I hate short races. I'm using the word 'hate' here.
An eyes out, full-on upper-chest heart-pounding scramble over six kilometres into a viscious headwind is not my idea of a fun afternoon. Still, it has to be done at least once a year, and that day was today.
Sussex had basked in the glow of a lovely Spring day. High white clouds flitted between the sunrays in a picture-perfect blue sky. I'd walked the dogs at lunchtime before taking the Grannies down to the Rainbow for a couple of pints of Harvey's and some excellent Easter fare. At the end of the afternoon, huddled above the Marina with thirty hardy souls, I watched a monstrous black fist clench above the western shoreline, moving inexorably towards us dripping freezing rain from its malevolent fingers.
A straw poll revealed a unanimous desire to get going. This race is an outward four mile plod at leisurely pace, turning at The Wire before a start under gun and stopwatch sets off a helter skelter free-for-all back to Brighton. About a mile out someone hit the dimmer switch just as the rain lashed into our backs. Damn! We hunkered down in a close group, pressed together to eek out the last modicum of bodily warmth trying to keep ahead of the weather. Ten minutes later the lights came back up and the skies cleared. The black foulness had scuttled inland dragging its heavy load to leave clear blue overhead. Hoorah!
The blast back was painful. I ran for thirty minutes on the verge of a heart attack, expecting to collapse in a nasty steaming heap at any moment. The hares - Remmy, Steve, Prawn, Gary, Moyleman - were over the immediate horizon in no time, the thunder of the chasing pack pounding in my ears. A fierce cold wind tore into us head-on as we fought hard until finally, blissfully, the Marina hove into view. Thirty minutes forty-one seconds for six hilly kilometres represents a good effort for me. The thought of a slow but tough twenty miler on Sunday offers little comfort but for now I can sit back in a comfy chair, warm laptop thawing my frozen thighs, and look forward to a cozy evening in from of the George Melly with Mrs S and a bottle of fortified grapejuice.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The Jog Shop Jog in a blizzard.
Not my idea of a typical Easter Sunday; twenty miles of unforgiving climbs in the foulest conditions. Despite the forecasts I opted for a sleeveless top. These running jackets are all well and good but I need no excuse to sweat like Ashley Cole strapped to a polygraph. Still, as with many things in life viewed through the clear lense of hindsight a slight broiling would have been a wise choice measured against the skin-stripping ferocity of an evil nor-westerly wind.
I was late for the start, a combination of late-night cricket-watching and early-morning F1 catch-up. The cricket was incredible. As inept as Englands batsmen obviously were against a makeshift Kiwi attack the Black Caps contrived to display even less diligence. If the Aussies can be bothered watching theyll be laughing into their Tooheys. The main pack was half a click away but I decided not to chase. With big mileage lined up a slow start is essential so I ploughed a lone, steady furrow along the cliff tops, catching the pelaton at Saltdean and taking a good-natured ribbing for my tardy arrival. I was disturbed to learn that during the Hastings Half last weekend one of our newbies, Jo, a lovely quiet lad new to running, had collapsed during the race. Turns out he has a dicky ticker and may need a pacemaker. Im sure hes devastated he had New York in his sights this year but as many of us know only too well it could have been worse. Good luck Jo, hope you make a full recovery in record time.
Sometimes the gods look down upon the mortals and they smile, tilting their heads to one side in curious sympathy as we struggle against the odds. After two heavy blasts of snow, the second across and into our faces as we hauled frozen flesh up the Yellow Brick Road, I was counting the miles to go and they were still well into double figures. The Big W followed, a cruel punishment dating back to the time of the Inquisition where poor tortured souls were made to run down an impossibly steep, slipery slope and back up the other side, only to do it again until they wept for mercy. Today the biting gale roared off the top, rushing down the slopes as we clambered up the rough flint trail, lashing our numb ears and screwed-up faces with brutal force. Half way up the second ascent the last upstroke of the W I was surprised to find Stevio walking alongside me.
Calfs tightened up he grimaced. Have to see how it goes up Castle Hill.
We trotted up the last hundred metres, working warm blood into chilled limbs.
Twenty minutes later the turn into Castle Hill Nature Reserve loomed and Steve confirmed his decision.
Im going to plod straight on. I want to do the mileage but with three weeks to go its not worth risking a bad injury.
I heartily concurred, swiftly volunteering to head back with him. Well, you cant leave a chap out on these hills alone. What if he turned an ankle? I took the unkind glares from the others and bore them without shame. After all I, having no impending race and therefore no urgent need for huge mileage, was the logical choice.
Farewells made we chugged on up the slope towards Woodingdean, chatting easily about how we runners rarely seem able to go into a big race one hundred percent fit. I assured Steve hed made the right choice. Personal bottling out preferences aside I have experience of leaving a grumbling calf untreated and can attest to the resulting agonies.
We finished up coming down out of the hills through East Brighton Park, blissfully avoiding the thrashfest of running east to west along the cliffs into a viscious headwind. Fifteen and a half miles, many of them amongst the toughest Ive run for a while, in two hours forty. Not what Steve was looking for but as I pointed out if he can get his calf treated hell look on this as a useful outing all the same.
Back home I resumed my disgraceful affair with the shower, lingering far too long under the steaming water, or at least until my arms started to thaw. A few hours on the sofa with Golf and Footie before rustling up the Easter Sunday roast lie ahead. I will enjoy them.
[SIZE="1"]Check out the elevation map below: shows the 'W' nicely[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I bypassed today's Lewes 10K, choosing a leisurely recovery run on my usual route in an effort to flush out the rust from yesterday. Snow, hail, mizzle and sunshine all made an appearance during the forty-five minute leg-loosener.
