February 2009

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Indeed, well done Mrs S! Great stuff!

[Sweder]

I'd kinda convinced myself this would be somewhere between an 8 and a 12 miler - a Wire or a Straight Snake at best. It turned out to be 14.49 miles of raw chill wind and mud-slide hills, a straight snake with a double-back to Rottingdean, Windmill Hill, St Dunstans and a cliff-top finish into a savage headwind.

A lot of familiar faces this morning; Simon, Stevio, le Soft, Suzie, Marion, Gillybean, Nigel, Fiona, Steepler, Mike Bannister . . . an honourable role-call. I steered clear of the quicks; that line-up is too rich for my blood. I elected to sit in with the newbies who have now split into two groups, medium-pacers and plodders. There's something rewarding about leading a new group up the slippery scales of Old Snakey. They ran it last week of course so knew what to expect. That didn't stop them from rolling in all wide-eyed and wind-blasted, looking like they'd rather be anywhere but following my fat arse up these treacherous slopes. I have to say I felt fantastic. All signs of Andalucian rust finally swept away across the English Channel, I felt positively Tiggerish, bounding along without any great effort. Perhaps it was the duty of pathfinder that added zest to my stride; I can't say. I just know it felt great to run well without pain.

It would seem that we have a rising star in our midst. Natasha, a quiet young lady (and a Vegan, which for some reason surprised me) who appears permanently frozen, waif-like, jacket-wrapped countenance shivering against the harsh seafront blast, has proven to be somewhat tougher than she looks. Crashing into a foul headwind along the last two-mile stretch of headland I was astonished to watch her accelerate into the distance, leaving the rest of us like so much dead meat. Her style, relaxed, upright, balanced, a seemingly effortless motion, suggests a natural talent. Sam's going to see if he can get her into London, where I have no doubt she'll do very well indeed.

As I hauled my rasping carcass to finish a couple of minutes behind her, I turned, hands clasped to shaking knees, to see how Natasha had reacted to her sprint finish. She stood, arms wrapped around her slender frame, barely breathing hard.
'I'm cold' she shivered through her modest grin.
'You're a very good runner you know' I managed between desperate gasps.
'Am I?' she giggled, seemingly embarassed that anyone should notice her at all.
Definitely need to find a tougher challenge for this one.

[Sweder]

It all looked pretty mild from my smug bedroom snug. Truth be told there was a vicious wind snarling in the hills, waiting to bite into bare flesh with spiteful relish. I plodded up to Blackcap, a dreadful, doleful scrape of a run, my slowest in recent memory. It was as if the constant stream of doom pouring from various electronic media had seeped into my muscles, weighing me down more than the most viscous lactic acid. I ploughed on, battling against the harsh blow, eyes streaming, tears ripped away across bleached-out sheep fields. Not even Alice Cooper could warm my cockles today.

Cresting the ridge of Mount Harry I received a visual slap across the face. There, for the next half mile or so, pegged out along the thicket's edge . . . an electric bloody fence! Temporary in nature - a combination of rusty metal spikes, white synthetic ribbon and a solitary strand of thick, charged wire - it cut a nasty gash across the scene, like a knife wound in a beloved painting. Outrage boiled; a blot on my landscape: Bloody farmers! This was no doubt deployed to keep the sheep out of the dense scrub, thus making the task of rounding them up a good deal easier/ cheaper/ more efficient. We all gotta make a living but stone me, what an ugly scar on these beautiful downs! Anarchic indignation raged, thoughts of wire cutters in the dead of night rising out of the red mist.

I'm sure there's a good reason for all this. Possibly, as the hills resound to the joyous bleating of newborn lambs, this will prevent one or two from falling into the ravenous maw of the chalk-pit, or maybe stop pregnant Ewes stumbling into trouble. I can't help but heave a huge sigh of resignation at our constant strain for 'modern improvement'. Nothing is sacred, no area of life free from the desecrating boot-print of progress.

I lumbered home, vitriolic bile swimming in my head. By the time I pulled up to the house, steaming, dripping sweat (turns out once the wind dropped it really was quite warm out) and utterly knackered, I no longer had stomach for the fight, choosing the lustful pleasures of a hot shower over the instant launch of barbed, yet ultimately toothless missives. Perhaps, when I'm back out there later in the week, I'll work up the head of steam needed to fire off a few scalding letters.

