Another stunning morning arrives to tease me. Frosted trees, sparkling rooftops, blinding sunshine, unsullied by cloud, beaming through my bathroom window. I can no more run today than fly above my beloved hills, the remnants of my latest infestation still rumbling darkly in my chest.
Looking out across the valley, a broth of deep mist lounging across the town, I'm reminded of a day in May 2007 when, having risen early to run before a flight to Istanbul, I was treated to a similar scene. I wrote:
For so long it seemed a nailed-on certainty that Shine On You Crazy Diamond ... would walk off with the (track du jour) plaudits. This soothed its way onto my I-pod just as I crested the stables rise on the homeward leg, a little after 6am. Languid clouds lay dormant in the Ouse valley, translucent leviathans sleeping in after a cool, damp night. Even as I watched the sun's warmth appeared to wake them. They drifted, one by one, misty zeppelins loosed from their moorings, rising gently towards the east.
Reading that, and looking out on a perfect dawn on the cusp of Spring, I can't wait to pull on my running boots and get back to the downland trails.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder, I wondered if you caught this programme... it's on iPlayer till the end of this week. I started watching last night; some remarkable talking heads. Your mate Lemmy is due on apparently, although I've only got to about 1970 so far.
... I've just got back from my first run in over a fortnight.
There was a time - always is during these dark, depressing periods of brutal lung disfunction - when I wondered if I'd ever get out there again. I've been miserable. Fractious, distracted ... a nightmare to live with.
Funny thing is on Monday I started eating for England. Anything and everything edible that fell into my path was devoured with indecent haste. I took this as a sign that I was either pregnant or, preferably, ready to run again. Five fabulous sun-drenched miles through the hills later I'm barking like a rabid dog, bathed in honest run-sweat and happy as Larry. The legs feel OK; they could have carried on for a few miles more I'm sure. That wonderful moment when the painful exertion of dragging one's reluctant carcass up and down hills gives way to the pure thrill of running came upon me as I chugged up the west face of Wicker Man Hill. The jagged flint pressed into the soles of my old red Mizunos (I treated myself to an outing in these old favorites) to remind me how much I love the feel of rugged ground beneath my feet. Over the last mile or so my chest was horribly tight but, luckily, still functioning. Back at home the appetite is, four slices of toast smothered in blueberry jam notwithstanding, alarmingly healthy.
For some company on the run I plugged into Alice Cooper - the first time this year I've run with Planet Rock - and wasn't disappointed. Track du jour was Ted Nugent's Stranglehold. I'm no great fan of the brash Motor City Madman but I defy anyone not to fall instantly in love with that filthy, dirty belly-slither of a bass-line. Wonderful stuff to run to.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Whoo-hoo! A second outing this month ... hang out the flags.
With the Day of Days ready to pour down upon us this Wednesday ParkRun held their St. Patrick's Day event today. To accompany the shock of garish green garb the organisers cheekily reversed the circuit, starting at the finish alongside the cafe, running clock-wise to finish at the, er, start. This was great fun. The usual steep plummets became short, sharp climbs, over in a flurry of wild sawing breaths and the high-pitched whine of screaming hamstrings. By contrast the seemingly endless ascent one normally curses on the weekly slog became a gentle down-hill lollop, sloping South towards what was once Brighton & Hove Albions' beloved Goldstone Ground and is now Toys R Us and Carpet-Right. I took full advantage, letting my long, open stride lope lazily for half a klick. The breeze at my back on this section was a small joy to savour alongside a working set of lungs and fresh, niggle-free legs.
I didn't bother with the Garmin (OK, I was horribly late getting up and left it on my desk). As usual when running without the bleeping task-master I relaxed and enjoyed myself, catching up with Moylebird on the last lap to chat amiably over the last few hundred metres. Cam logged in at the finish and set off immediately on her long run. Impressive.
Coffee and endorphins flew in equal measure in the Hove Park Cafe. The band of regulars gathered to swap pre-Brighton tales of training horror and cruel injury. It seems everyone has some kind of ailment to carry; Ladyrunner nursing her sore legs, Mikey battling cramping calves via the use of potions, lotions and a rather dramatic-sounding epidural (!)
