(07-12-2009, 07:58 AM)marathondan Wrote: Anyway, I thought you were going to be the 2 hour pacer for everyone at Almeria? Should be straightforward (for you...) on this form.
Good point, though I've not had an official acceptance of that offer. I'm looking for a bit more distance work, not so much for the Half itself but more for the Monday Mountain Plummet. I've struggled on that in recent years; Gillybean left me for dust this year. I'd like to give it some proper welly next month
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Great report! My Sunday morning jaunt had some similarities, except I didn't risk the camera and I wouuldn't know how to tweet even if I had feathers! Must be difficult to do that in the middle of a race.
I wasn't going to post anything about today's 5 mile recovery run; I went out, it didn't rain, it was muddy and a bit breezy, I came back. 50 minutes on the money, tough on tired legs, as expected. Meh.
But ... popped onto Antbliss to check out the Mince Pie 10 pics and noted a mention of my report (plus live link) and a plug for Running Commentary. Also found this, which I thought was rather smart - and you can make your own, very, very easily using the Animoto website. Fans of Kate Bush & hill running will enjoy the audio that comes with this. Do switch your speakers on.
One more thing ... lovely letter in today's Fiver (Guardian-driven tea-time daily, usually focused on all things football):
"I appreciate that this has nothing to do with football but I have to say I was very impressed with Connie Hedegaard's opening speech in Copenhagen yesterday. For someone to open a Climate Change conference by wishing everyone 'a warm welcome' was sheer class" - Alistair Moffat.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
How frustrating! I only have a few minutes to log tonight's run; I could write a book - quite a large one at that.
Taking Dan's advice a step (or two) further I took in the town tonight. Home, laptop bag tossed into my office, a change of clothes, a kiss for the wife, an apologetic shrug for the eager, soon-to-be-disappointed hounds and I was off into the surpisingly warm, moonlit Sussex evening. Starting at the house atop one of the hills that made Lewes such a defendable fortress (and therefore an important trading point for the region through the ages) I lolloped lazily through the neighbourhood and down past the forbidding, flint-jagged facade of the Victorian prison with its small, mean windows and high curls of razor wire, across the main road junction to Lewes Cemetery. I climbed the locked, hip-high pedestrian gate in eerie near-darkness, following the heavily-sloped moss-coated pathway down through the Garden of Remembrance into the silent, heavily-shadowed home of the dead.
At the bottom of the hill I vaulted the high brick wall and dropped onto the Winterbourne footpath. The Winterbourne is a man-made subterranian canal carrying excess rainwater (much of which runs off the chalk-based hills) away to the river Ouse where the waters embrace before their short journey through Rodmell to the Newhaven coast. From there I ran uphill to the Swan, turning left onto Southover High Street heading east towards the station. Past Anne of Cleaves House (now licensed for civil ceremonies), the tall splendour of Southover Church and the end of leafy Cockshut Road (leading to the Southdown Tennis & Hockey club and bar, a door I've yet to darken). I followed the quirky bend in the street breaking north (past the Kings Head) to Southover Grange, the stunning registry office formerly known as Southover House or Southover Priory. Built by William Newton, the Earl of Dorset in 1572 with Caen stone taken from the nearby ruins of St Pancras Priory the Grange was home to the Newton family for almost 300 years until 1860. In the 1790’s the Prince of Wales, who later became the Prince Regent and King George IV, often stayed at the Grange, sleeping in what is now known as the Regent’s bedroom. This is also where Mrs S and I tied the knot a fair few summers ago, which of course elevated its status to that of priceless National Treasure.
Here the road wriggles past the bottom of Keere Street (a violently steep, cobbled lane, home at the summit to the fabulous 15th Century Bookshop) to cross Station Street to the Lansdown pub (host to RCers before & after Lewes v West Ham in 2006 and home to the white-painted trunk of a petrified tree, not to mention an eclectic parade of local musical talent) and into Lansdown Place before it morphs into Friars walk.
I followed the curve of these narrow streets under the lea of various colourful emopria - a sculptor's studio, a Barber's Shop replete with candy-cane pole, an Indian Restaurant, an old-fashioned haberdashery and the wonderful All Saints centre, venue for gigs, meetings, the occasional ceilidh or fund-raising barn-dance and some-time home of the Lewes Cinema Club. I ducked right into Court Road opposite the Sussex Ambulance HQ (vocational residence of Captain Tom), squeezing between Argos and The Riverside, a two-storey wooden structure housing a mouthwatering array of eateries and purveyours of fine meats, fish and cheeses. Right again to climb the cobbled hump-backed bridge, past the famous Harveys Brewery and Brewery Shop (on the left), the John Harvey Tavern & Bill's (on the right) before heading on up Cliffe High Street, waving to the ruddy-cheeked occupants of the Gardners' Arms, possibly the friendliest pub in Lewes and, according to the Harveys Master Brewer, the best keeper of his Best Bitter between here and the far edge for the known world.
