So that was April then.
Bizarre weather, occasional running, a commitment to weekly torture at the BHTT 5Ks and a couple of reasonable middle-distance efforts. Fair to middling. I've no higher expectations for May, just a couple more sociable outings with the JSJers and a few breathless scrapes around Hove Park.
I kicked off the new month with a dreadfully slow five across the downs. As I hobbled along the muddy trails, puffy white clouds scudding across a crisp blue sky, I 'wrote' a piece in the style of a twelfth century Monk, since abandoned as it looked neither as funny nor clever in print as it had sounded in my head. I'd cunningly engineered my day so as to run at 9 and thence catch the Planet Rock Connection, a game where you have to identify a link running through the first eight songs of the day and pick the odd one out. Sadly this mornings' collection made for an ugly broth, the low point being the loathesome dirge that is Rockin' All Over The World (mate), Quo at their worst complete with Chas 'n' Dave 'piana'.
DJs should be publicly flogged for playing this tripe and Rob Birnie of all people should know better.
Track du jour came after the connection; the magnificent Fireball by Deep Purple.
Racin' like a Fireball
Dancin' like a ghost
You're Gemini and I don't know
Which one I like the most
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:... the low point being the loathesome dirge that is Rockin' All Over The World (mate), Quo at their worst complete...
What?!
Sweder, how could you fail to be moved by such deep, soulful lyrics... shame!
Here we go
Here we go
Here we here we go
Here we go-o-o-oh,
Here we go-o-o-oh,
Here we go-o,
Rockin' all over the world.
(sniff) I luvs doze guys I duz.
Sweder, I really think you should sing this one to yourself for the duration of the Three Forts - it's fantastic running music and you'll come out the other end a better person for the sincerity and depth of the metaphysical content of the song.
It was with some alarm that we learnt of the dismissal of former Lewes FC manager Steve King, a week after he had landed the Conference South title, ensuring national level football for the first time in Lewes FC's history.
We understand that King was a victim of his own success. There are numerous additional costs attached to playing at a higher level, including necessary ground improvements, travel costs, policing, and possibly the transition of the players from part to full-time contracts. To help bridge the financial gap, a consortium was invited to participate in the running of the club. The consortium, thought to include England international Gareth Barry, is headed by the former Brighton and Hove Albion marketing director Kevin Keehan. We understand that one proviso of the consortium before signing was that they would organise the management of the playing side of club. Our sources tell us that Mr Keehan himself would like to be team manager, having previously managed the Horsham YMCA reserve team.
It is thought that the majority of the players who played under King will follow him out of the door, and be replaced with younger, Sussex-based players. We will keep you informed of developments throughout the close season. Whatever happens, it is highly likely that when Lewes FC run out for their first match at the Dripping Pan in August, the fans will be singing a chant usually reserved for opponents - 'who the 'kin' hell are you?'.
Horsham YMCA Reserves? Blimey, I managed the Kingston Kestrels U6 to U11 sides in the '90's - we drew 1 - 1 with Brighton & Hove Albion juniors. Maybe I should apply. Or perhaps I should just go down the pub and drown myself in Harvey's. For the love of God . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I felt like death warmed up this morning. Dodgy guts (‘nuff said) stiff legs, weary bones. But it's all to easy to give it a miss isn't it? So many excuses to dodge the bullet, a honey-do list as long as your arm, papers to read, garden to tend, dogs to walk . . . no, as Sam Snead once said 'quitting between tee and green can be as addictive as Hi-balls before breakfast.'
A record turn-out at Hove Park, runners assembling from all over. A lot of newbies too, all slightly deformed in that they appeared to lack any form of padding around their middle. Pod-people, obviously. Where's Donald Sutherland when you need him . . .
I met up with Marion and Cam before the off. Marion was suffering similar symptoms and planned to jog round at the back. I felt strangely torn; I could amble round easily enough, the impending Three Forts half giving the perfect excuse for taking it easy. But like playing for a draw in football it's not always easy to set off with those intentions, much less so to keep that going in the heat of battle. After a rusty opening mini-loop I relaxed into a steady cadence, passing the checkpoint in 41st place. Into the first big loop I started to pass people. I wondered at this. Was I pushing, on a charge? It didn't feel like it. My legs moved easily, breathing came fast but steady yet still I caught and passed people like they were standing still.
