Flaming June? It's been a slow start in that regard and thank goodness for that, I say.
Tardy April showers arrived to start the month with lush, green carpets and natural sunblock overhead.
I am happy to be the Rain Man.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
At last a miserable overcast race day: yippee!
Sipping my third (and last) half pint of exemplary Harvey's Best at a friends' birthday party last night, I was alone in welcoming wet gifts from the heavens. Partygoers huddled under a dodgy-looking tarpaulin, slung over the back porch earlier in the day, when the sun had beat down and clouds lurked over distant hills.
I'd volunteered as designated driver to ensure solidarity with my pre-race plans. The three half-pints, staged across the evening between food and the drivers' curse, orange juice and lemonade, tasted sublime, all the more so for the rationing.
This morning I crawled out of bed, head a good deal clearer than it might have been. A big bowl of porridge laced with bananas and drowned in maple syrup improved my mood as I gazed out at the mizzle. Perfect conditions for the Seaford Half.
At race HQ I met James Turner and his mum. I'd coached James for a few seasons when he played for Kingston Kestrels. He'd been a good player, reliable, hard in the tackle, good left peg, calm on the ball. I'd heard from his Dad, a chap I played 5-a-side with for a couple of years, that he'd taken to running. This was to be his first race proper. I offered the best advice I could - take it easy for the early miles - and wished him well. His mum asked him what time she should assemble the family at the finish. Looking at this powerful young man and recalling his abilities on the football field I suggested any time from 10:30 (1 hour 30 into the race) would be a good idea. James stared at the floor and whispered that 10:45 would be fine.
Moyleman, Chris and Helen were already at the Seaford Rugby Club car park. We laced up our runners and joined the gathering flock at the start. This race starts and end with some serious climbs, so I spent the twenty minutes waiting for the gun telling myself to take it EASY for the first four miles. We set off, the crunch-crunch of running shoes on pebble-strewn concrete mimicking the clap-clap-clap of an impatient tennis crowd. The usual anxieties rose to the surface as we reached the hills. I bit down on my resolve as streams of adrenaline-fuelled runners clambered through the long grass beside our slow-moving trail. I'd been here before, burning much-needed energy in the clamour to gain a few places. Now, settling into a run-shuffle as we queued to cross the styles, I marvelled at such madness. Within a mile or so there would be acres of space in which to run freely.
One feature of the early miles is the false summit at mile 3. Runners are duped into thinking the much talked-about early hills have ended. Just around the next bend the true horror of mile 3 to 4 is revealed, a long, steady climb that rises like a mighty green wave above the multi-coloured, boardless surfers. MM and I chugged manfully up the slope, passing walkers/ strugglers. Runners are rather like horses. Thoroughbreds tearing off at the gun, never to be seen again; sleek workhorses, the sort that look good enough to draw State carriages; common, honest workers, not quite as fancy as their fitter, better turned-out cousins but still capable of pulling a decent load; and then there's my lot, the carthorses, heads down, hauling impossibly heavy loads up never-ending hills. I laughed at the analogy, happy in my place amongst the drays. They do, after all, get to haul the ale.
After mile 4 the course takes it's boot off your chest. A long downhill sweep towards the picturesque village of Alfriston, where marshals steer the runners through the narrow winding streets. A lady clad from head to toe in hi-vis clobber called to us as we approached up a narrow side road.
'Careful - there's a bus coming!'
'Is it going to Seaford?' I asked as we launched into and across the high street.
A zig and a zag and we were on the riverside trail, a mud-slicked slip-fest to test our footing. Fortune favoured the foolhardy here. If you were prepared to dance with the prospect of sliding into the cool, fast-flowing water there was a semblance of a path to be found along the riverbank, where waist-high nettles offered to sting us onward. Swans dabbled on the water, the occasional blue-rinsed dog-walker grudgingly giving way to the endless ribbon of mud-flecked gaspers. Beyond, a perfect country scene, stock-still in the breathless air, heavy with the threat of deluge over the valley. Trees and shrubs lined our route, the occasional chimney or rooftop poking through, adding to the rich vista.
