Kicked things off for the month with the gentlest of meanders, a three-mile waddle along the hilltops to blow away the cobwebs. Another stunning morning; high cloud, strong sunshine and a blissful breeze to cool my furrowed, sweat-stained brow.
Music featured on the return stretch, the Who's magnificent Love, Reign O'er Me making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I surveyed the glorious landscape. Sunlight glistened off the Ouse as it snaked south towards Newhaven. The trees, noisily discarding their summer finery, bob-nodded as we scampered past. A parliament of Rooks strutted manfully on the recently-mown racecourse, shady ruffians looking for trouble. Sheepless fields sloped gently towards the town, guiding my tired legs towards home, coffee and toast.
It's good to be out there again, if only for a short while.
Turn this up a bit
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(01-10-2009, 12:15 PM)Sweder Wrote: Kicked things off for the month with the gentlest of meanders, a three-mile waddle along the hilltops to blow away the cobwebs... Turn this up a bit
A bleary-eyed sojourn into rain-doused hills this morning, head full of images and tales of times gone by.
Last night one of my oldest mates, Glenn, now living and working in Japan, descended on Lewes with stories to fill a hundred nights. We toured the town, sampling fine ales in a number of establishments, trading memories, reminding one another of the characters we shared the road with back in the crazy, hazy days of the early 1980's. We followed the mighty Girlschool over hill and down dale, rocking our way around the UK without a care in the world, living off scraps. I've never been so poor, or so deeply, uncomplicatedly happy.
We ended up in my living room, Jools Holland on the box (featuring the incomporable Gladys Knight sans Pips), kettle on, poised to usher in the dawn ... until the sound of heavy snoring indicated that time and long-distance travel (not to mention the fine seasonal batch of Harvey's Old) had caught up with my old friend. I covered him with a sleeping bag and crept off in search of my own beer-fuelled slumber.
Now, battling into a strong headwind, I thanked my lucky stars for my ability to run with a belly full of ale. By way of pennance I forced myself over the full five miles, joyous hounds dancing around me, refusing myself so much as an extra breath at the turn. The prevailing gale threw me off Blackcap and into the homeward run, legs reluctantly responding to the combined force of wind and gravity.
Another run - the third in five days - and another wonderful track to bring me home. There's something about the reverberation in Grace Slick's haunting refrain that lifts my spirit, adding unexpected energy to my tired stride. I galloped home as the song reached its crescendo, maintaining a fierce pace* until I collapsed, chest heaving, against my gatepost.
Bear with the boring intro ... it's over soon enough.
*Fierce only as opposed to lumbering. These things are wholly relative.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Having survived the Mayfield Golfing Society's Autumn Tour to the wetlands of Deauville, including a marvelous excursion to an authentic Calvados distillery, I resolved to hit them hills a-runnin' early doors.
The apocalyptic weather of the last four days that left our hitherto merry band of stick-swingers looking like a bunch of half-drowned rats hoiked from a vast vat of dark ale was swept aside by a burly autumn breeze. The crisp blue sky was streaked with high, pink-grey cloud fingers speckled with hundreds of manically cawing rooks. The hooded wingsters soared and wheeled as if waiting for the green light from Air Traffic Control. I plugged myself in to Planet Rock, delighted with Alice Cooper's first selection after the 7 o'clock news; Metallica, Enter Sandman. This jaunty ditty helped me set a robust pace, my Mizuno-clad trotters rejoicing at the soft embrace of the sodden hillside turf.
Ascending Wicker Man Hill I spied what seemed like steam rising off the back of the great Hill Beast, lifting off its rolling green shoulders, up into the warming air to fade like a fleeting thought. I love this time of year; when nature packs away her summer glad rags and pulls on her autumn stockings, rich red, brown, yellow and gold accessories softening her sun-baked countenance. The air seems purer, the chill of approaching winter adding a delicious sharpness to every breath. Discarded leaves lay scattered across the muddy trail, autumnal confetti to mark my sweaty reunion with the Downs. It’s hard not feel absolutely alive on days like these.
A surprisingly swift circuit in a shade over 47 minutes. Once again I failed to stop at Blackcaps' crest, wheeling around the milestone to career straight back down the wicked plummet home. This ‘no rest’ approach is pretty painful but I feel I need to push things a bit before opening up the mileage, something I plan to do whilst out in Montreal for the next couple of weeks and then on into November.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(08-10-2009, 10:16 AM)Sweder Wrote: A surprisingly swift circuit in a shade over 47 minutes. Once again I failed to stop at Blackcaps' crest, wheeling around the milestone to career straight back down the wicked plummet home. This ‘no rest’ approach is pretty painful but I feel I need to push things a bit before opening up the mileage, something I plan to do whilst out in Montreal for the next couple of weeks and then on into November.
