Traveling back from watching my daughter dance her socks off in her end of term show at the London Contemporary Dance School I got a text from an 'unknown' number. It was only unknown because I'd got a new phone last week and singularly failed to transfer all my contacts across. Bah.
Turns out it was my old snow patrol buddy Ladyrunner inviting me out for a convivial Sunday plod. She promised to be gentle with me yet still I thought twice before signing up. Last Sunday's blast across the clifftops left me feeling strong, firmly back on the running trail. However, chasing Ladyrunner up hill and down dale is not a task for the feint of heart or the weak of limb so I thought carefully before agreeing to line up at 09:30 this morning. We set off through the Hollingbury streets and onto the downs via Stanmer Park. The last time we'd been down this way we were knee-deep in snow, training for January's half marathon in Almeria. Today cloud heavy with rain destined for others trapped a thick layer of humidity to swaddle our bones as we jogged through the mercifully slightly cooler forest trails.
On the long climb up to Ditchling Beacon we skirted parched farmland, kicking up puffs of dry dirt as we filed past a patchwork of wheat-straw and dark brown stubble. I glanced down, amazed to see tiny powder-blue and violet butterflies dancing in the dust, flitting between our pounding feet, excited escorts for our sweaty endeavour.
Standing atop the Beacon amidst geriatric dodderers, liveried lycra-clad cyclists and hairy, beany-hatted ramblers I felt pretty good. I'm running without gels just now, simply trying to guage my fitness. I want to feel the fatigue creep into my bones. Know Thy Enemy, or something like that. We set off for home at a fair pace, the promise of fresh coffee and 'stolen' Banoffee Pie a great incentive to push hard to the finish. 17.7 kilometres in a shade under an hour and fifty minutes left us invigorated, grinning as we stretched out in the sunshine, faces shining in the glow of job well done.
The pie was delicious, the company and post-run conversation easy and engaging. I'm looking for more of these friendly outings as autumn peeps over summer's shoulder and the first twinges of returning fitness tease my re-awakening legs.
Happy August everyone.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Best laid plans and all that. I didn't manage a single morning run this week. I did get to spin class on Monday where I shed a small child's worth of sweat as Bridge put us through a series of brutal hill climbs.
Tonight, following a reasonable downpour, I reckoned the cool air that followed would be ideal for a sun-chaser up to Blackcap. I harnessed the hounds and set off. Within half a mile my hopes of a cool outing were cruelly dashed. There was a gentle breeze, mostly into my face on the eastward climb, yet this hardly put a dent in the oppressive humidity rising up from the recently soaked earth. I puffed and sweated my way to the summit, pausing occasionally to snap cloudscapes on my phone.
Loitereing above the Ouse valley, looking for all the world like he was peering down over the town, sat a huge Dali-esque 'face'. The sky around it had cleared to present a clear blue canvas. Darker cousins gathered behind me, threatening to drop their load, but I stayed, enthralled by this striking visitor.
Eventually I ploughed on, hoping for better running fare on the return. Sadly that usual mix of speedy legs and giddy endorphin high that comes from hurtling off the Cap failed to materialise and I was left to slog my way home, a melting slab of lard struggling against the fading light.
Well, can't have a storming run every time, can we?
Besides, it was worth heading out just for the wild cloud action.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Want to run with the Babes this Sunday?
Meeting at my house at 09:30.
Sounded good. Except I'd filled Saturday with golf, drinking, dining and more drinking as we entered Captain Tom’s 25th Anniversary debauch – er, renewal of vows weekend. Besides, I had a speech to write. The formal ceremony kicked off at 12:30 sharp on Sunday.
Naturally I said 'yes'. Running with the Babes is not an offer to be sniffed at. The backbone of the Brighton & Hove Athletics ladies team, winners of the 2010 100 mile South Downs Relay, are a lovely bunch. Bright, engaging and, if I’m entirely honest, very easy on the eye. They are also extremely fit and run hills rather well.
At 06:30 on Sunday morning none of this could detract the feeling of utter dread adding an impossible weight to the previous night’s engagement with Tanglefoot. I’d got a thirst on (not, for once, SP’s fault, though he was on hand to offer encouragement). No, I’d got it into my head that I needed to drink all the Tanglefoot the Pelham Arms could offer. If they hadn’t kicked us out just before midnight I might still be there, sat in a pool of spilled beer peppered with the remnants of a bucket of home-made pork scratchings.
After several restorative Nespressos (Purple Rage to the rescue) I felt well enough to send a text to LR to let her know something Sweder-shaped would be dropped at her door before they left. Mrs S dutifully kicked me out of the car along with the water belt that ‘someone has moved!’ (it was in the middle of my office floor) and two Neurofen. The babes were gathered, looking suitably whippet-like and up for a blast in the hills. I trailed in their engaging wake for the first seven predominantly uphill kilometres, puffing like an old steam engine as the beer seeped out from every pore.