Eight miles in and we were halfway between Alfriston and the Golden Galleon, a landmark notable for veterans of the race as the place where the climbing starts again. I felt pretty good here, working hard to slow my breathing, pace steady at around 8:30 minute miles. Styles came and went offering opportunities to slip or catch an ankle. Mud pools frequently threatened to send me sliding into the river, a great green/ grey slug siding into the drink like the villainous creature in a Korean monster movie. I kept my nerve and my footing, reaching the road crossing and the pub in good shape. I snaffled a wine gum, part of today’s' experiment with eating on the run, in readiness for the approaching hills.
Sure enough at Mile 11 we took a sharp right-hander to begin the long haul up to the top of the seventh sister. I know this climb well, this being my fourth consecutive visit to the race. Knowing the punishing climb to come I took a walk break, gulping down some light Ribena mix and catching my breath. A few hardy souls chugged by, possibly (blissfully) unaware of the challenge ahead. A left hand turn and the half-mile concrete road stretched before us leading up to the back of Seaford Head. I tucked in my chins and struck for the summit, breathing controlled, stride shortened.
SP had threatened to set up camp at the top of this climb but I didn't see him. Instead I made up a few places, using my affinity with hill work to good advantage. Across the cliff tops I chased down a few more runners, enjoying the views across the English Channel and then down across the two miles of gently arching beach bisecting ocean and town below. The drop to sea-level was a precarious affair, all thick slippery grass and muddy trails flecked with rocks of flint and chalk. I'd half-turned an ankle in the fifth mile and the joint complained bitterly at the slalom-like efforts to descend. Glancing at the Garmin I knew I was painfully close to two hours - a PB was all but assured - and I tried to keep my pace below eight minute miling. The lactic acid rose in my legs to strangle my sub-2 dream as we hit the concrete run-in. The last mile goes on forever, the promenade lined with clapping, smiling folk. You get that odd cinematic sensation at times like this - the camera dollies back whilst zooming in on the horizon, stretching out the road ahead.
A hundred and fifty yards from the finish the two hours flipped up on the watch. Oh well, there's always next year. Just then a young chap (we'd exchanged sympathies at the top of the last big hill) breezed past, smiling horribly as he ran down this old grey battler. As he did so I caught sight of my wife and daughter waving frantically from the finish, Phoebe's cries of 'go on Dad' ringing clear from the general hubbub. It was all I needed. Even as the impudent youth started to reach for his medal, proffered just beyond the line by an NPS Lions official, I found a yard from somewhere, lit the afterburners and scampered past him to snatch the purple ribbon. Well, sometimes you just HAVE to, y'know?
Watch time 2:00:48. Life can be cruel.
After nearly spilling my guts on the prom, I grabbed a banana and a cup of water before shuffling off to find the family for a sweaty hug. With the promise of a beer ringing in my ears I made for the ocean to dip weary legs into icy sea. The water was bone-chillingly cold, but I forced myself to stay in for five minutes, staggering back to dry land only when my legs threatened to buckle.
On the way to the car I met James and his family. He'd come home in an impressive 1:35. That's some debut over a demanding course; I expect to be hearing more about this young man before long. Half an hour later I'd joined Moyleman, Helen and Chris (sporting a similarly impressive time) at the Beachcomber for traditional rehydration. I opted for Harveys, looking to right the ‘wrongs’ of last night. Did a pint ever taste better? I doubt it.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Slipped out for a very gentle 3.5 miles, nothing more than a post-run check on the limbs. Sore quads, a (still) grumbling knee (though no worse) and general knackerdness were present as expected. A rest day on Tuesday (working in Rotterdam). Evening run planned for Wednesday and a Friday a.m. session before the horrors of the weekend Girlschool reunion.
A quick note about my flight from London City to Rotterdam.
