Gosh, the 4th already and I'm just getting into the month.
Two outings to report, the first a cracking run with Ladyrunner who, despite her catalogue of ailments still managed to leave me for dust in my own beloved hills. We took our dogs along, Amber, a rather fit and lively member of the Pointer family, attached to Jules via a waistband-lead assembly. This gave her the bonus of being dragged up the inclines as I laboured behind, the walls of my lungs sticking together like heavily pasted sheets of wallpaper as I struggled to keep up.
Another BlackCap today, somewhat slower but enjoyable for all that.
The weather is delightfully moribund, ideal for workmanlike sessions in the downs. Autumn dances with winter, although the latter's enterage is clearly missing its' most notable member, Cold. I'm reliably informed Cold is on her way. Good job too; Wet and Windy were a little out of sorts today.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Plans for a long run this morning went the way of all flesh thanks to an over-enthusiastic celebration of Bonfire night culminating in four hours of fitfull sleep. I did manage a robust assault on Blackcap whilst making a solemn pledge to run 13 hilly miles this week. At some point.
Another Tuesday Dogs' day with Ladyrunner and the lovely Amber. I really didn't have the legs or the lungs for it this morning. Who knows why this happens? The conditions were excellent; misty, drizzly downland, slippery flint, shining wet grass, a cool (but not cold) breeze and slate grey skies. Ideal running weather for us hill-dwellers. Within ten minutes I knew this would be a struggle. My legs felt heavy and tight, full of residual lactic acid. I thought about this and realised I'd drunk little to no water over the past few days, hence the debilitating waste constricting my muscles. 'Flush it out' is a great maxim, one I'd do well to heed over the next two weeks.
LadyAmber, that six-legged hill-beast, chomped up the muddy yards, heading into the fog as it thickened towards the tops of the hills. I laboured in her/ their wake, huffing and puffing like an old man, legs stiff, arms pumping in a futile effort to get things moving. My hounds bounded effortlessly around me, weaving back and forth across the leaf-strewn muddy trails, grinning wildly, tails wagging as they galloped here and there.
The return leg proved easier, some of the stiffness easing as we ran eastwards. I always like to take something positive from any outing no matter how poorly I perform. Today it was that I got out there, that it was a 'bad' run out of the way and that on our return the coffee was hot and tasty. Thanks to Julie for dragging me out. I have no doubt had I been alone I'd have cut the run short, not something I can afford to do this week.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I slipped out for a cheeky five miler over the rain-drenched hills before breakfast. After all the chirp over at Dan's place about the joys of barefoot running I strapped on my Vibram offroaders for some greasy Five Fingers action. I got more than I'd bargained for; the trails were trecherous, laced with mud and wet flint. The grass, whilst, yes, soft and yielding, was homicidally slick, the slightest camber offering an opportunity to slide into a hedgerow or slip arse over tit into one of the large and plentiful cow-pats.
I love the feel of barefoot running on days like this. Even an oxen like me can feel light and fast, running on quick, lively feet, mindful not to heel strike less I impale one of my plates on a hidden shard of chalky rock. The veil of cloud shrouding the downs became a veritable blanket on the summits. Large shapes loomed out of the Blackcap mist, cattle munching silently on juicy wet grass. Ripley ran amongst them seeking new playmates. In a re-enactment of a scene from last night's Frozen Planet she isolated a youngster. Unlike the voracious wolves of Antarctica she was not intent on calficide, just rather fancied a game of kiss-chase. This ended abruptly when the heffer parked up behind an enormous shaggy block which appeared to have rather large horns. Ripley took discretion to be the better part of valour and returned to me on the quick.
On the return home we came upon a gate where a couple of ladies had a number of boisterous black hounds in tow. My two backed off, wary adolescents sizing up newcomers. As I entered the gate Ripley (again. She needs that Mario Balotelli t-shirt) elected to rush through, clattering into my right calf in the process. She hit the muscle full on with some boney part of her body. I yelped, more in surprise than pain. On arrival home I strapped one of Phoebe's ice wraps onto the poorly limb, hoping to minimise the long-term affects of this unwarranted assault. I'll treat it with fire and ice all day and hope for the best.
Injury aside I love running with these two. Murphy is very much in the Gypsy mould; a follower, never straying too far from his master. Ripley seems to have invoked the spirit of Tess the Evil Whippet. She adores horses, chases anything with a pulse and grows conspicuously deaf should you try to call her back. I've come to admire and fear such canine elan over the years. Some of the rude and inglorious Tess tales recounted here are amongst my fondest and most cringeworthy memories.
Point 2 Pinnacle is a week this weekend.
That should fill me with fear and loathing, yet I'm strangely ambivalent about it. The race will be a huge challenge. Running thirteen miles up hill would test the finest amongst us, yet my only real worry is which shoes to wear on the day. I'm leaning towards my Connemara Mizuno roadsters. They'd done precious few miles since that race. There again I feel lighter and faster in my mud-pluggers. I'll take both pairs with me and no doubt, as usual, go with my instinct on the day.
Next up: Park Run (Saturday), a slow gentle plod on Sunday morning (around ten miles), one last blast with Ladyrunner then it's time to pack.