For now it's back to work, where the 'to do' list seems to have a life all its own.

[The Beast of Bevendean]

If it's any consolation, and I shan't say where, as I still fear the sound of a muddy Land Rover outside the front door and a knock from an irate Sussex farmer come to emasculate me with a rusty scythe, but I once ran through an electric fence on the downs, breaking it irretrievably. In my defence, there was nothing on it to make it visible, and it had been put across a footpath; I don't think any livestock were around to escape, or eat anything they shouldn't.
It stang slightly, and left red marks on my legs, but nothing worse.
Remember the Countryside Code

[Sweder]

A dusk-time treat for me and my hounds.
Hot-foot from a cold Gatwick I scrambled into my running gear and set off into the hills in fading light. The skies were already dimmed by heavy cloud, steady rain falling silently in the gloom. I didn't care. The shackles of modern travel, from the mean shower in my labyrinthine Genova hotel to the madness of my ghastly dash to the airport, were thrown off as I galloped to murky freedom.

The taxi tale is worth telling. The Italian Job opens with a rather nasty car crash involving an open-top sports car and a JCB in the depths of an alpine tunnel. My flat-capped, maniacal chauffeur hurled us into the maw of these tunnels at break-neck speed from the all-seeing vantage astride the centre white line, leaning his body into the curves like a swarthy Ghost Rider after a drug-fuelled all-nighter. I stared helplessly at the crushed wing-mirror on my side, offering silent Faustian deals to anyone, angel or demon, who might be in the vicinity. As we approached a toll-booth doing somewhere close to 130 miles per hour I couldn't help but notice the contrast of the slowly rising red/ yellow barrier against the blurred frenzy of our reckless forward motion. I was convinced we'd make contact, screwing my eyes tight shut as I waited for the inevitable crunch. It never came. I looked across to see a smiling Satan hunched over the wheel, a miscellany of stained broken teeth leering back at me. I was reminded of that glorious Steve Martin/ John Candy moment in Trains Planes and Automobiles when they're headed down a dark, snowy freeway in the wring direction. We reached our destination in what may have been a personal best for the driver but what I will always attest to being quite the longest taxi ride of my eventful 47 years.

Any residual anxiety fell away as I loped across the darkening downland. I'd promised myself a night run after Almeria, and whilst the sun was possibly still up somewhere behind the impenetrable wall of grey cloud this was pretty close to it. On the summit of Mount Harry I glanced across to the recently installed electric fence and gasped; for there was the reason for the intrusion; not as I had thought to keep errant sheep out, but to contain a new herd of dark-eyed beauties, a dozen or so now staring unblinking at our bedraggled entourage: downland ponies. These fabulous beasts, somewhat squat compared to their sleek racing cousins, stood steadfast, watching us carefully as we scampered past, their dark brown shaggy coats glistening with fresh evening rain.

Nature’s dusk-time downland miscellany: rooks in noisy parliament, oblivious sheep, curious ponies, excited hounds and a sodden yet strangely elated, liberated Sweder.
A cracking end to a long day.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Great movie. Great Post.

[Nick]

Best 7.35 minutes of my day.

[Sweder]

Another triumph for Mrs S, her second consecutive circumnavigation of Hove Park. A PB by 60 seconds and no walk-breaks, stoicly running up the slopes and keeping a nice, even pace. She's chuffed and rightly so. I'm proud and happy to have plodded alongside her, taking the bouquets and brickbats from my fellow Park Runners.
'She's almost caught you!'
'Never seen you so far up the field!' and so on.
They're a well-meaning bunch, their gentle jibes taken in good spirit, as were the apres run croissants and large coffees in the sun-dappled cafe garden.

An odd time for me, this. It's the Brighton Half tomorrow and for the first time since my debut with SP in 2003 I won't be on the start line. This is all part of my realisation, my acceptance that the hard road is no longer for me, that I must embrace the mud and soft turf of the cross-country course. And so it is that I shall leave home in the wee small hours to set sail for Pewsey and the gentle hillside lope that is The Terminator. Simon told me the race warranted a mention on the Sara Cox/ Radio One show yesterday (Being a greybeard I have little knowledge of such hip and trendy broadcasts). He was smiling that chilling, knowing smile of his so I gather the report was none too pleasant. C'est la vie; I've made my muddy bed, now it's time to go wallow in it.