VLM operate puddle-jumpers - small prop aircraft that remind me of what it was like to fly in the Air Traning Corp - 'real' flying as opposed to the bland bus-rides on modern jet liners. Sadly these smaller craft do less well in turbulent conditions. Our descent into one of Europe's busiest ports almost ended in the drink as our aircraft took a brutal hammering from violent storms sweeping across the channel. I've been through a few of these and this one was right up there on the white knuckle scale. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, a menacing bassline to the manic lead-guitar scream of the engines. At one stage I crashed head-first into my newspaper as we dropped what felt like a hundred metres in a nanosecond. It's nice to be back on terra firma.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:A quick note about my flight from London City to Rotterdam.
VLM operate puddle-jumpers - small prop aircraft that remind me of what it was like to fly in the Air Traning Corp - 'real' flying as opposed to the bland bus-rides on modern jet liners. Sadly these smaller craft do less well in turbulent conditions. Our descent into one of Europe's busiest ports almost ended in the drink as our aircraft took a brutal hammering from violent storms sweeping across the channel. I've been through a few of these and this one was right up there on the white knuckle scale. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, a menacing bassline to the manic lead-guitar scream of the engines. At one stage I crashed head-first into my newspaper as we dropped what felt like a hundred metres in a nanosecond. It's nice to be back on terra firma.
Now that's what I call survival stuff... you wouldn't catch me in that aeroplane..:o
Not much more than a pleasant morning stroll through acres of swollen, sun-flooded grassheads under a clear blue sky.
Life is good. On days like these I'm inclined to say it's bloody good. Five miles tucked away before the monster beer-fest that is my weekend, starting this evening with a tour of local hostilries in the company of my good mate Glenn, over from Japan for the Girlschool 30th bash in Bournemouth. SP's threatened an appearance so who knows what horrors await?
No more from me for a few days then. All you born-again runners laying off the ale; I'll be thinking of you.
sorry Imissed your half m report earlier. brilliant stuff, so pleased you beat the youngster to the line - yep, sometimes it just has to be done:-) good piccies too.
Quite the heaviest plod of the year, merciless sun adding to my burden as I melted across the hilltops. No great surprise after the Girlschool Reunion weekend. I've decided to leave the details of our time in Bournemouth for another time and place; much of what transpired - and details of those involved - would mean little or nothing to most here, revolving as they did around personal memories of decades lost in the mists of time and youth. Suffice to say it was less 'Withnail and I' and more 'Last of the Summer Wine'. Sort of.
What struck me was the range of diverse paths wed taken since those halcyon days of cross-country travel, lugging bass-bins, cadging lifts, bunking trains, loitering around venues/ pubs, ligging backstage and sleeping rough. Our lives are like concentric wheels in a Spirograph pattern, intersecting at junctions between 1978 and 1982 but for the most part wheeling away from each other, curving off into separate areas of modern life on arcs of parenthood, employment, hobbies, likes and dislikes. More intersections appear, infrequent collisions of experience and taste; some consensus on movies - another unashamed fan of The Host! - and of course a continuing passion for good rock music. Turns out that no less than five of us have taken up the bass guitar over the years (with notably differing results it should be said). As far as vocational development goes we have a bank advisor living in darkest Devon, a record company executive plying his trade in Tokyo, a healthcare professional based in Gloucester, an event logistics specialist living in rural Sussex, a civil servant in south London . . . wheels within wheels, worlds apart yet forever linked by those hazy, crazy days of yore.
Amongst various revelations was the excellent news that Ruptured Dog* might be about to resurface. This band drew admiration and revulsion in equal measure from its inception in the early eighties until its demise in the mid-nineties, managing at least one Peel session and a star turn at the old Marquee along the way. Doug, erstwhile founder member and latterly bass-player, recently unearthed an ancient relic in his garden. This strange machine, when connected to a mystical power source, made contact with the great stratospheric gas-dweller Interweb. The unseen behemoth hooked Doug up with his old pal Tony Maim. A reunion rehersal is imminent - that is, in darkest Devonian parleance, sometime in the next three to four months.