To the end of the high street under the rising wall of The Cliffe to loop left past the Dorset Arms, home to the Cliffe Bonfire Boys and scene of many an ugly lock-in on certain nights of the year, up Malling Street, left again onto the Phoenix Causeway to re-cross the river before the long pull up Little East Street, North Street and West Street (past SP's beloved Spice Merchant). Left here into Castle Ditch Lane (still climbing), a laboured slingshot around the turret-like front of the Lewes Arms, scene of the Greene King Wars, for the steep climb up Precincts Castle. At last I reached the top of the town, puffing and panting like an old steam engine, a light sheen of sweat glistening under the harsh glow of the electric street lamps. You know I've rarely felt so damned thirsty on such a short run! The cobbled walkway shimmered underfoot, the days' rain leaving a slippery coating on the old, hard stones. Above me the parapets bristled, ancient stone walls illuminated by hidden arc lamps. I juddered down the slope beneath the 14th Century Barbican gate, skidding onto the brick-paved High Street to continue my public house fly-past.
I paid my sweaty respects to the Two Brewers, Shelly's, The Pelham Arms and the Black Horse (all uphill) before scampering past the boarded frontage of the Meridian, closed a few months back. The pub, usually inhabited by what always seemed to me to be a large extended family, took its' name from the location; astride the Greenwich Meridian line. A wall-mounted plaque remains, hopefully to be retained by the new owners whatever their intentions for the property (almost certainly conversion to claustraphobic multiple-tenant housing; there's a dearth of affordable accommodation here which the impending National Park status can only exacerbate). In years past there would have been one more pub, the Windmill at the end of Spital Road at the junction with the A275 Neville Road. This went the way of all flesh well over a decade ago, no longer recognisable as a former hostilry in its present-day domestic drab.
I crossed the 275, heading north past the Victoria Hospital before the sharp left-hander into Neville Crescent and the short, tough climb up Southway; home.
6.03 kilometres in 38 minutes. Centuries of history and, in the hearths and snugs of those convivial imbiberies, pleasure that can't be measured in dull, dry prose.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Bloody hell. Knocks my home town into a cocked hat for sightseeing.
A tad slower than your offroad work, I notice (if the figures are correct) - due to slowing down for road crossings, wall vaultings, etc? (I do wish that mounting the hip-high pedestrian gate had led you into Cockshut Road .)
(10-12-2009, 07:58 AM)marathondan Wrote: A tad slower than your offroad work, I notice (if the figures are correct) - due to slowing down for road crossings, wall vaultings, etc?
Not really; mostly due to tired legs after a long hard day and to taking in all the sights.
Although I call this place home I really know very little of the history of Lewes. It's been said here before, running around a town or city, even one you should know well, often reveals another side. It's whetted my appetite for more of the same. Bad news for fans of the A27 trudge I'm afraid
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Great reportette there Sweder, I was with you every step of the way.
err...quite literally actually. At about the same time I was grinding out 5k on the treddy at the local gym, plugged in to Gary Moore and the wonderful blues album After hours
Although my run didn't involve kissing your wife or any gate-vaulting, I did rack up the gradient at one point.
Great report Sweder - and bloody hell, that place is old. 14th century ramparts? Good God, there's nothing here anything like that. Any building left standing much more than 50 years gets Heritage-listed, burnt down by a vengeful owner, insurance collected and something modern and practical built in its place. And anything vaguely resembling a castle would be condemned for not conforming to Health & Safety or Disabled Access standards, demolished due to lack of funding for renovation and replaced with a seedy night club, which would in turn burn down, insurance then collected etc etc.
Love the pubs too ... sounds like a great place for a pub crawl. I mean historical tour. Let me check my calendar.
(10-12-2009, 11:04 PM)Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote: Love the pubs too ... sounds like a great place for a pub crawl. I mean historical tour. Let me check my calendar.
Yes, I have a feeling the MLCM pub crawl of Lewes, whenever it happens, might be an occasion worth attending. Let's hope we have plenty of notice so that I can dig out a suitable 18 week training plan.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
(07-12-2009, 07:58 AM)marathondan Wrote: Anyway, I thought you were going to be the 2 hour pacer for everyone at Almeria? Should be straightforward (for you...) on this form.