As I reached the brow of the northward climb the light seemed to change. The backdrop of blossoming trees and ambling dog-walkers faded into an impressionist haze. The path ahead cut through the park like a landing strip, clearly defined against the lush grass. I seemed to have all the time in the world to look around, to drink in my surroundings. I smiled at a couple, arm in arm, strolling gently as a yippy yappy hairball danced at their feet. It was one of those moments you get now and again, a peep into another dimension. Thinking back to a recent post about potential I wondered if I was being given a glimpse of mine; this is how it could be if you got your finger out. That sounds a bit glib, a self-fulfilling prophecy perhaps, but that’s what it felt like.
Gravity took over on the long descending curve at the far end of the park, dragging me down the slope and past a few more strugglers. Along the back stretch I relaxed again; this simply couldn't last. But it did, just for a moment. On past the checkpoint and into the long hill of the last circuit. I felt a heavy pounding moving up behind me, waited for the sweep of a runner flying by, the tell-tale short gasps in my ear - but nothing came. It wasn't a runner; it was reality finally running me down.
The background blur came into sharp relief once more, my chest tightened, stride shortened, legs grew heavy in an instant. An invisible elastic cord tugged at my back as I fought up that hill, a man in quicksand, arms pumping, head down, sucking wind like there was no tomorrow. The merry-go-round was slowing, the tear in the space/ time continuum repaired. Now the real slap-slap of fast-approaching runners inexorably reeling me in. I gritted my teeth and hung on for dear life, falling down the slope for the last time. As I moved into the home stretch a young lad cruised past. My onboard movie director called for the zoom/ dolly shot - the camera rolls back whilst zooming in on the horizon, creating an eerie elongation of the path ahead. Infinity and beyond in an instant.
I stumbled over the line, lungs somewhere up around my neck, eyeballs fit to pop. I grabbed my disk - 28 - and lurched to an ungainly, heaving stop, hands on knees, sweat and drool mingling on the path. Where did that come from? What about tomorrow? Have you finally lost what few marbles you had left? A slap on the back. Julie, grinning, red-faced.
‘You were flying - you whizzed past me!’
I don’t remember. I was too busy ogling my potential, seduced by that glimpse of what could be.
Sitting in the café I felt . . . fine. Coffee and good banter slipped down easily, our gleaming bodies soaking up the sun, the excited chatter of endorphin-high runners and children at play floating on the warm breeze.
And so to the Three Forts. I may well curse today's madness at some stage tomorrow.
Timed at 22:46 - almost a minute off my previous best.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well done cobber. A 22:46 PB is doubtless your reward after running all those damned hills. Any thoughts as to what you might have run had you not been hung over?
I wasn't hung over - I've felt rough as a badgers' backside all week but not really sure why. Can't blame the beer as I've been tea-total all week. Hmmm . . . might be onto something there . . .
Those hills will come into their own tomorrow.
Good luck on the P2P, and enjoy the ale afterwards.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:I wasn't hung over - I've felt rough as a badgers' backside all week but not really sure why. Can't blame the beer as I've been tea-total all week. Hmmm . . . might be onto something there . . .
Those hills will come into their own tomorrow.
Good luck on the P2P, and enjoy the ale afterwards.
A ha, OK my mistake - maybe indeed teetotalism was the key. Damned horrible thought, but.
P2P is not until November. Nice flat half coming up first.
Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:P2P is not until November. Nice flat half coming up first.
Gah! You see what happens when drink and reason are removed?