All in all a great weekend, memories rekindled like the embers of a great hearthfire until the stories crackled and popped, tankards of mead spilling over warped wooden tables. Laughter, astonishment, revelation and, at the mention of those no longer with us, sober reflection and declarations of undying love filled the hours.
The only thing I could express any love for this morning was the moment of relief as I staggered back into my front garden, broiled pink, sweat-soaked and desperate. My right knee continues to whinge so Ill be making contact with the specialist the knee whisperer kindly passed on by Helen after the Seaford Half.
Track du jour was the Orrible Oo (as the late beloved Thomas Vance used to call them) with Join Together With the Band. The relentless beat is perfect for the cumbersome lumber of my last mile home.
[SIZE="1"]* being Johnny-come-latelies to the Interweb RD found their seemingly unique moniker had been hijacked by a bunch of spotty youths from Norn Iron. The original thrash-metallers are, therefore, known in cyberspace as THE Ruptured Dog[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Blue skies shone on my burgeoning sunroof as I set off, dogs in tow, for a sedate 8k across the south downs. Turning to the west I saw the leading edge of a thick white cloud bank ambling towards me. Like huge puffs of rush-hour traffic the airborne duvets appeared to slow as they approached the town as if the sun, now high above the eastern cliffe, were some kind of celestial traffic light.
Beyond streaks of sky blue, the kind of blue to be found on the Manchester City badge, a sort of solar-powered electric blue, laced the far horizon. I chugged on up Mount Harry (aka Wicker Man Hill) as Planet Rock dished up a tasty soundtrack. Radar Love looked set to take the TdJ spoils, the thumping beat driving my reluctant lower limbs up the tree root booby-trap trail. No more speed now, almost there popped up at precisely the moment I most wanted to stop. I ploughed on, smiling at the synchronicity.
Moments later the accolade had been stolen, Golden Earring pipped by the Floyd. TdJ is an unfair business where Pink Floyd are concerned. Their music is so inherently organic, of this earth yet apparently conjured by other-worldly sorts. Great Gig In The Sky – you know, the one that sounds like the longest orgasm in history from Dark Side Of The Moon – floated out through my headphones to curl lazily around me like smoke from the sweetest incense, lifting my spirit and the load from my shoulders. Birds chirruped from the tall grass, others from their hideouts in the thick gorse, but the thing with Floyd, and tracks like this in particular, is these sounds mingle effortlessly with the music, enhancing rather than contrasting. Even the thrum of the breeze, stiffening out of the west as I ran, seemed entirely in time.
On the homeward leg I got welcome assistance from a variety of artists but none came close to dislodging Gilmour and Co. The ‘traffic’ had well and truly stacked up, only missing the impatient honking of horns. No doubt these great skyborne cargo carriers will eventually lose patience, unloading heavily over Lewes. Good job too; the garden needs it and frankly watering duties are playing second fiddle to the lure of Euro 2008.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:As far as vocational development goes we have a bank advisor living in darkest Devon, a record company executive plying his trade in Tokyo, a healthcare professional based in Gloucester, an event logistics specialist living in rural Sussex, a civil servant in south London . . .
Sweder, without wishing to denigrate your profession in the slightest, I can't help noticing that event logistics specialist just sounds suspiciously like a modern term for roadie...
marathondan Wrote:Sweder, without wishing to denigrate your profession in the slightest, I can't help noticing that event logistics specialist just sounds suspiciously like a modern term for roadie...
Curses; foiled again
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
1 lardy plodder
5 mile hilly trail
1 partly cloudy sky
A soupcon of sunshine
Cool westerly breeze (easy)
Soft rolling green hills
Instructions:
Soak hills overnight in steady, gentle rain
Allow to blend
Soundtrack optional
Back to back hilltop boogies for the first time in a long time.