Good point, though I've not had an official acceptance of that offer. I'm looking for a bit more distance work, not so much for the Half itself but more for the Monday Mountain Plummet. I've struggled on that in recent years; Gillybean left me for dust this year. I'd like to give it some proper welly next month
I think the 2 hour pacing offer is one for the great SP to respond to. Sadly, it will come a bit too soon for me, I reckon. Target for Almeria remains sub-2:10 for me.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Sunday's muddy, ice-blasted run took me almost 20k past last months’ total mileage.
Things have definitely improved in December.
Heavenly portents – smudged finger-clouds spread across an otherwise clear, sharp sky - suggested a bright if chilly day ahead. They were right on both counts, at least for starters. The sun shone gloriously above the East Brighton cliffs, bathing our impressively-swollen ranks before the off. Some thirty hardy souls gathered, shivering in a colourful array of lycra and Gore-Tex. At just 3 degrees Celsius with a knifing wind slashing that well into minus numbers we were wise to get going before we formed a permanent tribute to the local running fraternity.
I set off at a leisurely pace, running with Gillybean and Marion who, I'm delighted to report, will both join our Almeria armada in January
I'd decided to cash in on last weekends' Mince Pie 10 effort, stretching the mileage to take on the Snake. It's been a while since I've been along this wiggly way, possibly as long as six months. The perpetual deluge that’s plagued this part of the world in recent weeks (months?), whilst seemingly having a day off, has left the trails in a soggy state, adding balance and footfall to the usual challenges of general rise and fall. The biting wind bullying out of the north contrived to shove us back down Telscombe Tye, leaving me to rue my choice of short sleeved shirt as large goose-bumps covered my exposed arms like an instant outbreak of hives.
Another decision I took before leaving the house was to ignore energy gels. I managed the Mince Pie without them (although I did nab a couple of Jelly Babies along the way) and I felt a (possibly irrational) need to eschew the viscous supplements, to run au natural as if this might help to bolster my underlying fitness. On the way to the start I pocketed a pack of Wine Gums, stuffing a few into my water belt. I wolfed a couple at the top of the Tye and again just after the Farmers' Field plummet. Heading towards the foothills of the Snake I felt pretty good, but a glance at the rapidly darkening sky ahead curbed my enthusiasm. The bright green, sun-kissed hilltops sat in sharp relief against the monstrous black bruise blooming inexorably out of the horizon. There was little doubt we'd be in for a soaking. The question was how close could we get to home before it hit?
The answer came all too soon. As we chugged carefully along the pot-holed ‘tail’ the first veils of chilled mizzle draped themselves across us. As we entered the gate to round the first turn on the Snake proper the droplets grew larger, fell harder to lance into exposed pink flesh, cold as just-melted ice. I got my head down and ran as hard as I could. I've been on the Snake in heavy rain; the slightly sticky path would soon turn into a treacherous mud-slide. I had visions of our plucky band getting washed back down the hill, coated in slick brown sludge, riding some crazy downland theme-park ride. I reached the top of the twisting two-mile climb, heaving lungs trying seeking exit via my rasping throat, legs burning . I smiled through the pain, embracing the exquisite agony of the exhausted runner. By the time Gillybean, Sarah and Marion arrived I’d recovered my ability to breath standing upright, steam pluming off my shoulders. I must’ve looked like the carthorse who sneaked onto the track to chase the racehorses.
We ran the last few miles across the slippery trail to Brighton Racecourse and down through East Brighton park with the swirling, rain-laced wind at our backs. I felt good; tested, tired yet elated at having met my old, slippery friend once more and not been found wanting. Above the park a rainbow heralded the return of the sun, arcing into the high cloud like a bright, colourful smile.
More of the same is the order of the weeks to come.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Wine gums (actually, jelly babies - classic wine gums over here are too hard) or dried fruit (raisins, soft figs, apricots) do the business for me. A small handful of fruit, or about 4 confectionary infants, every half hour. But I would go for gels in a race, just for convenience.
(14-12-2009, 08:43 PM)Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote: Nice work Sweder. Would be interested to read more of your (and everyone else's) thoughts on the wine gums -vs- energy gels debate.
Here's my tuppence ha'penny worth.
Tried gels extensively over the past three or four years, working up to the super-viscocity of Hammergels. Paris was my most successful gel-powered marathon. I'd calculated that one should treat gels like hydration; best to follow a regime rather than wait until you feel the need. By working out a careful gel strategy I maximised thier effect to finish the race at optimum performance.
Then ... well, it's hard to be terribly scientific about this, but I started to wonder. What if I tried running without gels (in training of course)? What's the true, physical value of gels? I decided to experiment with wine gums in place of gels. There are obvious disadvantages; wine gums require a certain amount of chewing, get incredibly sticky in hot or wet environs (such as a runners' pocket or a sweaty water belt) and every now and again - and no matter how careful you think you're being packing them for the run - you always get an orange one pop up when you least expect it. However gels can be pretty hard to swallow too, not to mention those evil sachets that seem impossible to tear open in the heat of battle.
