After the recent heavy rain - a smattering of wet stuff fell just as I left the house this morning, a reminder of what I might have got today - the downs wore the look of a large drowned rat. The plains between Lewes and Newhaven shone, sunlight reflecting on their watery carapace, huge lakes formed overnight stretching away to the coast. The trails proved boggy and slippery in equal measure, barely passable in places. I had to hop about to find islands of grass to gain purchase on the climbs; the descents were at once exhilirating and ball-shrivellingly scary. I deployed my arms as gangly stabilizers, waggling like a madman to stay upright.
A better effort - 44:28, the quick end of mid-range for me - and the legs feel fine. I fancy a rest day tommorrow although the weather forecast is looking good. We'll see.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Not sure why but an odd, disinterested plod this morning.
It wasn't the weather. High cloud yielded to watery winter sun, residual flood waters winking from the distant fields. The ancient downland wore her work-day drab, all washed-out winter colours; off-white, scuffed green, sticky brown, all speckled with the dirty fallen leaves. The ubiquitous mafiosa rooks cast wary glances at our fouteen-legged entourage as we thudded past, squawking and wheeling off the old racecourse fence to regroup further down, rejoined in their sinister hooded parliament.
I suspect my mood had more to do with last night's all-too-late bout of televisual indulgence. A Dragon's Den special follwed by episode one of McEwan and Boorman's great adventure Long Way Down, follow-up to the excellent Long Way Round; gripping tales of long-distance motorcycle travel well-told. I've found my candle is no longer double-wick'd; I must choose between late nights and early morning lopes. They make uncomfortable bedfellows.
Bleary-eyed I cursed myself for not hitting the 'record' button. There again my digibox is stuffed with unwatched unmissables. A number of Jools Hollands nestle next to three hours of Neil Young. The Pink Floyd Story sits just above part two of Alan Yentob's History of the Guitar, and languishing on the plush sofa right at the back of the box are Donnie Darko, Blood Simple and no end of episodes of Heroes - Series Two. They'll stay there too, until or unless someone manages to slip an extra 24 hours into my week.
Rest day tomorrow, 5K time trial on Saturday and the Brighton 10K on Sunday. A nett week-on-week distance loss of some 10K, but at least Sunday should be (relatively) fast - my annual gaspathon - followed by a couple of hours of banter with good friends. Reminds me - must book Alfrescos.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I missed the full 'Neil Young Evening', but I did catch the repeat of the documentary about his career when it was on a couple of days later. I urge you to watch it -- it was superb. Really makes you understand where he's coming from - literally. He's had an amazing and prolific career.
Do you mean you've never seen Donnie Darko or Blood Simple? Both excellent films. DD is incredibly affecting, and needs to be seen. Cancel all appointments for the next 24 hours. Get your priorities right man.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
El Gordo Wrote:Do you mean you've never seen Donnie Darko or Blood Simple? Both excellent films. DD is incredibly affecting, and needs to be seen. Cancel all appointments for the next 24 hours. Get your priorities right man.
Hmm, that demonic bunny was at it again last night, pouring an indecent amount of Harvey's down my neck.
Still I did ask for it (as has been well evidenced in other parts of this forum) so I'll stop my sobbing. Suffice to say I did not feel like a balls-out 5K scramble when my eyes peeled open at 6 this morning. Even a rigorous blast of the excellent new Girlschool album (Legacy - the best thing they've produced in, ooh, about 30 years) failed to completely blow away the cobwebs.
Turns out it wasn't as bad as I'd feared (the run, not the album). Met up with Stevio and we swapped damage reports. He countered my Harvey's belly with Red Wine Head, a fair comparison. Stevio duly came in third and I staggered home 29th in a best time since knee-gah! of 23:06. Pretty happy with that.
The day was also notable for the list of absentees, no doubt saving themselves for tomorrow's Brighton 10K.
For shame! Support your local events people! You know who you are . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
As ten kilometre races go this one wasn’t too bad. As Brighton seafront races generally go it was really rather tame. The westerly wind, threatening early on to offer stiff resistance to our outward slog, failed to live up to its boisterous billing, instead providing a gently cooling breeze to aid our cause.
The Mighty Plodder arrived at the appointed hour at Chez Sweder, clad for a Sunday promenade stroll, a smug grin fixed on his mug. ‘Done mine already’ he scoffed, referring to an 'early doors' seafront plod in the parish of Seaford. We drove to Brighton marina where we met Niguel, just parked. I accompanied the lanky on a brisk walk to the start, joining 2,300 souls for this breathless scarper along the prom. Athletes of varying stature buzzed about is, warming up with dashes and darts, steady plods and energetic stretches.