Perhaps we should entice a physio or two along to these gatherings. Or maybe Billy Graham. We could sure use a mass healing. Praise the Lord.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Like buses these March runs. Don't see one for ages then three come along in quick succession.
Mindful of a raft of chores that need to be completed before the return of the memsahib I gazed whistfully out of the paint-speckled bathroom window across enticing, sun-drenched hills. I'd hoped to join the Jog Shop Joggers on one of their pre-Brighton Marathon long runs but I simply didn't have three hours plus to spare. That, and my lungs - and legs - needed a gentler test to confirm a return to fitness.
I harnessed the hounds and set off for a local plod, heading west across the downland spine towards Ditchling Beacon. A cold, harsh breeze cut headlong into us, keeping my pace honest and preventing the sun, indecently warm on my vest-clad back, from broiling me in my own sweat. How wonderful to be out running in vest and shorts; spring is in the air! The tacky downland rose to meet my heavy tread as I proceeded to crop-spray the hedgerows. These chesty colds linger longer than unwanted house-guests.
An honest, workman-like trudge covering ten miles in a smidgeon over ninety minutes. My legs felt a little heavy towards the end, understandable after a three-week lay-off. As usual my lungs behaved impeccably until I chugged to a halt, whereupon they attempted to empty themselves of imaginary ectoplasm through a series of chest-wracking coughs.
The dogs wagged, tongues lolling, clearly happy to be back on the trails with their two-legged leader. They've had a rum time of it lately, restricted to waddling around the local shrubberies with an assortment of reluctant family members. They'll sleep for the rest of the day, dreaming of chasing rabbits or peeing on other dogs' faeces, only stirring to remind me when dinner-time draws near. For me it's a quick stretch and a late breakfast before facing a Rubick's Cube of televised sport, bathroom painting and the unbridled joy of ferrying post-decorating household detritus to the municipal dump.
Spring is in the air alright.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Managed a couple of local plods this week and a round of golf (to successfuly defend my Mad March Juggs trophy at Hever Castle GC) on Friday. Woke up early yesterday for ParkRun only to feel an ugly burn in my right foot. Experience tells me I've damaged (bruised? torn?) my right plantar muscle. I've no doubt golf was a contributing factor; there's a fair bit of torque put through the right foot when executing a full swing (I'll explain that to you later SP) with the plantar bearing the brunt.
If only bruised this is no biggie; a few days rest with some gentle rolling over a golf ball (oh the irony) will see me right. If more serious I'm in trouble and Connemara may become a glorified walk or even a spectator event. C'est la vie. I'm not exactly in great shape following three weeks of swampy chest so perhaps this is all for the best. The fates have conspired to ruin my weekend anyway, a cruel call to jury service landing with an indecent thud on my doormat a while back. Start date: 12th April, slap bang in the middle of our scheduled rehydration. Having deferred already last year I know I cannot do so again. I'm planning a personal hearing to beg for mercy but according to those in the know the best I can hope for is reimbursement for part of my flight. Worst case scenario I will have to fly home on Sunday night.
With EG's race in jeopardy and my own in the balance there may yet be a light at the end of the long, dark tunnel. If running duties are on hold we might have an opportunity to take a serious interest in the finest Dublin/ Galway hostilries to consider our futures.
My main concern is that being a middle-foot injury cycling - and therefore spinning - may be at risk. This would be bad news for the waistline and fitness in general. With a monday evening session looming I'll know soon enough. For now, and against all perceived wisdom, I plan to take the hounds out on a soggy plod in the locale to assess the extent of the damage. More on that soon.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(21-03-2010, 09:52 AM)Sweder Wrote: Managed a couple of local plods this week and a round of golf (to successfuly defend my Mad March Juggs trophy at Hever Castle GC) on Friday. Woke up early yesterday for ParkRun only to feel an ugly burn in my right foot. Experience tells me I've damaged (bruised? torn?) my right plantar muscle. I've no doubt golf was a contributing factor; there's a fair bit of torque put through the right foot when executing a full swing (I'll explain that to you later SP) with the plantar bearing the brunt.