The upshot of all this messing about is that, for me at least, wine gums appear to serve as an adequate gel substitute. Remember I've only tried this up to half marathon distance. Well, OK, I tried it on the Bewl 15 with reasonable results. Perhaps beyond the 13.1/ 15 mile distance a combination of wine gums (or jelly babies) and gels might be best, though some - Moyleman included - have experimented with soluable suppliments carried in a second water bottle.
My other theory is/ was that if one were to over-rely on gels their effectiveness in races might be diminished. Ergo, if I leave them alone in training but use them during races where I'm trying to increase performance/ go for a time they might offer a real boost.
We're back to that Kevin Sheeghan chap and his singular experiment theory ... I guess we all have to suck it and see. Literally.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I suspect gels are more effective but wine gums or other sweets have an additional benefit in longer races. I tend to 'reward' myself with a sweet every couple of miles (or whatever seems right). It seems to help in counting down the distance.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Nipped out for an early dance with Jack Frost across nearby bejewelled hills. Heavenly morning; sun straining to melt the icy cloak, grass crunching pleasingly under my heavy tread, steam pluming from mouth and nose and, later, rising off my back as I chugged home, warm as toast under my ancient, decrepit Nike sweatshirt. Minus two Celcius never felt so darned good.
Orange wine gums are wrong EG; you should know that.
Agree Dan, Maynards WGs can be tough but I find their slow dissolution a tasty distraction.
Track du jour? Well it was a gentle, slow plod, a belated recovery after Sunday's exertions, so fittingly the award goes to John Cougar Mellencamp's sanguine Cherry Bomb. Wonderfully jaunty accordion (not something you hear about in these parts every day) combined with delightfully delicate strings to send the spirits soaring into the cold, clear winter sky.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well, well, well.
A proper scamper across the hills this morning, chased by a bitter, scything nor' westerly seemingly intent on scrubbing the frozen flesh from my wind-battered bones.
Tomorrow being a day of unbridled debauchery at the MGS AGM I've written off any chance of making the ParkRun on Saturday. By way of advanced pennance I chose to make this a swift one, running where possible at 5K pace (around 5-minute kilometre pace), setting the goal of completing my mid-week course in under 45 minutes for the first time in a while. Like MarathonDan I use breathing patterns to regulate pace. A 'quick' run is one where the breaths come in short, sharp bursts of violence, noisy exhalations forcing plumes of steam into the frosty air. I rasped and gasped my way up the 2 mile climb to Blackcap, keeping a wary eye on the purple-grey clouds scuttering in from the north. As is my wont at this time of year I expelled an impressive quantity of nasal ejectum along the route. Call me old-fashioned but I simply will not swallow.
7.84 hilly kilometres in 43:36; I'm happy with that.
An arbritrary post-run visit to the bathroom scales revealed a rather less pleasing, much bigger number; 200.8 lbs, or 14 stone 5 in old currency. Weight rarely features in my running plans, yet I can't help but wonder what the loss of a stone might mean to my performance in Almeria. Perhaps this isn't the best time to ponder such things. My expected calorific intake for the next 24 hours may well exceed my normal weekly total
Track du jour: Rage Against The Machine: Killing In The Name Of
Anyone listen to BBC Radio 5 Live this morning (circa 09:00)? If so you'd have heard this - wonderful stuff, reminded me of the Sex Pistols on Granada with Bill Grundy all those years ago. Listen to 'saint' Nicky Campbell say 'Let's get Christmassy' just before they kick off. Hats off to the Beeb for letting the thing run. Brilliant.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(17-12-2009, 12:28 PM)Sweder Wrote: An arbritrary post-run visit to the bathroom scales revealed a rater less pleasing, much bigger number; 200.8 lbs, or 14 stone 5 in old currency.
What's that in new currency? Oh don't worry, I'll work it out ... [taps unconvincingly at calculator] ... let's see now, hmm... 200.8, oh let's call it 201 ... multiplied by, um, 0.45 ... equals ... oh, gosh! That many kilos?!
![[Image: F0951-13.jpg]](http://www.portcities.org.uk/london/upload/img_400/F0951-13.jpg)
![[Image: lewes471.jpg&usg=AFQjCNF1NuQbUJaxLX8r8voj_fyiy9JO_w]](http://images.google.co.uk/url?source=imgres&ct=img&q=http://www.pungentrecords.com/images/UK/lewes471.jpg&usg=AFQjCNF1NuQbUJaxLX8r8voj_fyiy9JO_w)
RE: December 