Despite my early trepidation, founded on a noble but tough effort at yesterday's BHTT, a natural aversion to the distance (10K is the longest distance race that one cannot take a breather – or at least take one’s foot off the gas) and a pathalogical fear of the joint-hammering surface the running was relatively comfortable. Without the strong headwind and having taken my place amongst the 50-minute merchants (the start area delineated by carefully crafted cardboard signs held aloft by bored-looking volunteers), I found my place and pace with relative ease. Out to Black Rock, just shy of the marina walls, a u-turn to westward and the longest section. Past the Palace Pier with its choking smells of deep-frying fat, up the mini-slope, the lower prom already busy with Sunday strollers, towards the decrepit West Pier, it’s burned-out frame crouched desolate beneath cloud, the horizon hinting at a brighter future as sunlight sought an audience.
I caught and passed Gillybean, running with the Remster. My Garmin showed a steady 4:45 minute/ kilometre pace. I wondered at the efficiency of my style; slight as it may be this breeze ought to be slowing me down a little. My target had always been fifty minutes (or perhaps a little less); 5:00 minute kilometres would deliver that and less would deliver more. We passed the Peace Statue and The Meeting Place, a popular al fresco eatery where summer Sunday breakfasts happily last all morning long. The cheerful crowds gave good support as the leaders, positively flying with the wind at their heels, careered towards us, powerful endeavour focused on the finish. I turned at King Alfred, confused by the lack of a water station. The 6.5 kilometre marker gave me heart and I tried to step up the pace. A glance at the Garmin showed 4:30 minute pace; I shouldn’t have looked. Worried that I might burn out before the finish I eased off, scanning the on-rushing throng for familiar faces to take my mind off times. In the near distance the tall, gangly form of Niguel; our hands extended for the customary greeting. A little later El Gordo, looking I must say a good deal less Gordo than last we'd met and looking entirely comfortable at a steady pace, well up in the second half of the field.
By the time the Palace Pier was once again close and a marshal called the arrival of the last kilometre I realised I’d waited too long to get cracking. I tried stepping up again but my brain wouldn’t get out of the way, cluttering my thoughts with admonishments for my earlier caution. My watch time of 47:06 – chip time confirmed at 47:10 – was fair reward, as was the 25th anniversary medallion and cup of cool water from the hard-pressed volunteers.
SP, fresh from official RC photographer duty (and having polished off a bucket of chips) appeared with my bag of clothes and we wandered back down the pavement to see EG home.
Later we gathered at the restaurant to chatter and chomp as the sun finally broke through to add sparkle to the dancing waves below. Gary and Ladyrunner popped in to say hello. Gary had bagged a PB despite an unshakable niggle in one of his glutes, crossing in an impressive 37+ minutes. The fellow’s in fine form after his 3:14 in Abingdon and I look forward to more heroics from him soon enough on the streets of Almeria. EG and I opted for the house salad, all good intentions swept aside as the platters of oiled meats and fresh mozarella surrounded by foliage landed. There was nothing for it but to battle manfully on, clearing our plates as all well-raised children of post-war Britain should.
After a pint (for me and Niguel - SP bailed with Mrs S to find his car, EG remained stoically on the soft stuff) in a local bar EG gave me a lift home where I now sit, content that my one 10K of the year is safely banked. Now I can get back to training for Almeria, to longer, gentler running and the soft embrace of my lovely, luscious hills.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I forgot to mention an incident that occured just before the last kilometre yesterday.
Thundering along the prom towards Palace Pier I heard a couple of screams right behind me followed by an ugly clatter. I turned to see a lady stumbling forward mere feet behind whilst some oik on a BMX bicycle attempted to ride up her legs and back. The fool had a reversed baseball cap, bum-fluff stubble and beady black eyes. A fierce volley of vitriol and colourful invective rained down on him. It was like a hyena running into the back of a pack of charging lions; all turned heads and snarling teeth. We reacted in an instant, as one, ready to tear the swine limb from limb. His beady eyes got big as saucers before he launched himself off the pavement and across two lanes of honking traffic. Idiot.
In mitigation the race does encompass a cycle lane; however it is extremely well marshalled and the presence of a couple of thousand lycra-clad lopers might just suggest it's not a good idea to try and ride along it just at that point.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I took a day off on Monday. Consecutive 'quick' runs on hardtop surfaces had resurrected some 'discomfort' in my right knee. It's not serious (I hope) but I thought it prudent to rest up. Unfortunately resting up involved a round of golf in stunning Ashdown Forest (home to, amongst others, Pooh, Piglet and my old mate Eeyore). I say unfortunately because a) I ended up walking well over four quite hilly miles (not exactly a rest) and b) as is cutomary I ended up in a pub with SP and Captain Tom sinking a few sociable pints of the Black Stuff.