If only bruised this is no biggie; a few days rest with some gentle rolling over a golf ball (oh the irony) will see me right. If more serious I'm in trouble and Connemara may become a glorified walk or even a spectator event. C'est la vie. I'm not exactly in great shape following three weeks of swampy chest so perhaps this is all for the best. The fates have conspired to ruin my weekend anyway, a cruel call to jury service landing with an indecent thud on my doormat a while back. Start date: 12th April, slap bang in the middle of our scheduled rehydration. Having deferred already last year I know I cannot do so again. I'm planning a personal hearing to beg for mercy but according to those in the know the best I can hope for is reimbursement for part of my flight. Worst case scenario I will have to fly home on Sunday night.
With EG's race in jeopardy and my own in the balance there may yet be a light at the end of the long, dark tunnel. If running duties are on hold we might have an opportunity to take a serious interest in the finest Dublin/ Galway hostilries to consider our futures.
My main concern is that being a middle-foot injury cycling - and therefore spinning - may be at risk. This would be bad news for the waistline and fitness in general. With a monday evening session looming I'll know soon enough. For now, and against all perceived wisdom, I plan to take the hounds out on a soggy plod in the locale to assess the extent of the damage. More on that soon.
I´m really sorry about both pieces of news, S. I hope you can sort all out and be able to take part at the race in Connemara in just 21 days.
Well well well. Set out for a gentle jog and before I knew it the sun popped out, the wind dropped and I was all the way to Ditchling for a 16 k round-trip. Foot ached all the way but the pain never got much above four on the threshold scale (one being negligible, ten being forced to watch Lloyd-Webber & Norton in their Saturday night love-tryst).
Tired of the same old self-congratulatory 'comedy' presenters on Five Live (Jenny Éclair aside - I find her tolerable in several ways) I flipped to Planet Rock where The Kid took us to Another Dimension. Highlight of the blend of new, classic and prog rock was Zeppelins' Friends. This coincided with me picking up the pace (reaching somewhere around half marathon speed, four minutes forty-five per kilometre or there abouts). The cadence of the song matched my ungainly stride as our fourteen-legged pack traversed water-filled pot-holes and sticky mud-trails strewn with large pieces of downland flint. The sweat pouring off my forehead was as much from concentration as it was from the warming sun and increasing exertion. One false step - to land my full weight astride a lump of rock - would have had me screaming like a stuck Chav in custody on a Saturday night and most likely crippled for life.
I managed to 'lose a nipple' - runners will know what I mean; that tell-tale streak of watery red down the front of your white running vest reminding you that you forgot to Vass Up before the off - and am not looking forward to the cruel sting of the shower. Now it’s time for a quick stretch and Ibuprofen (other anti-inflammatories are available but they’re rubbish) before another round of furniture recycling following the triumphant completion of my daughter’s bedroom. Time will tell if I’ve been fortunate or dumb with the foot. As someone probably once said 'we have one life: live it.'
One small aside. If you missed the Sport Relief pastiche featuring Smithy (James Corden) as Coach of the Year you missed a treat. You also missed the iconic Mr Beckham sending himself up mercilessly. Beckham has transcended football in a way that few if any do. He’s gone from pariah to national treasure despite some horrendous decisions, not least (in some eyes) marrying a pouty stick insect. The reason I switched off the ‘satirical’ program on 5Live was that they were ridiculing the Poet Laureate’s tribute to Beckham’s recent injury, missing the good-natured humour of Duffy's piece. I enjoyed the poem for what it appears to be; a tongue-in-cheek homage to one of our national obsessions and a bit of fun.
Achilles Carol Ann Duffy
Myth's river – where his mother
dipped him, fished him, a
slippery golden boy flowed on,
his name on its lips.
Without him, it was prophesied,
they would not take Troy.
Women hid him, concealed him
in girls' sarongs; days of
sweetmeats, spices, silver songs ...
But when Odysseus came, with an
athlete's build, a sword and a shield,
he followed him to the battlefield,
the crowd's roar,
And it was sport, not war,
his charmed foot on the ball ...