Tally ho

[Sweder]

I’m slumped on the sofa, pint of draught Guinness in one hand, Sunday broadsheet dangling, unread, from the other. My ankles feel like Paul Sheldon’s after his brutal hobbling at the hands/ sledgehammer of Annie Wilkes. My legs are novocaine jelly in excelsis. It’s doubtful they’d support my weight were I dumb enough to try to make the ‘fridge for another beer. Every fibre of my flesh and bone groans after the merciless beating at the hands of the Terminator.

The day started well. An early rise, my honey/ toast/ coffee ritual completed in a dark, silent house. The journey to Pewsey, a delightful village tucked in amongst the Marlborough downs a few miles east of Devizes, was long, eventful and not without trouble. The M25 was closed between Leatherhead and the A3 to allow the MedEvac chopper to scoop car-crash victims off the tarmac. I should have taken this as an omen, perhaps turned tail; instead I deployed my trusty SatNav and found another route. The TomTom informed me I’d still arrive a full 30 minutes before the official off, so all was calm in the cockpit as I listened to Five Lives’ Grand Inquisitor Gary Richardson grilling the chairman of the ECB over their recent myopic greed. Richardson is incomparable, disarming guests with his easy charm before gouging vital organs with incisive probing and terrier-like resolve. I laughed as the victim squirmed and wriggled. Occasionally Richardson broke off from the pre-taped interview to review the paucity of excuses on offer with his cohort from the Sunday Telegraph. It was rich sporting fare, and in some ways hinted at the severity of the trial ahead.

On arrival in Pewsey I was directed to an overspill car park. Organisation was excellent; marshals a-plenty, guides and gaudy red/ yellow signage all over the shop. I made for the gents changing room and donned my garb; shorts, RC T-shirt, Garmin, socks and off-road Mizunos. The pungent waft of Ralgex filled my nostrils and stung my eyes as I surveyed the assembled athletes. Most were wiry, those with hair sporting a good tranche of silver/ grey. Some had double-topped – T-shirts under club vests – but few wore leggings. I’d done my homework; we were bound to get wet, and soaked legs are more bearable to me than drenched leggings any day.

The school hall was jammed with excited, jabbering runners. Wide eyes, flashing teeth, nervous stretches peppered with dips into water bottles in all directions, the hubbub simmering nicely. I found Cousin Carol outside. She’s heavily into FLM training, picking up some achillies trouble along the way, so we took a pre-start stroll around the grounds to get the blood flowing. Hundreds of club runners hailing from all corners of this quirky sport - Maidstone Harriers (I’d met a couple during the Marathon de Paris in 2005) Team Bath AC, Swindon Harriers, Slinn Allstars, Chichester Runners, Serpentine RC, Dorset Doddlers (brilliant!), Reading Joggers, Wootton Bassett Hounds, Sheep Lovers (!), the Royal Marines, Calne RC, Hogweed Trotters, White Horse Harriers, and, of course, our hosts; Pewsey Vale RC - shuffled and chattered, nervous under a partly cloudy sky. The sun broke through, flooding the scene with warm, bright light. Just before 10:30 a man dressed in a dapper pork pie hat and striped jacket appeared on top of a beer crate, waving a loud-hailer in an attempt to call the milling throng to order. It had the air of an illicit political rally, exacerbated by the unashamed, outrageous spin espoused by the MC.

‘Welcome to the 20th annual running of the Terminator!’ Cheers, applause.
‘As many of you know we offer a nice, smooth, flat course . . .’ howls of derision, chuckles laced with palpable tension. Local race rules & course details were read out, though from my back-of-the-bus vantage they were impossible to follow. Perhaps that was just as well . . . I did hear this vital piece of advice:
‘If you get into difficulties make your way to the nearest marshal and they’ll sort you out.’ Hmm.

Without further ado (or time to digest the warning) we were off. I’d agreed with Carol that as time was not for once of the essence we’d loiter at the back of the field, start slow and get slower. Good practice for her FLM start, I ventured. I was also mindful of a number of debilitating climbs and god-knows-what obstacles ahead. It’s wise to be cautious when in unknown territory, never more so than at the start of a local, cross country race.

