May 2010

[Sweder]

Gosh, May is upon us and I barely noticed.

I've plotted a couple of local runs recently, including a super-fast scuttle across my local hilly five-miler in my Vibram FiveFingers, recording an official PB in 42 minutes and change. Exciting and surprising in equal measure. Pleased to report Gillybean of this parrish has invested in some 'foot gloves' and, so far, seems to be enjoying the experience.

Besides a couple of plods I've managed to get on a spin bike once a week. That will continue as I still find the low-impact, sociable nature of Bridge's House of Fun most agreeable.

A couple of parrish notices:
I'm designated driver for the Brighton Ladies South Downs Relay squad (Saturday 11th June). Both Moyleman and Alan 'Le Soft' have done this and both recommended it highly despite the intollerably early start, long day and unusual atmosphere cultivated by sweaty, exhausted ladies hopping in and out of the mini-bus.

I plan to follow this up on the Sunday with my annual pilgrimage to the Seaford Half marathon. It's a cracking race containing some of the most beautiful vistas you'll see in this part of the world, including a delightful (if overgown and muddy) riverside path from Alfriston to the Golden Galleon. 2009 report & photos here.

I've neglected Le Jog for the past two months but intend to update that soon. Despite a low-key approach to running I have banked na few miles and should at least be somewhere near or even past Bristol by now. Scotland seems a long way off.

And finally ... that Connemarathon report is still not out of the notebook.
It'll be the biggest anticlimax of the season when it finally arrives but it needs to be done. I've not been in a writing frame of mind of late, what with work related strife thanks to that bloody volcano and a range of other distractions. The more I worry about it the less likely it is to get done, so in true Sweder fashion I'm going to ignore it until the mood takes me and I crash it out late into the wee small hours one night. I'm hoping to meet up with SP & Captain Tom this week for 'a beer' - perhaps after that.

[Seafront Plodder]

Nice agenda there mate. Except you're out of thr country on 5/6 June. Otherwise a perfect plan.

[Sweder]

Indeed I am. Just as well SDR & Seaford Half are 11/ 12 June then. Phew!

[Seafront Plodder]

Indeed I am. Just as well SDR & Seaford Half are 11/ 12 June then. Phew!

U sure? See my thread and In particular the link under Races etc...

[ladyrunner]

Ash the SDR is on Saturday 5th June - definately NOT the 11th June!!!

[ladyrunner]

Sorry to shout at you Hope you are not out of the country on 5th June and hope even more that you have not hired the minibus for the wrong weekend. Ouch!!

[Sweder]

Sorry to shout at you Hope you are not out of the country on 5th June and hope even more that you have not hired the minibus for the wrong weekend. Ouch!!

Major diary fail confirmed
Minibus hire is least of my troubles in early June & is easily sorted.

I have previous as SP Pointed out. Even so this is a spectacular cock-up. The search is on for a driver. If anyone fancies chauffeuring a wagonload of lovelies along the South Downs on June 5th please let me know.

In mitgigation the SDR website only went live this week.
Google searches returned another South Downs Relay run on 12th June - however this is a mere marathon, not a 100 mile race.

I'm gutted, and have invested in a chainmail codpiece.

[Sweder]

The sun has got his hat on and no mistake.
Took the Barefoot runners out for a spin this morning, another warm blast through fields of ripening grass. A parliament of Magpies hopped and cawed as we bounced by, all angry posturing and flappy indignation. I raced my trusty hounds up Landsdown Bottom, past the racing stables, up Mount Harry and turned for home at Blackcap, pausing there to drink in the hazy vistas across the east Brighton hills, over the Big W and on to the distant point of Seaford Head.

The barefoot experiment continues to bring joy. I truly love the feel of terra firma under my scantily-clad plates; I've not worn running shoes for a while now. Injury-wise I'm pretty much off the hook. My achilies are tighter as a result of 'T-Rex running' - shifting my body weight forward - but improved stretching should help minimise any long-term problems. Body weight is another matter in itself. My diet has been shocking these last few weeks with no prospect of improvement and my use of Chia seeds is sporadic at best. I hereby vow to address that right away. The warmer evenings mean lazy hours with a good book and a bottle of fine ale. I have stocks of TEA, Speckled Hen, Marstons Pedigree and HobGoblin on hand and easy access to Badger and Harveys just a short stroll away. It doesn't look good for the midriff.

This is my fifth outing of the month of May, an appalling return that reflects a number of ongoing issues.

1. Work is busy, and not always in a good way. Volcanic ash has played havoc with airfreight and I have a number of tricky situations to resolve, not to mention customers who fail/ refuse to connect world issues with their own interests.

2. Connemara recovery continues. Based on the addage that one should rest one day for every mile of a long race I should just now be out of recovery phase. Actually this a red herring; I've felt pretty chipper since getting back from Ireland and my legs are fine, so apart from adhering to the perceived wisdom I'm over it.

3. Spinning. I've been substituting weekly spin classes for a run. I've managed five of those this month so perhaps I'm not quite as slothful as the stark Garmin data suggests.

I've no plans to run long until later in June when I'd like to complete a private, hilly marathon early one Sunday morning. This will be along the same lines as my training run before Ireland, ie: a sort of run/ walk/ picnic affair in something approaching five hours. It may well involve an extended section in the FiveFingers, with runners for the hard-top sections carried in my back pack.

Pip pip.

[Sweder]

Just one solitary plod to report since that optimistic barefoot outing.
An upper respiratory infection - quelle surprise! - checked in at the end of last week, stayed for the weekend and has since refused to leave. I dragged myself out on Sunday in an effort to shake the bugger off but to no avail. Ended up completing a sluggish five miles and wishing I hadn't bothered. I've also piled on the pounds since Connemara. The race seems to have ignited an appetite that shows no sign of quitting, horribly dangerous when the drive and opportunity to run are limited.