Funny how these strugglesome runs so often end well. By the time we’d reached Blackcap and the east/ west trail split I felt fine. The girls, much to the bleary-eyed astonishment of several cross-country cyclists resting in the hedgerow, bade me a fond and cheery farewell as they turned west towards Ditchling Beacon. I set off east, bound for Lewes and home. I fair raced along, writing my vow-renewal speech as I gobbled up the sun-dappled miles. By the time I’d passed the stables I was well under my Half Marathon PB pace with no sign of letting up. Go figure.
The speech, once trimmed to the required two minutes, went down a storm. I managed to party on with the revellers at Chez Tom until the early evening, Harveys fresh from the brewery tap proving a fine antidote for my dangerous if improbable endorphin high. As the sun slipped over the horizon my eyelids grew heavy. Mrs S nudged me gently. ‘Time to go home Mr’ she whispered. To say I slept well would be the understatement of the year.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It seemed fitting that my first race since the end of April should coincide with the opening day the 2010/ 11 Premiership season. Like many of the players on show today I was keen as mustard but lacking match fitness. This was the second running of the Hard As Snails (my first), a rollercoaster run through the leafy Surrey hills of the North Downs along a section of the celebrated Pilgrims Way. This is Niguel Country. He’d dropped me a line a week ago suggesting this race might be right up my alley and he was right; I loved it.
The call to start in a sandy car park tucked away on the edge of the forest included perhaps the best safety briefing I’ve heard (below). As the bullhorn faded I picked up on the social apsect of these occasions, a chap from the North East exchanging contact details with a girl from South Africa. Love was in the air as we gathered under cold grey skies, the prospect of imminent drizzle not altogether unpleasant. I tried to put my ‘training run’ head on, yet at the off I was swept up in the mad, helter-skelter dash up the first series of hills. ‘Here we go’ I thought as I clawed for air in the melee. ‘Balls out, lung-busting sodding 10ks ...’
The hills held few surprises for me, save one; the soft sandy trail floor. Perhaps Niguel can explain why there’s so much of the stuff in this neck of the woods. Suffice to say running up steep climbs on damp, yielding soil is akin to charging up steep pebbled beaches. Wheelspin was an issue but my legs handled it all pretty well. My lungs, on the other hand, are still a work in progress. On the few occasions I felt compelled to walk – one particularly unkind incline saw all but the hardiest trudging, heads down, arms pumping like sleep-walking Nordic Trackers - lack of oxygen was the cause.
The route took us through deliciously cool woodland, occasionally spitting us out into open fields. Just across Halfpenny Lane we reached a beautiful church where a bemused collie peeped over the stone wall, tongue lolling, to watch the procession of human madness pound past. Next up we crested the lip of an impressive escarpment overlooking the Surrey valley towards Albury. It felt like the edge of the world as I reached for my phone camera. Alas we turned sharp left into another long, sandy drop into the forest before I could capture the scene. I did manage to (inadvertently) snatch a second or two of video. I’ll try to post it (somewhere).
One area of the race where I felt I held an advantage was on the perilous drops. Most racers took a circumspect view, careful to avoid slippery tree roots and treacherous shifting soil. Not I. I bounded down the winding descents, a demented Sasquatch hurtling past no end of fitter, saner runners, whooping silently as my legs tried to keep up with gravity-fuelled momentum. The final drop to the finish, a two hundred metre plummet out of the woods into an open area adorned with an inflatable blue arch, gained me around ten places. Thank you Moylman: you taught me how to do that.
I stopped my watch at 54:23. I’m very happy with that. My only goal was to break the hour and even that hadn’t occurred to me until the 8 kilometre marker when I thought I’d be close to it. I heartily recommend this friendly race with its convivial hosts, worthy cause (Surrey Wildlife Trust) and stunning views.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Feeling good after the Hard As Snails I texted Gillybean to see where the Babes were running on Sunday. I'd not run Waterhall to Truleigh Hill before so I signed up.
Come Sunday morning my sore legs were attempting to contact Social Services. Happily my lungs had recovered enough to allow me to shuffle along, so I joined Gillybean, MSilv and Judith for a small yet perfectly formed group at the foot of Mill Hill. Cold, blustery conditions helped keep me awake, as did the immediate vertical trail onto the downs.
This sign at around 15 kms echoed my sentiments
We encountered a number of disgruntled bovines along the way, moody cows intent on hogging the pathways closest to the access gates along the South Downs Way. We spoke to them in soothing tones, seeking to reassure them that we meant no harm. They moaned and bellowed their displeasure, pawing at the flint-strewn ground and tossing their huge heads, eyes wide, clearly suffering after a Saturday night clover binge. We gave them a respectfully wide berth and paid no mind to their rudeness.