A couple of observations on the demon drink:
"Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut." -- Ernest Hemingway
"When we drink, we get drunk. When we get drunk, we fall asleep. When we fall asleep, we commit no sin. When we commit no sin, we go to heaven. So, let's all get drunk and go to heaven!" -- George Bernard Shaw
and my current favorite:
"Sometimes when I reflect on all the beer I drink, I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn't drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. I think, "It is better to drink this beer and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver." -- Babe Ruth
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
There was always a chance I might come to rue that PB effort yesterday and so it came to pass. The Three Forts Half offered an unforgiving, yes, brutal challenge for tired legs and slightly suspect constitutions. With Wild Boris safely installed in the Capital mayhem could well be making a come-back; there was certainly havoc a-plenty on the steep Sussex hills this morning, and no small amount of hell to pay.
A warm day, heavy high cloud throwing humidity into the mix and a good ecclectic selection of Sussex runners for this colourful festival of hills. The course proved rocky and in many places bone hard, ubiquitous rocklettes of chalk and flint adding to the test. Heading out of Hill Barn the course climbs steadily into the high downs. And it climbs. And it climbs . . . for the best part of seven miles, with the occasional flat section, the trail ascends through well-dressed hillside. The sun poked through the thick grey duvet around mile six, adding a few regulos to the already debilitating heat. Not one to sweat profusely at the drop of a hat I lost liquid at an alarming rate, my legs tightening with every splash of sweat onto my redundant mud-pluggers.
Jill and Julie joined me on the half, Remy - just two weeks away from Copenhagen - took on the full 26.2 monster. I feared for him as I laboured towards the next summit and the drinks station at mile 7. At this point I was shot, done in; my breathing was high and tight, shirt and shorts drenched in sweat. Doom and gloom formed my own personal non-propductive raincloud as I toiled ever-upward. Thoughts of Bombay and Cape Town crackled and sizzled in the heat, my foolish plans cruelly exposed in the comparitively gentle English climate.
I walked the best part of a mile across halfway and wondered how on Earth I was going to finish. At the drinks station I gulped cool water, flushing down a gel in a last ditch attempt to get things going. A tall fellow who, like me, had unwisely opted for a black outfit, stood, face lobster-pink, to my left.
'Bad day to wear black' I gasped, offering what I hoped was a smile but was most likely an ugly grimace.
A light cheery voice behind me made me turn.
'Bad day for wearing anything!'
The sweetest smile beamed out from under a white cap, the owner herself glistening with perspiration. I grinned back, feeling the dark thoughts of the last twenty minutes lift to float away on the gentle hilltop breeze. She set off and I followed, reminding myself this was supposed to be fun and if I couldn't bloody well enjoy myself out here I should pack it all in.
Having climbed for over half the distance it stood to reason we would hit some descents. Sure enough they came thick and fast, solid footing at a premium as my quads, up till now not overly taxed, took a hammering. I managed to secure my position within a small band of strugglers; a fellow from Sandhurst RC, a tall woman in the red and yellow stripes of the Serpentine RC, a blonde lady in a red vest. She looked tough, compact frame with a determined yet economic downhill style that I couldn't help but envy as my John Cleese legs stretched out to meet the next patch of loose scree.
We reached the mile ten drinks station and I began to rally again; only three miles, even I in this troubled state could manage that. The breeze picked up as we took on a slight incline and I found a reasonable rhythm and pace to get over that particular hump. Barns Green Golf Club appeared off my right shoulder and I wondered at the little inclines set into the mostly perilous plummet; I hadn't noticed these on the climb from the start, but isn't that always the way?
Into the last mile and the realisation that salvation was close at hand filled me with the spirit to finish. I passed Blonde Red Vest and cantered for home, ducking under the yellow and black striped entrance to the car park to set my sights on the blue balloon arch finish. I felt a whoosh of air to my left as Blonde Red Vest, apparently tired of trading places with this shuffling, stumbling old fool, put her foot to the floor and sprinted impressively for the line. Head back, blonde locks flowing, she raced away. In spite of myself I kicked into my own facsimile of a sprint, getting within a yard of her as we crossed the line. She turned, a huge grin plastered across her face, offering her hand. I responded with my own leer and shook, grateful for the tow and at least a grandstand finish to what by any measure had been a stodgy, painful outing.
Julie was already home in 2:06, a minute ahead of me and Jill who it turned out was but a few yards behind at the death. We grabbed drinks and set up camp close to the finish where we'd wait for the Remster.