Track du jour: On The Road Again, Canned Heat
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(10-11-2011, 01:48 PM)Sweder Wrote: In a re-enactment of a scene from last night's Frozen Planet she isolated a youngster. Unlike the voracious wolves of Antarctica she was not intent on calficide, just rather fancied a game of kiss-chase.
There are no wolves in Antarctica mate. This Frozen Planet program sounds like a jip.
Ladyrunner popped round to drag me out for a gentle leg-loosener this morning. We took the pack with us, careful to avoid canine collisions as we ran into a real old-fashioned pea-souper. Visibility up on the downs was 30 feet at best, the muddy, flattened grass trail heading into apparent oblivion.
I had rather hoped to be feeling charged up, raring to go, holding myself back against an irrepresable surge of energy. Sadly the opposite was true. I ran on tired, weary legs, breathing laboured, panting like the oldest dog in the pack trying to keep up with the bounding pups. Ah well. In a shade over 24 hours I'll be strapping an unfeasibly large, heavy aircraft to my ample arse, kicking back for 24 hours on the long haul to Oz. I'm packing running books a-plenty, will saddle up my laptop loaded with RC race reports and there's always Virgin's reliable collection of fillums and television shows to keep me entertained.
On a recent flight I was lucky enough to catch up with the first series of Rev, Tom Hollander's gentle satire the life of an inner city vicar. The final episode, where Hollander's inebriated clergyman attempts (unsuccessfully) to get off with the (very) hot local headmistress at a Vicars and Tarts party - 'I do hope you'll be coming as a tart' - is worth watching even if you've never seen the series. Thirty minutes of comedy gold.
Generous thanks go to MLCMan for meticulous planning of our forthcoming trip. My life seems blessed by people prepared to make my journeys as pleasing and trouble-free as possible. El Gordo worked miracles on our Connemarathon quest, Antonio frequently goes above and beyond to make each Almerian adventure better than the last, and now this; a beautifully crafted itinerary that even takes into account our need to indulge in that old black Irish beverage. Brilliant.
A traveller's tales to follow.
All aboard!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sydney! Bags dropped at Chez MLCMan, brisk walk to stir the blood and - what's this? By Jove it looks a lot like a pub. Open in ten minutes you say? Hmm ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Having negotiated the best part of 24 hours in the air, broken only by an aimless meander around the duty free emporiums of Hong Kong’s International Departures area, we landed in Sydney to be greeted by a most disappointing veil of mizzling greyness. All those posters and TV ads promising untold riches in the land where the sun never fails to shine can kiss my saggy, jet-lagged arse.
In stark contrast Australian immigration and customs could not have been more welcoming, a refusal to search my luggage for contraband (my puny portion of Chia seeds would hardly have troubled the SMH news editor) meaning I had to shelve my apocryphal Ian Botham ‘Didn’t know it was still a requirement’ gag for another occasion. Two fairly straight forward train journeys later our small yet perfectly formed attack force landed on the bepuddled platform of Gordon. Emerging from the elevator we spied a bespectacled local, resplendent in Stranglers T-shirt, grinning from ear to ear and extending his hand. Old friends first met, a curious anomaly of this wonderful RC universe.
We spent the day fighting the urge to sleep, a brisk walk in the light, cool rain initially helping our cause until we alighted at the barely open Greengate Hotel. Here we met Messrs Toohey, Boag, Cooper and Squire. We moved swiftly onto luncheon at the charming aptly-named waterfront eatery The Boat House. The fish and chips, served tempura style, were delicious, as was the beer. On the forty minute drive back to Gordon SP and I studied the insides of our eyelids, followed by a further forty winks in our rooms. I rose as the dead, walking hands outstretched, staring down the barrel of fighting the inevitable for the next few hours. There was nothing for it; I needed a plod.
I strapped on my Garmin, shorts, Almeria (black) vest and set off into the surprisingly hilly ‘burbs. I wove a careful pattern through leafy lanes past a pageant of desirable properties, ubiquitous Jacarandas providing a purple canopy for my gentle plod. Turning into Forsyth Avenue I copped a mighty whiff of what appeared to be a swimming pool full of nasal decongestant but was actually some freshly-sawn eucalyptus. Somewhere nearby some unseen critter emitted a sweet, high-pitched warble, reminiscent of the chirruping collared dinosaur in Jurassic Park just before it spat blinding venom into the eyes of the duplicitous Fat Controller. I quickened my pace ever so slightly, stoically refusing to look around as I scurried on up the pavement. I marvelled at the similarities between suburban Sydney and the affluent leafy lanes of Surrey and Sussex, chuckling quietly to myself. We’re not so far apart, we peoples of different hemispheres. So much of this area smacks of home, but all in a good way. The traffic on the left, the familiar traffic lights and pedestrian crossings, Woolworths alive and well and trading in all manner of consumables, even (today at least) the grey skies and persistent drizzle. There’s little sign of Britain’s recent degeneration highlighted in Andy’s superb piece in the main blog. Long may that be the case.
After thirty minutes rumbling through Mr Midlife Crisis Man’s Undulating Neighbourhood I grabbed a shower and joined the others on the veranda. Here we sat late into the Antipodean night, sampling the delights of the famous MLCMan wine stocks (including a rather agreeable ACDC Highway to Hell Cab Sav) discussing Life, the Universe and Everything and munching on Kangaroo fillets smothered in homemade chocolate sauce. Ripper.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