At the turning point on the summit of Truleigh Hill we encountered what appeared to be a macabre boundary marker; a wizened doll's head stuck on a pole. Most odd and entirely incongruous on this well-trod track where fellows both mounted and a-foot are usually well-met with hailed greetings, ready 'Shearers' and warm, generous smiles.
As my lungs settled back into my chest cavity I started to enjoy the views across Sussex. I never tire of this place, these rolling hills latticed with chalk and flint trails with stunning views across Brighton, Shoreham and Worthing. Happily my legs, whilst feeling a definite burn on the climbs, held up pretty well, enough so that I managed to belt home off Devil's Dyke, hammering along the gently dropping shale track at around 4 mins 30 kilometre pace. It's great to feel fitness returning, a relief to feel the energy and power seeping back into my recently-lapsed quads and hamstrings.
We finished off with a blast through some cool woodland zig-zags, darting this way and that along the slippery mud until we emerged, grinning and breathless, on the shoulder of the road into Waterhall. Run stats: 17.75 kilometers in 1:52:53.
Spin tonight to complete five consecutive days of exercise (spin, golf, 10k race, Sunday run, spin).
I'll include a good stretching session to ward off any impending niggles.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well what can I say? Two excellent runs there @Sweder: I'm inspired, envious and a little frightened all in one. Frightened because I know where trying to follow you takes one... generally into them thar hills, with only a distant view of you way, way ahead in the (very much higher) distance.
My last Sunday run for a couple of weeks as work takes me to the Southern Hemisphere. There'll be lots of work and very little running, though I plan to create a couple of spinning playlists. Hopefully there will be a static bike at the hotel, but failing that I'll buy an ancient peddler and put it up on a stand.
I picked an old favourite for today's outing: Old Snakey, with a twist.
The mists of Mordor descended on the East Brighton downs as we gathered above the marina. Adi, Gillybean, MSilv, Moylebird and me; Five Go Mad in Mordor (The Comic Strip Presents). Gill and I had thought of a Snake run at about the same time on Saturday morning. When I sent an SMS suggesting this she called me back, shrieking about synchronicity and all that. Must be about time then.
A strong breeze shoved us off into the east along the cliff-tops, mizzle taking turns with proper rain to ensure a succession of jacket removals, stowages and retrievals in the first few miles. At Saltean we turned north and inland, chugging up Telscombe Tye where we paused to drink and discuss our route. Gill had said something about a North Face/ Yellow Brick Road assault. She was keen to bag fifteen miles, and though this would mean a serious increase in mileage for me I felt inclined to agree. It's been a very long time since I trod those brutal paths. What better way to measure my fitness?
Adi bade us farewell at the next turn, his heart and legs set on a straight Snake, around twelve and a half miles. We four remaining scampered across the fields towards our doom as the hill mist closed in. Once in the centre of the field we could no longer see the perimeter or the route, so we took it easy until a gate loomed out of the fog. The North Face, a sheer escarpment leading up onto the top of the downs, lay before us, it's white chalk track a silent scar on the lush green turf. I gritted my teeth and set a tight, short stride, jogging up the steep, slippery 'steps' until the lactic acid burned deep in my thighs. I finished the climb walking briskly as Msilv bounded past. We slurped some water and caught our breath before turning west once more, behind the lone, impressive house set high on its' outlook, on, on towards the next challenge.
One of the 'delights' of the YBR is that it always seems longer than you remember. Today, with a keen wind out of the west, that held true. Having ascended through two deserted cattle fields (how nice to run through gates not flooded with freshly-churned slurry) we hit the eponymous yellow-tinted concrete. A few groans escaped but I felt positive about the challenge, setting my elbows at a jaunty angle & striking up a metronomic cadence to take me all the way to the top. Cam jogged beside me, our heavy breathing synchronised along with our foot-falls, eyes set on the road rising to meet the cloud where it kissed the hilltop.
I was thinking of Cam's brother Chris, of how he would take just this posture and grind out the hard yards, jaw set against the breeze, swearing oaths and muttering ‘suck it up’ as I laboured alongside, his sturdy stride eating the route as if he could run forever. Moments later Cam turned her head and said in an eerie voice 'Ooh - I really felt Chris was with us then.' I shivered. Of course the whole route is packed with memories of Moyleman but for both of us to have such a strong feeling of him right there and then was pretty spooky.
At the top I gazed wistfully down at Kingston Village and the road home. 'Only three miles to my place from here' I muttered, re-tying my sodden windcheater around my equally soaked waist. We crossed the top of the Big W, hailing some cyclists struggling on the flint/ brick path, turning sharp left between the two 'V's' across the cattle grid to drop down into Death Valley. Minutes later we'd passed the derelict farm buildings (guarded by a group of bemused sheep) on our way to a very familiar junction.