But then his heel, his heel, his heel ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
This week, in the immortal words of Jesse from the Fast Show, I has been mostly tryin' to rest whilst banking a few crafty miles. It's the stuff of madness.
Monday night saw a return to Bridge's House of Fun and another tough 45 minutes in the saddle. Or rather out of it, as once again our diminutive leader had us charge up a series of increasingly challenging virtual hills. It hurt, but happily not under my right foot. Good news.
Tuesday was devoted to rest (and work). Wednesday demanded a pre-dawn departure to Gatwick for an overnight visit to clients in Geneva. Dropping out of a slate grey sky yesterday afternoon I groaned at the sight of dull, wet tarmac, but by the time I got home a strong easterly had blown most of the clouds towards The Smoke. I snuck out through a sunlit window to gallop heavily across slick mud and slippery trails, banking five sluggish miles before the thunderheads regrouped to regale us with a symphonic storm of epic proportions.
The forecast for the weekend is apocalyptic. Gazing out through my slatted office window I see blue skies and bright sunlight, so I'm hauling on my mud-caked Mizunos for yet another clandestine tryst with Landport Bottom, Mount Harry and Blackcap. In the spirit of Antonio's craziness I'll try to run slow so as to get used to pacing greater distance whilst horribly under-prepared. I suspect our quest is pure folly, yet the thought of inglorious failure in the misty Galway hills thrills me in ways that a modestly-chugged half does not.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Get In! With two of you on-the-case you're bound to stand a better chance. Here's to looking at failure square in the face then sending it on it's way with a big kick up the a*se.
I've done some rudimentary calculations.
Allowing for one minute walk intervals and the occasional pit-stop/ picnic break we'll need to run at close to 7 minute kilometre pace.
For seven and a half hours.
No problem
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I've decided to try a pre-Connemara 'test run.' I figure if I meet difficulties on this route I can abandon any ideas of completing the Irish Ultra. With so little mileage under my belt - well below 100 kilometres this month (as in February) - I need an alternative approach.
I plan to run/ walk early doors from my home in Lewes across to Brighton Marina by way of Kingston Ridge (home of the Big W), Castle Hill, Death valley, the Snake, Woodingdean and East Brighton park. That's an undulating route of around 10 miles, which should take around 2 hours based on my half-arsed walk-run calculations. By leaving at 7am (BST) I hope to hook up with the Jog Shop crew to leave the marina at 9, head east to Saltdean, up Telscombe Tie, the North Face and Yellow Brick road to rejoin the W where I'll peel off and drop back into Kingston and home to Lewes.
All-in around 4 hours for a shade over 22 miles.
Many things can and may go wrong; aches and strains, my general lack of fitness exposed by the rocky ridges along the Jog Shop jog or maybe mis-managed carb intake (I'll carry some sarnies & wine gums - no gels, more by inept planning that design). The weather threatens to dampen my spirits. Monstrous storm clouds are already gathered over the Lewes Cliffe, dark, brooding brutes full of menace out for a rollicking Saturday night on the town. The switch from GMT to BST is against me too; I'll lose an hour's kip as the clocks 'spring' forward.
By the end of it I'll have a better idea of whether my idea about run/ walking Connemara within the allotted seven and a half hours is complete fantasy or in any way do-able.
The alternative? Sit on my ample backside to contemplate my navel after another gentle ten mile plod. That will tell me little except to remind me that I need to lose a few pounds.
Plus ca change, plus la meme chose
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Good luck tomorrow Sweder!! That looks like one very long run - hope all goes well. Don't get carried away setting off too fast and make sure you take some energy with you. Maybe a couple of sandwiches as a test for the Ultra.
(27-03-2010, 07:40 PM)ladyrunner Wrote: Good luck tomorrow Sweder!! That looks like one very long run - hope all goes well. Don't get carried away setting off too fast and make sure you take some energy with you. Maybe a couple of sandwiches as a test for the Ultra.
Looking forward to reading about it afterwards.
Julie
Me too!
Good advice there.
I think you're just about to discover a whole new run-walk wonderland...
Anything could happen!