Manic. Irrepressible. Seemingly indestructible. Did I mention astonishing? I mean, especially after all that beer and all.
(08-10-2009, 10:16 AM)Sweder Wrote: Discarded leaves lay scattered across the muddy trail, autumnal confetti to mark my sweaty reunion with the Downs.
You may occasionally slather the purple prose, but sometimes you get it just right. That line was just right.
OK, you've gone and done it. Forced me to put down my laptop and get out there for a plod.
Hmm .. 'sweaty' ... or 'breathless'?
I find lack of time so frustrating - wish I had your pause for thought but it just ain't in my make-up. Dash it off and let it stand ...
I'll watch out for future prose-slathering. Sounds painful, if not a bit messy ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(08-10-2009, 10:16 AM)Sweder Wrote: Discarded leaves lay scattered across the muddy trail, autumnal confetti to mark my sweaty reunion with the Downs.
You may occasionally slather the purple prose, but sometimes you get it just right. That line was just right.
OK, you've gone and done it. Forced me to put down my laptop and get out there for a plod.
Hmm .. 'sweaty' ... or 'breathless'?
I find lack of time so frustrating - wish I had your pause for thought but it just ain't in my make-up. Dash it off and let it stand ...
I'll watch out for future prose-slathering. Sounds painful, if not a bit messy ...
Slather. Good Yorkshire word. And don't let up on the occasional purpliness. We love it.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
(08-10-2009, 10:16 AM)Sweder Wrote: Discarded leaves lay scattered across the muddy trail, autumnal confetti to mark my sweaty reunion with the Downs.
You may occasionally slather the purple prose, but sometimes you get it just right. That line was just right.
OK, you've gone and done it. Forced me to put down my laptop and get out there for a plod.
Hmm .. 'sweaty' ... or 'breathless'?
I find lack of time so frustrating - wish I had your pause for thought but it just ain't in my make-up. Dash it off and let it stand ...
I'll watch out for future prose-slathering. Sounds painful, if not a bit messy ...
Slather. Good Yorkshire word. And don't let up on the occasional purpliness. We love it.
(08-10-2009, 10:16 AM)Sweder Wrote: Discarded leaves lay scattered across the muddy trail, autumnal confetti to mark my sweaty reunion with the Downs.
You may occasionally slather the purple prose, but sometimes you get it just right. That line was just right.
OK, you've gone and done it. Forced me to put down my laptop and get out there for a plod.
Hmm .. 'sweaty' ... or 'breathless'?
I find lack of time so frustrating - wish I had your pause for thought but it just ain't in my make-up. Dash it off and let it stand ...
I'll watch out for future prose-slathering. Sounds painful, if not a bit messy ...
Slather. Good Yorkshire word. And don't let up on the occasional purpliness. We love it.
I thought you were going for a run, EG?
Yup - 5 .28 miles in glorious sunshine. I really am very fat and unfit. I've been devising Plan B. More later.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Slipped out for a post-breakfast hash, eager to embrace the autumn sunshine after a night of steady rain. These are the halcyon days, the perfect blend found in changing seasons; deliciously damp turf, sun-kissed and wind-blown, the off-roaders' paradise. Mindful of my exertions on Thursday I set off carefully, small strides, easy pace, lapping up the downland vistas.
Perhaps it was the thought of that word - vistas - that triggered memories of Moyleman today; perhaps it's that we're on the eve of the Jog Shop Jog, a tough 20-miler that he loved so much. Chris enjoyed his vistas too, especially those stunning views found in these very Sussex hills where he felt so comfortable, so at home. Or maybe - and more likely - it was the e-mail from Old Mutual announcing the website for TOM 2010. Strange ideas swam before me as I plodded on; to run in Cape Town in World Cup year ... madness, utter madness. I'd need to start serious training now ... and besides, with the economic climate such as it is this is no time for extravagant planning. The idea formed, a thought bubble floating just ahead, and, even as I reached for it to examine the possibilities, it was whipped off my fingertips, away across the valleys by a mischievous, chuckling westerly wind.
Chris would have loved this run. Blustery, soggy underfoot, sun battling to warm the chilled October air, dogs in tow, frisky, skittish. A good day to be out there, breathing it all in. I turned to music to distract me from maudlin thoughts and was instantly rewarded with Pearl Jams' excellent Jeremy. I'm not a massive Pearl Jam fan, finding much of their celebrated early work 'a bit samey'. I suppose you could level that accusation at any number of rock bands, not least my beloved Motorhead. It helps to have some personal history woven into the music; Pearl Jam were never a part of my life in the way that some bands are/ were. Jeremy tells a story though, the engaging narative loaded with evocative language;
Clearly I remember pickin on the boy
Seemed a harmless little fuck
Ooh, but we unleashed a lion...