'Hello Serpent my old friend' I mumbled as we hit the green-tinged mud-track.
The path was heavily overgrown, great banks of nettles leering in from either side, reaching to smite our cold, bare flesh. The deciduous canopy, heavy with summer finery, bowed down to scrape our heads as we shuffled through the foothills. In a few short weeks all this will start to die back, revealing the network of badger digs along the old girl’s scaly hide. This first part of the Snake (a two mile meandering pathway cut into the side of a series of hills so that you never see the end until you get there) always takes more out of you than it should. The climb is subtle yet steady and by the time you reach the next gate you're more than ready for a breather. We took ours and set sail again, shoo-ing laconic sheep off the increasingly steep, exposed track as we ran. Gill and I pulled away, galloping up the slippery slopes, aiming for each false turn as if it were the last, knowing full well there’d be another waiting just around the corner. At last, as the mud and grass gave way to flint and rock, we hit the final straight. I let my legs loose and belted to the top gate, pleased to see my pace drop below five minutes per kilometre for the last few hundred metres.
With the hard yards behind us we relaxed over the gentle homeward miles, crossing the race track (still shrouded in low-flying cloud) to hit the soft wood-chip trails of East Brighton Park. Gillybean upped her pace and I stuck with her, forcing my tired, tightening legs to increase stride and embrace the downward slopes. We ran the last two kilometres at 10K race pace, sucking wind like free divers reaching the surface, arms pumping and, in Gill’s case at least, hair flying. The great Sam Labourne always growls on about running hard on tired legs to get the most out of a run. I gave it everything in that last ten minutes and my legs let me know in no uncertain terms that they were indeed quite shattered.
The 3 main 'humps' show Saltean to Telscombe Tye/ North Face &Yellow Brick Road/ the Snake
A grand effort. 24 kilometers and change in 2:34. Not exactly electric pace but given the conditions, the terrain and our slowly improving fitness this bodes well. Now to try and keep it up in Brazil, or at least to safeguard the improvements made so far this month.
Below LtoR:
Telscombe in the mist; North Face; Top of the W; YBR; YBR (clouds); Death Valley; Gillybean on Snake proper
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Some good hard running recently, Sweder, well done. Where's it all leading? Race-wise, I'm presuming there's nothing much on the horizon before Almeria at the end of January? Has "Born To Run" extinguished the need to race? Or is there a plan for a crafty spring ultra?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I've been pretty open about my desire to return to the hills of Connemara next April. My target there will be (fitness/ injuries permitting) to finish the Ultra in under seven hours. My current excursions are nothing more than whimsical outings with friends to see how far I can run comfortably without gels/ serious food intake. Last Sunday was a little too much too soon if I'm honest. A hilly half is within my compass but little else.
Work permitting I'd love to enter the Jog Shop Jog this year. It's not just about being in the country on the day; immediate demands see me traveling to Brazil twice (this week for 14 days, another 7 in October). I'm liable to drift into bad habits when away on long projects. Whilst I'd like to think I'll maintain some kind of fitness experience suggests I'll fall into disrepair (sigh).
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Ah yes, Connemara. Sorry, that had slipped my mind.
I've nothing on my calendar apart from Almeria at present. It's my sole target while I see what happens with the calf. Even the Brighton 10K remains unentered for now. Will have to make a call about Connemara a bit nearer the time.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
(24-08-2010, 04:14 PM)El Gordo Wrote: Ah yes, Connemara. Sorry, that had slipped my mind.
Eh? You have been busy
Of course, Almeria is very much on my radar too. I'm hoping to tag on a few days (usual flight issues permitting) for an Ultra training camp in Cabo de Gata. The race will be a training run (no, really, it will this time) possibly to pace someone to a sub 2 hour half, possibly not. I'm not planning on hanging onto Ladyrunner's skirt-tails again next next year - damn near killed me last time.
The training camp thing occured to me this time around when I was staggering around the coastal trails after Simon. Oh, and if that plan does bear fruit I'll be drinking a fair bit less post-race. Ahem.
(24-08-2010, 04:14 PM)El Gordo Wrote: Will have to make a call about Connemara a bit nearer the time.
Well running or not I'm not going without you. You can bloody well cycle along with a loud hailer and bark at me for seven hours until I break down weeping or finish the damn race.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(24-08-2010, 02:23 PM)Sweder Wrote: immediate demands see me traveling to Brazil twice (this week for 14 days, another 7 in October). I'm liable to drift into bad habits when away on long projects. Whilst I'd like to think I'll maintain some kind of fitness experience suggests I'll fall into disrepair (sigh).
Don't forget to send us a travelogue or two while you're over there ....I'm sure you'll find somewhere interesting to run
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