one with a smile (grimace?), thumbs up and a friendly grunt. I still felt like human sludge but I was going to get through this race - a cause for generous celebration.
At last we left the trail, a sharp right-hand turn on to the impossibly churned-up field and back to the grounds of the Leisure Centre. I got my head down and flailed for the line, glancing at the clock as I crossed to note 1:18:53 - or 78 minutes which sounds so much quicker Pink I-Pod lady was downing a drink past the finish line. I waddled up to her, face no doubt horribly pink, dripping sweat, fat-rolled shirt soaked through, to pat her gently on her elegant shoulder.
'You ran a beautifully-timed race' I grinned. She looked delighted, muttering something about this being her first attempt at the distance, apparently unperturbed by the vision of ugliness before her.
Thanks go to the wonderful people of Henfield Joggers for another well organised, perfectly marshalled riverside race. I'll be back for the half later in the year; for now it's off to the shower, a brief respite on the couch before rattlin' them pots 'n' pans for the family Sunday roast
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A pretty good day, though such 'trivial' matters as football results conspired to upset the applecart I must say that running with a hangover, whilst never something to look forward to is, once achieved, wholly satisfying in a strange and perverse way. Chuck in a fabulous Sunday roast (if I do say so myself) and a night in front of the BAFTA's - when no less a film than This Is England walked off with a golden mask - and I'd say not too shabby.
Mind you, I am looking forward to crawling back under the duvet . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Another one of those tricky recovery runs this morning.
I wasn't going to bother but I was lured to the bedroom window shortly after daybreak by a delighful chorus of chirps and twitters. A couple of rival Robins sniped at each other across the privet hedge, obviously an area of territorial contention for these feathered neighbours. Bluetits hopped and skipped in the branches of the Silver Birch, jousting for possesion of the lone bird-box. All this activity left me feeling somewhat exhausted yet the legs cried out for an infusion of warm blood. On with the shorts and vest and off into the hills then, nice and slow.
I flicked on my DAB to learn that Planet Rock is living on borrowed time. The parent company, Global Radio/ GCap media, announced a new strategy this morning. Digital radio broadcasting is, apparently, a costly exercise. The bean counters at Global have decided to pull the plug and focus on their FM business. The PR forum was laden with doom and gloom this morning. One thread invited listeners to guess what the final song will be. What? Rolling over so easy? What about a possible MBO? Surely Alice Cooper's loaded? Illigitimum Nil Carborundum, brothers! Thankfully others showed more stoicism. A chartered accounted offered his services gratis and several listeners have written to the DJs to offer support should a management buyout be on the cards. I can't imagine life without PR - it's been a revelation, rekindling old friendships across the musical spectrum. No time for euligies just yet though - watch this space.
Halfway to the Cap I met a young lady jogging the same route. Our dogs introduced themselves to one another in customary fashion. I refrained from following suit as a kick in the groin can be so debilitating when one is attempting to run. She tailed off as we crested Wicker Man Hill, leaving me and my pack to flog up the last hill alone. It was a labour of love to be sure, reluctant sinews fighting against instructions, leaden legs misbehaving as I worked the incline.
Heading home I soaked up the fabulous views. Once again that layered townscape basked in glorious sunshine, the sillhouettes draped in purple mist. The river sparkled, a twisting necklace of gems dancing through the sleepy valley. Perhaps this weather, like my beloved Planet Rock, won't be with us for much longer. I intend to drink my fill of both whilst the going's good.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Aye, I heard about the possible demise of Planet Rock, and my thoughts immediately headed south. I rarely listen to it, but it does seem to perform a useful service for the air-guitar community.
Apparently the audience figures are insufficient to sustain them, which made me think that there are probably plenty of potential listeners out there who simply don't realise they exist. I guess they've been victim to the less-than-universal take-up of DAB radio.
But anyway, I hope that the well-connected among the listeners may be able to salvage it.
edited -- that reminds me, did anyone else hear Ronnie O'Sullivan talk about running on Five Live last night? He's quite an advocate.