Gnashed his teeth and bit the recess ladys breast...
How can I forget?
And he hit me with a surprise left
My jaw left hurtin...ooh, dropped wide open
Just like the day...oh, like the day I heard ...
Here it is in full if you have time to spare. Worth a listen:
The songs' cadence drew greater effort from my tiring legs. Once again I rounded the milestone without pause, back groaning, begging for a stretch. I laughed, as much at the idea that I could take on those mighty Cape mountains again as at my churlish self-denial. Rising out of the dip, chugging up the western slope of Mount Harry, fate conspired with Dire Straits to bring me back to thoughts of my mate. The lyric of the song has little to do with Chris, referring to goings-on in an ancient war, but the chorus haunts me, reminds me of my reaction on hearing that Chris was ill and that it was serious. I'd run so many miles with the man I knew only too well the strength of his will, the depth of his resolve. When the news got worse and the unthinkable became the unbearable I couldn't stand to hear the refrain, flipping channels or skipping tracks whenever it popped up.
Now, ringing clear and true in my headphones, I felt altogether differently about it. The phrase that a few short months ago stung with cruel venom now conjured happy memories, images of a man, chest out, arms pumping, galloping powerfully over mile after mile of challenging hills. That easy smile, those dark, sparkling eyes, the quick wit, the effortless, relentless progress of a man on a mission. I miss you brother; thanks for being out there with me again today.
And I can still hear his laughter, I can still hear his song
The man's too big, the man's too strong
The Man's Too Strong, from Brothers In Arms, Dire Straits
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I don't have running companionship memories of Moyleman -- he was way too fast for me in the two races we did together. I knew him as a good-natured, humorous drinking partner in Almeria and at your barbecue. And helpful. The year we did Almeria was the year I did the 13K, sorry, the 10K, and was very unfit -- even by my impressive standards. I talked to him a lot on that trip about fitness and goals, and he basically told me to get my ass in gear and get on with it. He had a no-nonsense attitude towards running that we'd all do well to follow. Get out there and do it.
Memories of the TOM seem to weigh heavily on you. It's a race you will have to do again someday by the sound of it. It's tempting to say I'll do it with you. But these are easy words. The reality is that the distance is beyond me, especially given the savage cut-off time. But who knows? Perhaps if I can carry through my intent, and turn this determination into real results over 2010, including a decent marathon in the autumn, there may just be a possibility in 2011. But for now, it remains a remote hope, and I'll not dwell on it.
As for your the Pearl Jam lyrics, I'm still puzzling over "Gnashed his teeth and bit the recess ladys breast..."
What's that all about then?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
(10-10-2009, 05:14 PM)El Gordo Wrote: What's that all about then?
I think he's referring to an incident at boarding school.
But who can say? These longhairs are all stoners and dope fiends. Thank yur lucky stars they don't stalk the streets of Theale.
Yes, TOM crops up in my thinking too often to be ignored.
There's unfinshed business in them there hills.
As for Chris I am and shall ever be grateful for having known him. He was a rare sort; honest & open with terrific insight. The incident in Almeria, that's typical of the man.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(10-10-2009, 05:23 PM)Sweder Wrote: A for Chris I am and shall ever be grateful for having known him. He was a rare sort; honest & open with terrific insight. The incident in Almeria, that's typical of the man.
I'm sorry to have never met the man in person (but then, I've never met any of you ) ... but his frequent postings here indicate he was just the kind of man you say he was.
Nice post, Sweder. Not sure I'much of a Jeremy fan, though.
(10-10-2009, 05:14 PM)El Gordo Wrote: It's a race you will have to do again someday by the sound of it. It's tempting to say I'll do it with you. But these are easy words. The reality is that the distance is beyond me, especially given the savage cut-off time. But who knows?
I recall that the celebrated Zurich sub-5 was intended to be your entrance exam for TOM 2007. That Swiss roll turned into an enthralling adventure all its own, a thrilling read.
If you really want to have a go at TOM here's the three valuable lessons I learned in '07 that need to be addressed before any thoughts of a return:
Core Strength, Core Strength and, er, Core Strength.
Your last blog entry identified the dark heart of the running conundrum for we older, less honed athletes; like Weebles we wobble (but we don't fall down). This wobbling, or rocking (in my case wilting), expends vital energy in the wrong direction, leaving us weak. We lose posture and thereby our running style. It's easy to scoff at lardies like us having a running style but we know this to be true; it's how we get along, and when it all falls apart so do we.