Consequently my outing this morning in the cold early light was a tad wobbly. My knee still grumbled, residual post-10K lactic acid conspiring with a surprisingly strong nor'westerly to slow me down. I was happy to get the eight kilometres tucked away before a busy day in London attending part two of five of a detailed Sustainability course. Badminton tonight and the knee held up well, although my right foot feels as if SP's been standing on it all day. I suspect this may be the result of running on hard pavement/ paths at the weekend, or possibly new and slightly narrow badminton shoes.
Looking back over past Brighton 10K result sheets it turns out I may have bagged a PB by over a minute (at least on the Brighton course). This is good news indeed and made me feel a little better about the fatigue I've lugged about like unwanted baggage ever since.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
This was going to be a rest day but once again the elements conspired to lure me into the hills. Pink and grey Witch's fingers, twisted like cheese straws, caressed the clear blue sky, colours fading as the sun climbed lazily above the eastern cliffs. That wind was up, a true westerly now, driving the super-cooled air through my lumbering frame. It felt like ancient spirits passing through my bones but I embraced the greeting, glad to feel so alive at such an un-Godly hour.
My head swam with private thoughts. Last night's activities on the e-mail and web had stirred all manner of ideas, worries and fears, hopes and dreams. They swam about in my muddled brain as I ploughed ever forward. Only after the first mile and a half, when I'd 'written' about six pages of prose, did I curse the decision to leave the DAB behind. One benefit of running to rock music is pace, but the other, less obvious but equally helpful, is the distraction of the noise, the blocking of the synapses. There are times when you want a clear head, to review some issue or other, or perhaps consider the turning of the world, the passing of time or the fluff in your navel. And there are times when you need to get sidetracked, when your head seems so empty and dark that the images and thoughts that loom out of the shadows need to be driven back to whence they came. For a while all I could hear was the sound of my rasped breathing and size twelve Mizunos displacing squidgy turf.
I must say though I warmed to the sound of the early morning. Rooks and magpies calling like scraggy market traders trying to out-bid one another, the distant thunder of race horses charging up the gallops, behind and to my left. I turned in time to watch them fly past, eight jockey's bottoms high in the air, straight backs angled into their steaming mounts' manes like a squadron of colourful wedges screaming up the hill. I've had my run-ins with the horse brigade but right there and then I wondered if, at this time of day, in these conditions, these guys don't have one of the finest jobs around.
The rattle homeward was easy enough, the firm breeze lifting me, helping me to keep my heavy tread a little lighter as I slithered and slid over slippery flint and impossibly sticky mud. It was a tired effort, the whinge from my tight knee joined by general stiffness in both legs. Another 8K for the Sportstracks spreadsheet but this might have been an outing too far. Perhaps a day off tomorrow would be wise.
As MarathonDan will no doubt attest, less is indeed more.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A couple of days off due to a tight right knee. I'm not convinced this is a reoccurance of the knee gah! that kept me off the hills for six weeks but I'm not taking any chances.
Wrapped up warm - leggings, gloves, long-sleeved running shirt - for this first true winter test. Four degrees may not seem terribly cold but the wind chill was well below zero, biting out of the north, the leading edge of an arctic front rumoured to be heading our way this weekend. A good turn-out today - 109 hardy souls, at least a dozen newbies - and a best time (since knee knack) for me of 22:55. This despite a detour (to avoid road works in the park) up a steep, slippery grass bank. I'm happy with that - my target of sub-22 in January is still very much on.
After the run we gathered the Hastings heroes together for a team shot, to be posted at http://www.justgiving.com/moyleman later, previewed here. The sun obliged for the purpose, though its warming properties must've been delayed as the goosebumps flourished. Le Soft and I clicked away, casting derisive comments to encourage a show of teeth.
I'm off next week - Geneva, Miami, Sao Paulo - so its treadmill city for a while. One last flog up the snake tomorrow.
[SIZE="1"]L to R: Shaun, Ladyrunner, Amanda, Hootsboy, Gary, Simon, Stevio and Fiona[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
There’s a chilling scene towards the end of David Twohy’s The Chronicles of Riddick. The Purifier, a Furian disgusted at his duplicity in serving the Necromongers, a despotic Nazi-style race of well-armed nasties intent on eradicating all homo sapien life in 'the Verse', delivers a gentle, soul-dredged soliloquy. He then strolls to his death, stepping out into the full force of the firestorm perpetually sweeping around Crematoria, the fire-planet used to hold a selection of highly dangerous prisoners. As we watch him walk slowly into the white-hot maelstrom we see his robe catch fire before it's shredded, charred tatters ripped away by the violent storm. As he stumbles then stands stock still in a final act of defiance his flesh is torn from his bones before his skeleton succumbs, blasted particles swept into the glowing hinterland.