The first mile was straight forward enough. A short sharp dash along the A 345 Marlborough road, heading east, north east out of the village. We crossed the main road turning towards Milkhouse Water – and that’s when the fun started. Loping easily down a lumpy, grass-tufted field I could see runners splitting into two strands up ahead. Between these strands lay a dark mass, a sort of floor-mounted black hole of churned mud. Runners tried to stay on the dry sections by hogging the edge of the aperture resulting in an almighty log-jam. Seeing an opportunity to make up ground I strode for the middle. As they are wont to say on the Underground: Mind the gap!

Schloop! After two giant steps I was knee deep in thick, black mud, inky water welling up around my legs, filling my shoes. Grinning wildly I pulled each leg in turn from the soup and thrust forward, managing somehow to maintain momentum in an ugly paradoy of John Cleese in the Ministry of Silly Walks, until finally my feet struck something resembling solid ground. I was now black from the knees down. I glanced at the stream of runners coming away from the edges, happy to note that they, too, wore dark streaks of filth over their lower legs, shoes simply shapeless blotches. Ha! So much for the cautious path.

No sooner had I congratulated myself on making ground than I hit the first climb of the day. No more than thirty metres ascent over a hundred metres of ground I still had to work hard, puffing and blowing as my not-yet-fully-inflated lungs got over the shock of such rude demand. The route zig-zagged through a series of pathways and fields, across the B2087 west of Easton Royal and across more unoccupied grassland. Now fully up and running I relaxed, comfortable with the easy pace and reassured by the steady stream of runners easing back towards me. Of course it didn’t register that these guys might know this race well and be throttling back in readiness for the next challenge . . . and of course they were. This was another funnel of viscous filth leading to a broad, fast-flowing stream. Again many people stuck to the edges trying to avoid the worst of the muck. Not I. Resolve strengthened by my earlier gains I ploughed on (as did a few other hardy souls), boots filling rapidly with cold slime. I kept on, straight into the ice-cold, muddied stream (which happily washed most of the grime from my legs and shoes) before scrambling up the far bank . . . and into more knee-deep mud. I confess to whooping with joy – this really is my sort of running – as I strode manfully through nature’s treacle, happy to reflect on the absence of livestock and the corresponding lack of bovine ejectum.

Up through a series of gently ascending farmers’ fields, my back and legs drying in the unbridled sunlight, I assessed the state of play. Muck aside I felt good. I had my trusty water bottle (loaded with diluted Robinsons R) and, given the rising warmth, my decision to go with just the one top was proving inspired. My fellow runners concurred, some desperately trying to shed layers as the sun continued to beam from an increasingly clear blue sky. ‘Seen it all before’ grinned a fluorescent-wrapped marshal as a young lady took both layers off as she ran, revealing a well-filled spotless white sports bra. Well, I thought, perhaps this old Terminator’s not so tough after all. Ho ho . . .

Just as that smug thought nestled into a nicely padded corner of my head I caught a glimpse of what this race is really all about. Just approaching the 8k mark, heading due south, the first of three monstrous hills loomed above the tree line. Never mind that the climb was something like a hundred metres, it was all but vertical. Ahead runners slowed to walking pace and began scrabbling up the grassy hill face, all four limbs gainfully employed in seeking purchase and progress. Gasps and groans escaped around me as folks struggled, slipping and sliding on the soft turf. It was all I could do to keep moving, searching for the next foothold, mostly around knee height, and pulling myself up towards the next one. At one point I found myself moving in the style of Ray Wilkins – the crab! – as I scanned the surface for the next step up. This seemed to go on for several hours – in fact it was only a few minutes but by the time we started to level out I was all but done for. Desperately gulping air I followed the well-trodden horse-shoe pathway over another mini-hill and straight into . . . a suicidal drop. Far steeper than the Snake-route farmers’ field this was as accute as the climb we’d just conquered. Ahead runners eased down the mud-face, seeking ridges to keep them steady. I felt this was not really in the spirit of the race and launched myself off the top, following a handful of people who’d chosen the hurtle over the waddle. Within seconds my arms were flailing, thrashing wildly seeking balance. I must’ve looked like Andre Marr in the depths of a drug-fuelled rave as I careered past any number of wide-eyed descenders. My lower jaw flapped involuntarily, a strange sound bouncing out of me as I thudded into the soft hillside, tears streaming from my eyes as the world around me gibbered and twitched.