Just after 1pm (the full race had set off at ten) an impossibly tall, gangly figure turned in off the road. Almost a foot clear above the half marathon stragglers, spindly body reminiscent of the alien at the end of Close Encounters, the blonde mop bounced easily through the field. His race number differed from ours; he was the first full marathoner home. His name: Tim Short – yes, really: isn't it though? He finished in 3:02, a new course record by eleven minutes having left the rest for dead. I shook his hand just after this rather shy young man (I reckon he's 20 at most) received his winners' trophy and I asked him to tell me that he at least knew the course well.
'Nope, first time I've run here. If I'd known how tough it was I might've slowed down a bit.'
His modesty, whilst no doubt genuine and to be applauded, was risible; the lad had barely broken sweat, spending the ten minutes after crossing the line chatting to the mayoress and chewing laconically on a piece of bread pudding whilst his beaming father looked on. Last years winner came home second, twelve minutes later. He looked shattered, and not a little bewildered.
Remy cruised in at 4 hours 17, a splendid effort for one 'taking it easy'. He looked pretty good but confessed it had been a tough slog. He'd taken a couple of walk breaks on the climbs which made me feel slightly better about my own struggle. If my rapidly-stiffening limbs are anything to go by tomorrows' scheduled Bank Holiday leg-loosener may well be shelved.
[SIZE="1"]Attached image: full marathon elevation[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
That sounds like an extremely good time for a half marathon over a fell running course. And that Tim Short could be one to watch for the future. What's next on the agenda?
Yeah, I was surprised at my time; it felt like a day or so longer than that
After the finish I met up with a lady from B&H RC who, how can I put this, sports a good deal more grey than El Gordo and I combined. She came home in 1:44 and finished outside the top three ladies. There may be a distinct lack of flat caps and whippets around these parts but they're serious about their hill running down here.
On reflection it wasn't the toughness of the run that dissapointed - I ran the Steyning Stinger over a similar course last year and knew the hills would be merciless - it was my capitulation in the heat. I'm not sure this is something I can overcome; only time will tell. I'm off to Barcelona in a couple of weeks and plan to run a couple of times in the day, but I fear I may need a more concerted warm-weather strategy if I'm to get over the terrible energy drain I feel every time the sun peeps out.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I'm sure the hell will be long forgotten before the next hot, hilly race. Seaford half is never a picnic, the hills and heat can catch you out there too. At least there is the seashore soak at the end.
On the basis that it's generally a good idea to get back on the horse as soon as possible I decided to take to the hills for a midday sweat-fest. Legs heavy with lactic acid took a while to cajole into any sort of coherent movement but after an uncomfortable mile everything was pretty much up and, er . . . running.
Surprisingly few ailments to report after yesterdays' hardcore flogging. Sore quads are de rigeur after a hilly half and mine didn't dissapoint. The heat issue simmered in my sun-drenched head as I chugged along. The cloud sat high but a good deal thinner than yesterday, allowing the sun to beam a little stronger. The gentlest of cooling breezes took the edge off and I cursed it for arriving 24 hours late. As the beads on my forehead turned to rivulets and then a steady torrent it occured to me that my coolant problem may be one of intake. OK, I sweat like a fat man wrapped in clingfilm trapped in a sauna but so what? Surely it's only a matter of hydration?
Hydration should be a bigger part of my long-term strategy. It takes days to hydrate properly for a race. A few hurridly-gulped glasses of water an hour before the off will only lie in your belly and make you feel queazy. A good pre-race strategy coupled with precise on-the-hoof sipping could make all the difference.
I shall experiment. Next purchase; a double-Nathan water carrier a la Moyleman. Next hot Snake we get I'll try short sharp feeds on the run and see where that gets me.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thanks A, a kind and tempting invitation.
Mrs S and I are going to stay in a beachfront hotel* in Loret de Mar whilst P takes part in a school trip further up the coast. If we get a chance to come south for the day I'll be sure to let you know. Greetings to Mrs A and all our lovely Almerian friends.
[SIZE="1"]*Yeah, yeah, I know . . . someone has to do it [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