I was alarmed to see just 47.49 paltry kilometres banked this month, my lowest monthly total in 2010 by some margin. This in turn reminded me of the need to revisit Le Jog and add a couple of months' worth to my route. I spent over an hour on Tuesday lunchtime painstakingly tracking my progress from Exmoor National Park up past Bristol and Clifden, across the Severn Bridge, on up to Llantony Abbey and the wild hills of Welsh Wales. I'm still using the old version of MapMyRun and to my horror, having elected to stop for a bite to eat, I found the bastard thing wouldn't save my changes. I'm not about to go through that again so I'm seeking a way to migrate my current map to the new software, or just junk the route and start mapping from scratch.
Very. Bloody. Annoying.

I've almost slain the Connemara Race report dragon. It's been a painful exercise and one I'll not repeat. In future I'll simply brain dump my reports, slap them on the arse and post them up; publish and be damned. It's the only way for me I'm afraid.

Great to see El Gordo back in the writer's saddle with some excellent pieces on coffee, short-change, politics and a plan to return to form. Hopefully he'll inspire the rest of us to get scribbling. Or, in my case, tapping. Slowly.

[Sweder]

I ended the month of May with a whimper and in floods of tears.

There are folks who don't see the significance of pets, who decry those who would bestowe human qualities on animals. I make no apology for feeling bereft at this loss of, to us, a dear family member and a cherished companion. Gypsy was a faithful hound. She ran with me to Blackcap, and to Ditchling, hundreds of times in her ten short years. Always pleased to see me, always first up to greet me as I staggered in from work (or the pub). She had this funny way of snorting, shaking her head and peeling back her lips to offer a comical canine smile. No matter what ugliness might have blackened my mood on any given day that welcome always warmed my heart. At night, as I lounged on the sofa falling asleep to a procession of dross on the gogglebox, she'd rest her chin on my outstretched toes, happy and content at her master's feet.

Since February we'd struggled to keep weight on Gypsy's slender frame. Despite visits to the vet and a variety of tests and drugs she continued to shrink before our eyes. I took her in last Monday and saw a different vet. Rather than send us off on another expensive series of tests she gave it to me straight. She's an Aussie, so that should have come as no surprise. She felt certain that Gypsy had a form of cancer, probably lymphoma. This explained the continued weight loss despite our best efforts to feed her up. We agreed that so long as there was a quality of life we should do all within reason to keep the old girl going. I'll know when it's time, I said.

Following a lethargic trudge to the Dewpond and an alarming bout of vomiting, we rushed her in on Thursday afternoon. Sophie was waiting, clearly worried by the rapid deterioration. The prognosis was poor: we had a decision to make. Gypsy sat slumped on the surgery floor, exhausted, her protruding ribs rising and falling with the effort of drawing breath. She hadn't run since Tuesday, was no longer greeting visitors and could hold neither food nor water. Left alone for a few minutes we considered the options through silent tears. The best we could hope for would be to get her through the weekend. Then we'd be back here facing the same terrible choice.

Sophie returned and I gave our decision. She smiled gently, nodding. She'd have done the same in our position. She went out to get the permission form - Gypsy's Death Warrant. I spent a moment holding that bony face, looking into those worried, dark-brown eyes, telling her (me) that this would end her pain, that it would all be OK. She looked back at me, sighed and slumped, an act of resignation that broke my heart. Mrs S held her hand over her mouth, stroking Gypsy's skeletal frame, her own body wracked with violent sobs. I signed the form and held Gypsy's head as the needle went in. There was a fair amount of the viscous blue liquid required and halfway through she turned to look right at me. I held her gaze and stroked her head as the light faded from her eyes. Her chest rose and fell one last time, and she was gone.

It's churlish to make comparisons between people and animals, distasteful even, yet the parallels to me are clear. I loved Gypsy as a companion and a member of our family just as I loved Moyleman as a friend and running inspiration. Both ran with me over many a mile and each could kick my arse without really trying. I'd like to think that my two running pals are even now dashing through the Elysian Fields, bounding through the high grass together under a gentle sun. Those fields were said to be 'the final resting place of the souls of the heroic and the virtuous.'
Sounds just right to me.

[suzieq]

I am so sorry Sweder. I know what Gypsy meant to you. Many of your running reports talked about you and the 'hounds'. It's so sad to lose someone you love. My sympathies to you and your family.

Suzie

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Sweder, I'm raising a glass to both Gypsy and Oddie as I write ... a sad demise, but a beautiful elergy you wrote there. My sympathies to you all.

[Sweder]

Sweder, I'm raising a glass to both Gypsy and Oddie as I write ... a sad demise, but a beautiful elergy you wrote there. My sympathies to you all.

Thanks mate. Got home from Valencia late last night. No thrashing tail, no silly grin, no pushy Tomcat demanding a duffing on the sofa. My scurrilous subconscious refused to soften the blow and for a horrible moment I expected to see them both as I stumbled into the dark, quiet house. When they didn't materialise I felt a dreadful tug on my heartstrings. This morning I took Willow & Tess out for a long walk across the sunny downs. I couldn't face a run; too much Spanish Lagerbelly I'm afraid. I'm waiting for my 'Return of the Jedi' moment, when I look up into the trees and see their ghostly images smiling down at me.

With three World Cup matches following Aus v England rugger I'm not planning mach beyond the sofa for the rest of the day.
I've promised myself a lope to Blackcap in the morning but I'm not holding my breath.