With an unhealthy trip to Amsterdam on the horizon I thought it prudent to bank an extra run. The legs didn't seem to mind; in fact I'd say it was one of my better showings for a while, under 45 minutes including a pause to admire the view from the summit. That steady, gentle overnight rain, so reminiscent of late summer nights in Macroom, left the turf wonderfully springy, adding a bounce to my tread that belied my lardy frame. There was youth in my stride and a smile on my face as I ran, dogs in close attendance. Ma Nature had her glad rags on and no mistake. The last of the spring lambs gambolled close to mother, stopping to stare in wide-eyed wonder at our mangy troup as we scurried past. One of the fattest magpies I've ever seen watched us approach his gate-top perch, reluctantly flap-hopping off at the last minute, his beady black eye casting a scournful glance at the passing interlopers.
Fair to say I've a thing for clouds. The Stranglers said that Sweden was the 'only country where the clouds are interesting'. I get the point but I have to disagree. Perhaps my formation fascination harks back to the dark days of the late '70's when pharmacuetical enhancements were de rigeur; who's to say? All I know for sure is that when I turned to the west this morning the vista opened up to reveal tales of a monstrous steam-beast, a leviathan locomotive hauling it's load away into the north east, across the Sussex plains, up and over the far peaks of the north downs. Great plumes of dirty white smoke trailed in its wake, growing in height and depth as they dissipated on the breeze, starting as a thin, concentrated line where the engine had crossed the horizon to billow a thousand feet high overhead.
Every day a different story, no two clouds the same. Let your mind wander and the images flood in, free-forming, wondrous sky movies, no subscription required. An hour after my plod the heavens opened, great sheets of rain dousing the garden, thrashing oxygen into the fish pond; nature's jetwash.
Nice work Ms Nature
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Wish I had more time on this but needs must when the Devil drives and Satan's wearing lead boots this week.
Last night Tiger Woods won a thrilling 19-hole play-off to win his 3rd US Open and 14th 'major' title. He did this in his first tournament after major knee surgery (in April), in constant and obvious pain, against a starting field of 150 of the best golfers in the world.
In this modern age, when technology turns mediocre into very good and opportunities to play what has been until recently an elitist sport are ever more plentiful, his achievements so far have been nothing short of pheonominal. I can think of few (if any) contests where a man (or woman) pits their wits and skill against such an array of talent and continually comes out on top. The law of averages, weather conditions, luck (good and bad), health, pressure . . . all these conspire to thwart such endeavour, yet time and again this man rises up, takes the challenge and squeezes it until the pips squeak.
There's a massive amount of hyperbole spoken and written about Tiger Woods. Much has to do with sales of sporting goods and cable subscriptions. When you live in a media frenzy-driven world, in the midst of continual acts of supreme sporting success, it can be difficult to appreciate what we are witnessing.
I can tell you this; irrespective of money, corporate hype or anything else the killjoys try to tell you we are in the presence of greatness.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Wish I had more time on this but needs must when the Devil drives and Satan's wearing lead boots this week.
Last night Tiger Woods won a thrilling 19-hole play-off to win his 3rd US Open and 14th 'major' title. He did this in his first tournament after major knee surgery (in April), in constant and obvious pain, against a starting field of 150 of the best golfers in the world.
In this modern age, when technology turns mediocre into very good and opportunities to play what has been until recently an elitist sport are ever more plentiful, his achievements so far have been nothing short of pheonominal. I can think of few (if any) contests where a man (or woman) pits their wits and skill against such an array of talent and continually comes out on top. The law of averages, weather conditions, luck (good and bad), health, pressure . . . all these conspire to thwart such endeavour, yet time and again this man rises up, takes the challenge and squeezes it until the pips squeak.
There's a massive amount of hyperbole spoken and written about Tiger Woods. Much has to do with sales of sporting goods and cable subscriptions. When you live in a media frenzy-driven world, in the midst of continual acts of supreme sporting success, it can be difficult to appreciate what we are witnessing.
I can tell you this; irrespective of money, corporate hype or anything else the killjoys try to tell you we are in the presence of greatness.
Now that's what I call survival stuff... you wouldn't catch me in that aeroplane..:o
how about opening a new thread?