It's easy to delude oneself that the apple of one's particlar eye - or ear - is the be-all and end-all when in reality the service will probably die through lack of support/ listeners. I'm sure there are plenty of footie fans out there who feel much the same way about their struggling clubs facing receivership. But we love them! How can they go?
The almighty dollar strikes again.
Happily it seems that some form of PR will continue, if only as a webstream. I can't see this being much help though - there's no wifi coverage at Blackcap for one thing. For another it's tough enough dragging my flabby corpse up there without having to carry a laptop
How's the knee?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The weather's set to change from today so I took full advantage of another stunning sunrise.
With the gentle warmth on my back I chugged eastwards, ruminating over the impending loss of a radio station that's become a close personal friend over the last year. All the while Alice Cooper chirped in my headphones, telling tales on his fellow musicians, poking fun at himself and others in equal measure. You could almost see the maniacal gleam in his eye as he recounted stories laden with lascivious tomfoolery. Cooper's no quitter; he's beaten bigger, more sinister demons than the number-crunching boadroom Nazis holding sway over the future of Planet Rock. Drug addiction and alcoholism to name just two. It's entirely possible that no-one's informed him of recent developments, or that he knows but simply doesn't care. In any event I couldn't detect the slightest bump in his smooth, deadpan style as he served up a series of excellent tunes.
Into my stride I looked around. The Downland had dressed overnight in her finest frosted lace, trailways sparkling, golden grasses shimmering. Sheep grazed, lazy low-flying clouds speckling the hills. Racehorses trecked along the gallops, steered westward to their starting places where their pilots would let them fly, thundering hooves churning up the soft turf until they reached the stables, foam-flecked, steaming, more alive than at any other time. The hounds skipped and pranced, ears up, excited by the raw power of the racing beasts.
With no race of my own to focus on I kept my pace to a steady, fat-burning seventy-five percent, happy to soak up the sun and drink in the rich tableau before and around me. It dawned on me that if I were to only ever run this trail for the rest of my days I would die the happiest of men. The songs came thick and fast, Led Zeppelin, Derek and the Dominoes, Frank Zappa. On this day there could only be one track du jour though.
U2; In God's Country.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A-bloody-mazing. Your capacity for Harveys is almost as astonishing as your capacity for post-Harveys maniacal ascents of far-flung peaks and the hazy, be-fogged demolition of long distance cross country races.
Teenage years are filled with a mixture of endless angst and unknown wonders. Your future lays before you, rolled out like perfect downland hills, illuminated by the strong sunlight of self-assurance, peppered by shadows of uncertainty and doubt. These thoughts swirled around my addled head as I took to the hills under heavy, snow-laden cover. The sun teased above, bright patches threatening a breakthrough that never came.
I left my girls busily packing for Camber, home of the Len Goodman All-England Latin Dance Championships. Hours, no, weeks of practice, meticulous costume design and endless preparation come to a head this weekend; there'll be tears and triumph, laughter and pain. I'll be at home, looking after the menagerie of fur, legs and fins but my heart will be along the Sussex coast in Rye, wishing with every ounce of my being that my Mouse will dance her socks off, dance with a smile, win, lose or draw.
My feet fair flew this morning. There's no rhyme nor reason to this running lark. For ages I've struggled, feeling heavy, moaning about lack of musical inspiration, excess lard and anything else really. Today, with a bitter north-east wind slicing into my exposed arms and legs, skies heavy, wobbling belly full of spice from last night's exceptional Maharaja Tiffin at Chor Bizzare, I ate up the miles with surprising ease. Last night; Valentine's Day, a night for lovers. Or, in my case, a night to abandon my long-suffering wife (who's ascention to sainthood is surely a matter of when, not if) in order to wine and dine three delightful young ladies from the FDI. It is, as is often said, a tough job, but somebody has to do it . . . I even had the good fortune, having suggested a post-meal half in the Kings' Head in Arbemarle Street, to stumble across a magnificent pint of Timothy Taylor's Landlord. I was struck by the remarkable similarity of the ale to my beloved Harvey's Best, so much so that I had to take another, just to be sure.