Finally the slope eased off and I ran out onto a gentle track, slowing steadily until the pounding in my ears subsided and the horizontal hold on my eyeballs finally got a grip. Wow! What a rush . . .

[ladyrunner]

WOW Sweds what a race.

Are your knee caps still in place after your unrestrained launch down that monster hill??:RFLMAO:

Far braver than me. It would have taken me half a day to cautiously stroll down it!!

[Sweder]

Back to the hard slog.

Hillside running – literally running along slender mud-trails on the side of a steep hill – is extremely taxing. You must stay focused, balanced, steady, else you might find yourself rolling, a sweaty ball of flesh and fabric, away down the steep grass bank into the lusty thorn bushes below. The thought of having to extricate oneself from natures barbs to climb back up on all fours sent a shudder down my spine. I redoubled my gyroscopic efforts. Dropping down canal-side for half a mile the penalty for false stepping was rather more severe. Here the waters welled up through the mud, creating great pools of swamp-juice waiting to swallow the unwary plodder. The main body of water lurked mere feet to our left, dark eddies swirling as if to draw us in. The sound of a thousand sucking feet slurped out across the tranquil rural scene.

11 kilometres in we reached the second fearsome climb. This time the lead-in was up a steadily rising slope. The pathway shrank to a kind of rock/ mud gully, making footfall increasingly hard to judge. Eventually we were running up a natural drainpipe, through a sort of treacle slurry, in single file, each runners’ feet landing either side of a man-made crest of slick muck. Slipping and sliding was now a way of life. This was the meat of the race, time to grin and bear it.

Our tight trail took us into woodland for a hundred metres or so. I looked up and caught a glimpse of what I knew must come but, like Pavlov’s unfortunate mutt, had come to fear. A colourful trail of sports tops climbed up and away to our left, ascending directly into the heavens. This must be the heartbreaker, the hill I’d seen on the website. I slurped a mouthful of juice, got my head down and struck out for the foot of the climb, mentally clenching my resolve, forewarnin tiring muscles of the hard shift ahead. As before we had to dig deep into our burning legs to find the heart to keep moving. The slog was painfully slow. Hands on thighs I pushed and pulled myself up the sheer face, incredibly passing a sorry few who, on the pretext of looking back for friends, had ground to a halt, peering through squinted slits to the trail behind. For those that know it this is far steeper than the North Face, more akin to running up a long subway escalator, only more so. At least with a little momentum I can run those; here there was no chance. Just getting to the top without stopping felt like a massive achievement. Halfway up I glanced right to see a great multicoloured washing line stretched out to the west, a wave of red-faced humanity bobbling towards the salvation of the finish.

Within minutes my feet were falling in those footsteps, dancing along another perilous precipice. A strong breeze raced up out of the valley, biting cold into warm flesh as we struggled into the west. Over another hummock and there’s that reward for all that effort – another break-neck drop. This time I opted for discretion over dumb valour. Feeling the effects of the last thirteen kilometres, and having stubbed my toe more than once (and tasted fear of falling, bitter in my dry mouth), I leaned back to use my bulk to full advantage, adding gravitas to my descent. Reaching base camp I looked around for the long, straight road that I knew would lead us back to warm showers and a change of clothes. Ah, but beware, the sting in the tail! A sharp left turn, around some trees – and there it was; the final, final hill! Once more, with feeling; another sheer climb, the summit dark against sunlit cloud almost directly overhead. I took a generous lungful of air and set off, legs screaming in protest, heart pumping madly, sweat pouring off my bowed head, nose inches from wet, pungent earth. To my right a red and white safety tape fluttered in the breeze. Beyond it a steady stream of runners hobbled back down, mere feet away, each face etched in pain and slow-dawning relief as they viewed the long road home. Not yet for me, this blissful release; first, more Sherpa duty. I forced my trashed muscles to respond, again passing a few weary souls on this, really, honestly, the last big hill. A sling shot round the top, a few gathered spectators clapping in earnest, cries of ‘well done!’ as we heaved ourselves passed, then off on another wild, helter-skelter earthward lunge on wobbly pins.