My own 'style' involves a kind of lean-in lurch (hence Moyleman's brilliantly-applied epithet - Quasimodo - fittingly bestowed on me in Paris). As fatigue bites and my core melts this becomes more pronounced until I appear to genuflex my way to the finish. The thing to remember is you can have a strong core and a wobbly midriff; it's what lies beneath that counts when the hard yards come calling.
I like your medicine ball initiative. I've tried wobbling about on a larger sphere, jerking out sit-ups and back lifts whilst spread-eagled on a sort of handle-less Space Hopper, but it all lacked dignity, located as it was in a public area populated by proficient hardbodied workout fanatics. I'll follow your progress with interest.
The other issue for me is injury. I can't see a way back to Chapmans' Peake carrying a prolapsed disc. This is the ultimate weakness in the very area I need to improve. Options include complete rest for months (not viable) or even surgery (fusion) which if I'm honest scares the living bejesus out of me. As you reminded me, and as Moyleman famously said so often, I need to 'just get out there and do it'. Consistent running will lay the foundations for future dreaming.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(11-10-2009, 08:03 AM)Sweder Wrote: The other issue for me is injury. I can't see a way back to Chapmans' Peake carrying a prolapsed disc. This is the ultimate weakness in the very area I need to improve. Options include complete rest for months (not viable) or even surgery (fusion) which if I'm honest scares the living bejesus out of me. As you reminded me, and as Moyleman famously said so often, I need to 'just get out there and do it'. Consistent running will lay the foundations for future dreaming.
There is another possible solution, though it may be a bit too girly for you.
Twice recently, by coincidence, I've come across articles about the benefits of yoga for back pain, and the briefest of google searches claims that even prolapsed disks can be helped by yoga. Whether you have the patience for it is up to you, but do look into it.
As for gym balls, well funnily enough, I am the new owner of one of these. I've not yet jumped on it, as it were, but having your own, with the opportunity to use it away from public gaze, might be the answer. I got a very decent one through Amazon for about £20. These things are very highly recommended by Phil the sports therapist, and by any number of articles/discussions on RW. I'm a believer.
I'd have thought young Phoebe might also get plenty of benefit for her dancing.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
A run book-ended by American females. As I left the house on tired legs - this was my third run in four days, a positive avalanche of running in my world of late - Tom Petty piped up with the excellent, iconic American Girl. For some this evokes days of youth and yore; for others it's the soundtrack to the moment in Silence of the Lambs when the Senators' daughter drives into her condo parking lot and sees Jamie Gumb aka Buffalo Bill struggling, arm in a false cast, to load a sofa into his dirty brown van. A chilling moment to match the chill wind on this overcast morning.
Today the refrain conjured memories of another American girl, one I've written about before in tales of New Orleans and the exuberance of youth, or how a life-long friendship was born in the bars of Bourbon Street.
I struggled manfully, fighting the rising tide of lactic acid and general fatigue as the hills rolled towards me. More rain last night had further softened the terrain. I was grateful; last nights' visit to Benihana proved a gastronomic indulgence, the coup de grace delivered via a monolithic slab of frozen Mars Bar-like desert that had us all protesting loudly even as we shovelled the rich, heavy confection into our greedy mouths. My tread was therefore suitably heavy - I feel sure I must have left a trail of human footprints alongside the turf-cut horses’ hooves. Such abrasions soon fade, absorbed by the springy turf, just as footprints are swallowed on a sandy beach. Sadly the same cannot be said for the aftermath of piggery hanging from my hips.
As I careered into the driveway, all sweat and laboured breath, American Woman rumbled out of the headphones. It's one of those tracks we all recognise and yet naming the artist is always a challenge for me. The clue is of course in the name itself; the Guess Who.
Right, just time to jot this down, jump in the shower, dress, pack, dash to the office for two hours before on to Heathrow to strap a BA Leviathan to my backside for the long flight to Montreal. I'm packing my runners of course. This recent spurt of activity has seen me cross a personal rubicon, from casual keeping-ones-eye-in jogging to the start of training proper. The challenge will be to eek out the runs in between long working hours and late-night carousing.
T'was ever thus in Swederville
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
My own contribution to Rocktober: My Night of Metal Hell
The aperçus on this time of year are entirely correct. I write this, digesting a sailing club lunch and thinking of my brother and sister athletes who have finished the Jog Shop Jog this morning. Later, having planted a mulberry tree, I shall go out and though there is fine rain, it will be enjoyable.
Well done on the Rubicon: alea iacta est
χαιρέτε νικὠμεν
Next race(s):
In the lap of the gods
RE: Rocktober 
) ... but his frequent postings here indicate he was just the kind of man you say he was.