Rob Bernie span the Planet Rock Connection to accompany my morning chug. What a fine collection of dance tunes with which to scale the humps and hollows of my route! The Vapours were Turning Japanese, Deep Purple screamed Fireball, Pink Floyd extolled the virtues of The Division Bell. All the while I marvelled at the apparent ease with which I scaled the climbs. I felt strong, untroubled by the bitter cold or the sticky, slippery terrain. The Brighton Half looms large this Sunday; I may have peaked too soon! But whilst my unofficial PB of last year - 1:39, whilst in the form of my life - is way off the charts my official (Chip) PB, somewhere around 1:44, just appeared, a tiny spec of ambition on my horizon. Heh heh.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Having developed a fine strategy last year – hanging back to let the pack stream off then picking off stragglers on a rampage through the field – we modified our approach. Sadly the preamble was twenty minutes too short, leaving Moyleman and I rapidly cooling at the back of a small towns’ worth of excited runners still waiting for the gun.
We'd loped out to the Marina drop at about 9:15, a 1.8 mile trot to loosen legs, warm blood and exchange banter. Despite the biting cold (I swear it was below freezing when I left the house) we both opted for shorts and vests, not wanting to return to the cars for a quick change and risk a repeat of last year when we not only missed the start but arrived after they'd taken up the chip mats. However, our gentle pace (10:30 miling) still brought us along Madeira Drive way too early. This race plan needs a little more seasoning I fear.
I felt a little heavy and stiff-legged, putting this down to having run well on Friday and indulged with SP that evening, our foray into the hostelries of Seaford yielding any number of fine ales and ending with a rather tasty kebab from the Charky. I will, it appears, never learn.
Somewhere at the other end of the planet the starter announced the off. The back end of the throng fidgeted nervously but nobody moved. I popped into one of the now deserted Portaloos and emerged to see nothing had changed. We discussed tactics.
‘Funny how we’re all desperate to get going even though we know it’ll be a crush up ahead.’
‘Yeah . . .what d’you reckon? Hang back for ten minutes?’
The exchange continued. I pronounced on the wisdom of waiting until everyone had gone. Why should we fall into the anxiety trap? There’s no reason why one shouldn’t let the pack shuffle off, hang around for a while, sip water and take in the scenery. We’d have a clear run through the tight, winding street section before picking off the slowbies on the seafront.
Practicing what one preaches is never easy. We strolled, apparently nonchalant, towards the startline, chatting easily until the last runners crossed the mats. Human nature kicked in, our reasoned logic crushed amongst an ocean of discarded plastic beakers.
‘I’m offski’ MM announced, teeth chattering behind blue lips. ‘Coming?’
Of course. And, as predicted, two miles of horrendous shoulder-charging, pavement-hopping madness ensued. By the time we’d run a Pamplonaesque mile and a half I was exhausted. Elbows flew, shufflers drifted, lampposts loomed out of the heaving masses, stationary bike wheels lunged from doorways. It was, quite simply, insane. Finally out of the rat-run and onto the seafront I took stock. My breathing was high and tight, heart-rate off the charts, race plan in sweaty tatters. The early pace was lodged above 8:30; a PB effort demanded at least a couple of miles at 7:30 pace just to get back on track. Screw that; I’d be dead, or at least blow up in an ugly wheezing heap way before the finish. No, take the medicine Sweder, shoulder arms; sit back, relax, enjoy the Law of Diminishing Bottoms, or Sweder’s Law as I like to call it.
When you approach a race from the rear (as we had last year, eating up the field like demonic Pacmen on our massive mileage-fuelled march to Cape Town) you experience this phenomenon. The bottoms - that‘s the lycra-clad derrieres bobbing in front of you - start out wide and wobbly, often walking. As you progress they become smaller, tighter and livelier, gradually shrinking in size until you find your place amongst your kinfolk. At my optimum canter I’m surrounded by a mixed bag; some fit larger bottoms, some extremely trim, and all rumps in between. The real racers, still way ahead at this stage, suffer from that baffling disease, Noassatall. Some might venture this to be the observation of a morally bankrupt soul; well, you’d be right. Hardly news, is it?