Seventy metres of sheer drop later we hit the final, pot-holed trail. A chap behind me quipped about not fancying the second lap (ho ho!) and I couldn’t resist telling him, though restorative gasps, about the Steyning Stinger, a full 26.2 mile offroad ball-buster cut from similarly unforgiving down-land cloth. Glancing at the Garmin I saw I was looking at a two hour run. It would be great to get under that magic mark but with no idea of exactly how far we had left (and no real guide as to what constitutes a good time for me) I couldn’t really hit the gas. By the time I recognised the outskirts of Pewsey it was too late, but I cranked it up anyway. Out of nowhere my right hamstring reminded me that I am, after all, built for comfort not speed. Cursing I eased back to flounder across the line in 2:00:59.

Having collected my goody bag (and my ‘this T-shirt was earned!’ Finishers’ shirt) I shuffled towards the school, peeling off my mud-caked shoes and sodden, filthy socks before trudging barefoot through a film of cold slime towards the changing rooms. There was a queue for the showers, a scene no doubt familiar to anyone incarcerated in the USA towards the end of the last century, which, towel in hand, I readily joined. Grinning, pink-skinned men crowded into the narrow corridor, jostling to squirm under the dribbling spouts of warm water. Jovial shouts of bravado filled the steamy air, carrying more than a hint of relief as the good-natured banter flew. It wasn’t quite the power-shower I’d hoped for, but it was mighty fine and a good deal better than nothing. I dressed quietly, reflecting on how survival is so much more important than victory, dreaming of a small plastic cup filled with hot leaf infusion mixed with sugar and milk.

I met up with Carol, she having successfully nursed her sore achillies around the circuit in 2:30 and now equally in need of tea. We stayed for the awards ceremony, a curious affair in the school hall presided over by a real live Terminator, replete with garish make-up and black leather jacket, sporting a slightly less authentic Wiltshire burr. The winner, an unassuming member of Team Bath AC, completed the course in an inhuman 1:22.
I could only stand and applaud. And to answer the question? Oh yes . . .

. . . I’ll be back!

Stats:
11.5 miles
2:00:59
Position 391 (out of 691 finishers)

[SIZE="1"]Caution: slight hill ahead . . . [/SIZE]

[El Gordo]

And there's more?

Go easy on some of us older folk, please -- give me a few hours to recover before posting any more. I need to get my breath back, then go and lie down for a while.


Edit Damn, too late. Help!

[El Gordo]

Superb report. Great effort.

I had toyed with the idea of a late entry, but I now know that my phlegmy chest was a piece of divine intervention and not, as I thought at the weekend, a bolt from Hell. Maybe next year.... but don't quote me on that.

[stillwaddler]

that was awesome Sweder, how do you follow that?

[Sweder]

Follow that? Hmm, not sure . . . but I'll think of something
Ooh, I know - how about cycling from London to Paris in July?
Yeah . . .

[stillwaddler]

That will be really cool, and not too much mileage... Providing of course you don't have to swim the little bit of Channel that lies somewhere between.

(I'm picking up my new bike on Saturday, a Miss Marple looking but awesomely spec'd Pashley to replace my elderly Hercules, now that would cut quite a dash on the streets of Paris;-) )

[Sweder]

I'm picking up my new bike on Saturday, a Miss Marple looking but awesomely spec'd Pashley to replace my elderly Hercules, now that would cut quite a dash on the streets of Paris;-)

Come and join us . . . I've got loads of entry forms.
75 plucky souls signed up already . . .

[Bierzo Baggie]

Excellent race report and it must be said.. a very impressive time.

The winner, an unassuming member of Team Bath AC, completed the course in an inhuman 1:22.
I could only stand and applaud. And to answer the question? Oh yes . . .

. . . I’ll be back!

Stats:
11.5 miles
2:00:59
Position 391 (out of 691 finishers)

Take into account that the fellow who won is probably superhuman and doesn't sup half as much Guinness ... and he still only took 38 minutes off you. Sounds like you ran a blinder!

[Nick]

I enjoyed that. Better than being there!

[Sweder]

Some snaps from Sunday's funfest.
Yes, I'm the old geezer in the RC shirt . . . but hey, at least I can smile about it.
Er, right up until they made me run through a sodding river right at the death 'to clean your shoes off'.
Lovely! Forgot to mention that in my report :o