So it was for much of this morning. Impossible heat replaced by bone-chilling cold, airborne fire by knifing ice-rain. The winds remained, tearing in from the west, racing across the downs as if to rip life from the ravaged surface of the hills. We’d met at nine; Stevio, Ade, Simon, Gary, Fiona, Hootsboy and six or seven others. One wonders at the collective insanity of turning out in these conditions yet here we were, huddled above the marina waiting for Outrider Sam.
‘Blimey Ash it must be bad if you’re all wrapped up!’ this from Steve, his own ubiquitous shorts eschewed for leggings. Wrapped I was. From the moment the first flurry of sleet hit my bedroom window in the half-light I’d realised a more pragmatic wardrobe to be the order of the day. Two vests – long sleeves under short; leggings, baseball cap, Mizuno offies and Thierry Henri gloves, all topped off with my hard cheese FLM windcheater.
Within ten minutes all of the above were drenched and cooling rapidly. The pools in my shoes squished between my toes, threatening frostbite and prune-skin in equal measure. The trouble with single-skin gloves, I found out, is when they get wet they stay wet. With a wind-chill well below zero this would prove uncomfortable later.
The wind helped at times. It shoved us up the Tye in a friendly enough manner but once we’d turned hard left to crest the ridge towards Old Snakey the arctic raider flailed into our faces, hammering freezing nails of sleet and rain into cold flesh. My cap, another nod to the conditions and something of a climb-down having declared after Two Oceans that I’d never wear one again, kept the lashing rain out of my eyes. I struggled manfully to keep pace with the quickies and did so until Stevio stepped on the gas towards the end of the ridge. His group pulled away to slip through the gate at the top of the Farmers Hill plummet. But I’ve been spending some quality time with Joss Naylor and Kenny Stuart and, in the spirit of a true fell runner, threw myself helter-skelter down the leg-breaking slope. I made up a good hundred yards on the whippets, feet flying, breath coming in violent gasps as I careered into the valley.
Class will out though and they left me for dead on the slippery scales of the Serpent. The wind howled as we ploughed through the foothills and I suffered, managing simply to put one foot in front of the other as the others kept their form. Once on the twisting climb proper I got myself together, finding and keeping a steady rhythm as I climbed the sticky track. Quicker than the slower runners but not up to staying with the Hasting contingent I travelled in a limbo all my own. As I crossed the road at Woodingdean the weather took a turn for the worse. The relentless wind, having apparently taken a short breather as we ascended the Snake, stirred once more, building to an impressive finale, driving an ever-increasing stinging deluge into my face.
Emerging from the road section and the relative shelter of houses left and right I felt the full force, the anger, of the gods. Across the main road and into East Brighton Park they thrashed my wilting body with flesh-stripping ferocity. Again I thought of Feet In The Clouds and the heroic tales of indomitable spirit therein. As I did so a strange thing happened. I started, in my head, singing
Ain’t no stoppin’ us now, we’re on the move
Ain’t no stopping is now, we’re in the groove
Where do these things come from? I don’t know, but it lifted my spirits and I bared my teeth, a grimace/ grin hybrid, feeble defiance in the face of the apocalypse. The gods responded, raging louder as if to bellow stow that McFadden and Whitehead shit; you’re goin' DOWN, sucker. Why Norse weather gods should speak in the style of Mr T I have no idea. The gale smashed into my chest and legs, driving me to a virtual standstill. I was running down hill but barely making headway, my usual ease-up jog-in reduced to mere survival. The refrain in my head wouldn’t quit so I carried on grinning, shaking my frozen fists towards the darkening skies, a tiny grey dot on a blasted landscape railing against the storm.
The last lap of the park was surreal. My legs were on automatic, a sort of end-of-marathon run-shuffle. At the time it felt like the hardest run of my life; of course with hindsight, having thawed out in my heavenly shower and laced my frozen innards with hot coffee and carrot cake, I can denounce this for the obvious tosh it is. Steyning Stinger was a full four and a half hours of much hillier struggle in equally cruel weather. Two Oceans almost reduced me to a sobbing, crawling wreck. But I was fitter then, battle-hardened. The miles aren’t in my legs yet and that made today all the more of a trial.
12.8 miles in around 2 hours (my Garmin flatly refused to spark up).
To paraphrase the DJ at Port Vale when the home side hit the back of the onion bag, I’m glad it’s all over.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