So there I was, watching the red and black hooped vest of Moyleman disappear in the near-distance, chugging along until my breathing and heart-rate returned to something approaching normal. A glance at the Garmin – I cursed the bloody thing; slave-driver! – informed me my ‘resting’ rate was somewhere close to 8:15 pace; wholly acceptable at this point.
By half way I was running comfortably. In order to test the effectiveness of my recent Glucosamine regime I’d elected not to take any Ibuprofen. So far my knees – prone to swelling horribly during road races – held out. Otherwise I’d recovered fully from my early palpitations, taking in the scenery as we cruised the promenade. The English Channel glistened, pond-calm, off our starboard bow. Gulls swooped and weaved, searching for small, unguarded children struggling to hold onto food. Beyond the Marina a flotilla bobbed in the breeze, colourful sails illuminated by the strong winter sun. I’ll bet those sailors were bloomin’ frozen out there! For all the clear skies and unfettered sunshine the temperature remained stoically low, as if too tired to raise itself on this lazy Sunday morning. Not a problem for me, my personal steam generator working up a nice sheen under my damp black vest; I much prefer running in the cold. I must take on a cold weather marathon some time; I reckon I’d love it
The course meandered along the prom, taking the low road at the Peace Statue to hug the shoreline. Day trippers dawdled along the edges of the path, strangely bemused by the endless stream of sweaty bodies chuntering past. As ever a number of kamikaze runner-dodgers tried their luck, darting out as if on impulse to cut across the stream. One day one of these fools will take me out and then we’ll see true Wrath! But they didn’t and I kept up a steady 8-minute beat all the way to the Palace Pier. Up the ramp, into the coned-off road and on up the hill above Madeira Drive I started overhauling strugglers. These are the PB-triers, the ones who set off earnestly banking swift early miles only to find the gentle gradient of the hill sapping their energy, eroding their will. You could see it etched on screwed-up, salt-stained faces; the dawning knowledge that, this year at least, that record run would have to wait. As it would for me, but then I’d accepted that early enough as to enjoy my day.
At the bottom of the plunge back to sea level I spied the Great Moyle, focused ahead, running well. He acknowledged the cry from Soft Al and Lou-Lou, perched high up on the main street, with a cheery wave.
This part of the race causes the most controversy. Apparently a half can only claim full half status (er, doesn’t make sense! Oh well . . .) if it limits its off-road excursions to a bare minimum. Last year the organisers found a way to do that, by taking us back up tothe main road at Black Rock, along to the Marina slipway and back along the undercliff. This avoids the sometimes treacherous yet beautifully hilly off road section back from Rottingdean, but also robs the circuit of several hundred yards. To make up the shortfall the adventurous souls added a Disney queue-style zigzag section on Madeira Drive, taking runners west towards the finish, turning them cruelly within site of the line to slingshot them back away up the road and onto the final three mile section. Everyone – I mean, EVERYONE – hates this. Brighton is rumoured to be cooking up a full marathon course. Well, they’re going to have to do a good deal better than bloody zigzags when it comes to the old 26.2.
Twenty minutes later I was home at last. I stopped my watch at 1:46, though I later received a baffling text from Sussex Beacon congratulating me on my 1:54 effort, surely a gun time. C’est la vie. I caught up with El Moyle, Gary and Scotty (both turned in a good one thirty-something effort), downed a banana and took off towards Mac’s where a full fry-up sat with my name on it. We spied Rog-Air and his Habbikuk Warriors. Rog had cruised to a 1:39 PB, great preparation for his sub-4 assault in Paris, The old boy's in great shape and I'm hoping to join him for one of his dawn raids into the hills before too long. The walk to Mac's took us passed the zigzag and along the finishing straight where one or two hardy folk plodded steadfastly on. We applauded heartily.
All things considered I’m happy with my effort. I’ve come to accept that PBs are unlikely after a training week that includes three full Blackcap runs, consecutive curries and a night on the tiles with the Mighty Plodder 36 hours before the gun. A recipe for disaster perhaps, but a whole lot of fun all the same
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
sounds liie a very respectable time if you were feeling out of sorts Sweder. Congratulations. I really enjoyed your account too...could smell the seaside :-)
- and I'd say not too shabby.