A mile or so out from home we encountered a family out for an Easter Monday stroll. The parents lead the way, well wrapped in bobble hats and scarves. The children, aged around seven and ten, stood still, staring at something behind me and to my left. I glanced round to see Tess, my aged Whippet, emerging from a gorse bush with small furry corpse in her mouth. A quick glance confirmed a) that the rabbit was dead and b) its eyes were welded shut by disease, a tell-tale sign of myxomatosis. I hurriedly explained this to the parents and jogged on, leaving them to tell the horrified children.
I let Tess carry her prize for a mile or so, finally taking the still-warm creature from her and placing it deep inside a thicket. The dog reluctantly followed me as I headed for Wicker Man Hill, glancing back as if expecting the rabbit to come racing after us. Ten minutes later I heard a yelp, looking up to see white whippet hindquarters sticking out of a thornbush. She backed out and raced around to the other side, reappearing moments later with a much larger rabbit hanging limp in her jaws. What's going on? I thought. Once again the creature showed sign of advanced infection. Tess carried this one, about half her own body weight, up Blackcap, around the summit and halfway home until finally she gave up the struggle, leaving the corpse a mile from home.
These were true mercy killings. Introduced after initial testing in Australia to control numbers, Myxomatosis came to Britain in the 1950s. It takes an average of thirteen days for the infection to kill a rabbit, starting with eye trouble, a sort of conjunctivitis that results in blindness. Those not taken by foxes - or dogs - are left to die in agony, eventually contracting pneumonia. Once again Man has proved himself to be a highly effective killer; well done Man!
As usual the important part of this recovery effort came at the end - a darned good stretch. As I strained tired sinews against the side of the house huge snowflakes fell from the leaden sky. Unlike yesterday when snow and ice were driven into the ground - and us - with ferocious power, these large slices of ice descended like paratroopers, gliding in to settle momentarily on the damp ground before turning invisible.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Took part in my first 5k Brighton & Hove Time Trial this morning.
As expected it was a breathless, sweaty affair but it's a start. These time trials are spreading across the country. They're free, runners of all sizes/ abilities/ backgrounds take part, whippets and walkers alike. The organisers, all volunteers, offer a carefully measured course and repeat the trials every Saturday morning at 9am. Once you register you can turn up (or not) as you please, simply having to be at the start by nine o'clock. You get a numbered disc at the end which indicates your finishing position on the day and corresponds with your recorded time (published that afternoon on the TT website).
The course is a pleasant winding paved trail with one small and two large loops over undulating parkland. Runners mingled with morning strollers, dog-walkers and cyclists on a beautiful crisp spring morning. A retro Café sat between the finish and the tennis courts, laden with wonderful breakfast fare. Mrs S and S minor took advantage, waving at me from their comfy perch as I plodded round slowly turning pink. Encouraged by the presence of more than a few walkers/ slow joggers the girls suggested they might take part in future. This would be a welcome development as I've always felt my passion for running is a selfish one. It'll be great to share it.
I don't expect too much from these trials other than to add a hint of pacework to my running. It's fun though, and with a fair number of the Sunday group taking part a pleasant social occasion to boot.
Update
Finished 28th out of 65 in 23:51. The Remster came in 8th in 19:16
No doubt I'll be watching him dissapear over the horizon again tomorrow
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Seafront Plodder Wrote:Surprised you made it at all considering the amount of Harveys you downed at the wonderful http://www.johnharveytavern.co.uk/ last night.
Yes, well . . . that 'couple of pints' turned into a fairly lengthy session :o
The best laid plans of mice, men and lovers of Harvey's Best . . .
I blame the JHT version of 'Diddly-Dee' music - that and the voluptuous wenches parading amongst the tables leaning in to collect our empties
It may humour you to know I ran with an almighty banging head this morning, much to the amusement of my good lady wife who informs me I was somewhat unsteady and unduly verbose on my return home. Curse that demon drink! Tea-total this evening, honest Guv . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thanks for the info on the time trials. Hadn't heard of this initiative. If one is organised in Reading or environs, I'd take part. Would be a good pre-Loftus Road loosener.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
A combination of Friday evenings' festivities, yesterdays' time trial, half a night spent comforting a poorly daughter and changing clocks put the kaibosh on my Sunday run. The alarm did its' duty at six forty-five, Nokia cleverly automatically docking an hour during the night, but as sometimes happens in that strange place between sleep and awake I hit 'off' instead of 'snooze' and finally opened my eyes at eight thirty. The sigh that escaped my lips was part frustration at having missed the run and part relief; I don't do well on lack of sleep.
So for the first Sunday in a long while I sat back and let Jake rustle up a wonderfully unhealthy brunch, suasages, bacon, baked beans, leeks, mushrooms, scrambled egg, toast, juice and coffee. What a treat! It took until two pm for the feast to settle in my ample belly by which time my conscience and shame had conspired to force me out onto the downs. The five mile loop around Blackcap was a stodgy outing, heavy footfalls gouging large scars into the rain-sodden turf. Not for the first time this spring I was thankful for my decision not to run a marathon this year. The freedom to steal a lazy Sunday here and there is a treasure to be cherished.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A much better outing this lunchtime, probably the result of actually stretching after Sunday's chug (I failed to do so on Saturday). Good - no, great - music from PR, the highlight being the incomprable Doors with Riders on the Storm. It wasn't raining on the downs but the boiling skies were pregnant with the stuff, clouds ominously dark like a monstrous furrowed brow. It all made for a wonderful atmosphere as my feet flew over the slippery flint, greedy mud clutching in vain at my runners.
Off to Glasgow for the week with a few early morning riverside plods lined up.
Och aye tha Noo!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
