Ladies with an attitude
Fellows that were in the mood
Don't just stand there, let's get to it
Strike a pose, there's nothing to it
Rogue
With apologies to Madge.
Seaford Half Marathon 2012
It's all my fault.
There are no mitigating circumstances, no excuses.
The website clearly states 'The Race Is Full. There Are No Entries On The Day'.
If that wasn't clear the reply to my grovelling e-mail, churlishly pointing out that NPS Seaford Lions have 'enjoyed' unfettered access to my race reports AND use of my elevation and route maps for the past few years, certainly was. 'sorry no more room'.
I mocked their refusal to bow to grammatical mores, uttering something unpleasant as I switched off my PC at close to two a.m. So be it. I shall, for the first time ever, run unfettered by number or electronic tag (they don't have them anyway). I am ROGUE, hear me roar. Or something. I was more than a little overtired and suffering from extreme sensory overload, having supplemented an evening of opera with a late night viewing of cult Sci-Fi classic
Event Horizon.
Mrs Sweder and I had been chauffeured to Glyndebourne, the magnificent mecca for all things opera in southern England, to attend the dress rehearsal of a new and exciting edition of Puccini's La Boheme. My only previous experience at this venue ended abruptly when, in the interval for Tristan and Isolde, a filthy dirge hewn from ugly Germanic rock, albeit placed lovingly on a spectacularly flower-decked stage, I realised the six old fuckers doddering about for the first two hours were not actually going to much more for the next two. I fled, vowing never to return.
La Boheme was wonderful. Sad, certainly, but infused with tremendous passion. Not only did we not pay for our seats, we were stationed barely ten feet from the stage, in the 'sides'. I was in pole, up close and uncomfortably personal with the performers, who chose our side of the stage to sing their soul-wrenching farewells to one another. I could clearly see poor, shattered Rodolfo weeping real tears as he sang to his doomed (and extremely attractive) Mimi. I could hear his heart breaking.
At half time we picnic'd on the elegant lawns with Kirill Karabits, the Ukrainian conductor, his charming lady wife and their angelic young son. A fellow guest wondered if we should be getting back for Act III. Kirill laughed, smiling softly. 'They won't start without me. I drive the bus.'
Our victuals included a couple of bottles of Prosecco and a selection of pies, including a stilton and pear creation from the Sussex Pie Company. To. Die. For. There would have been more pies but, ahem, Ripley and/ or Murphy 'helped us out' with them before we could pack our coolbox. Needless to say, yours truly was in the dog house over that.
***
This morning I peeped out of the window. Mizzle. Ubiquitous wetness swirling around the garden, dousing everything. Ah well, time to get wet. I took Mippet and Muppet out for an early stroll, removing a chomped pie foil from their beds. No need to leave that, rubbing salt and all that.
Breakfast was peanut butter and honey on toast, a belated banana (wolfed down as I drove to Seaford) and a cup or two of strong coffee. I prepped a water bottle and jammed a few miniature chocolate and nut energy bars (the kind loaded with sugar but individually wrapped, essential in these conditions) into my windcheater. Running rogue, to me at least, meant not partaking of the refreshments laid on for official runners at the water stations.
I met Tom Roper at the start. He had, of course, entered way before the deadline and therefore sported a number. I watch the runners line up, took some photos and, as the enthusiastic (rather camp) starter got things going, set off alongside the peleton, keeping to the road side of the dividing stone wall.
The first few miles wriggle up onto the downs through Bishopstone, upward, ever upward. I welcomed the drizzle, treating it like a cooling shower as I broiled gently in my Goretex jacket. For anyone who’d like a more detailed description of the course,
click here to access a previous report. I chugged along, reminding my ankles to let my feet find their way. Despite overnight rain the uneven ground remained rock hard under a fresh, slippery coat. Forcing footfall in such conditions can lead to injury or even a fall; a light, micro-adjustable tread is the way forward. My clumsy, clomping chug would have to do. With four miles behind and below us I was blowing hard, relieved to start the descent along the South Downs Way into Alfriston.
On the other side of town we hit the riverside trail. This is always challenging, all the more so this year as the weeds and nettles were as high as an elephant’s eye. The nettles stung, tiny flying insects nipped and my resolve began to wilt. I was way too hot in my jacket and, more importantly, all out of training mileage. I’ve taken ‘less is more’ to the edge of the tattered, soggy envelope. My muscle memory has amnesia, my stamina a case of the want-away blues. As a family of swans slid serenely by, feigning indifference to our grunting, puffing procession, I vowed to start training properly for these damned events. And now I've written it here, so I can return to review these best intentions the next time I line up horribly under cooked.
The river wound and danced for mile after hard-slogged mile through a rural idyll. Church spires and peeked out from thick foliage, keeping an eye on these strange interlopers. In the distance, to the east of Cuckmere Haven, the first of Seven Sisters rose, her head shrouded in a veil of mist. Ahead, the Golden Galleon sang its beery Siren song. I paused to tie an errant lace, only for the other to flap itself loose a minute later. I was grateful for the excuse to rest, my pace having dropped dramatically as my legs grew stiff and heavy.
I knew the last three miles were as tough as any on the course, but I hadn’t reckoned on the blast from the Norse Gods that hit us as we crested Seaford Head. My descent to sea level, usually a series of barely controlled high speed skips and jumps, was a slog. I leaned into the perilous drop, feeling like Ironman trying to force back a death blast from some unseen foe. The last half mile was brutal, straight into the teeth of the wind. I staggered across the line, stopping the watch at 2:09:00 precisely.
All at once six people rose from seats alongside the covered finish. Some proffered purple-ribboned medals, others bellowed ‘NUMBER! WHAT’S YOUR NUMBER??’
I held out a hand. ‘No number, no medal’ I wheezed, much to their wide-eyed surprise. I stumbled beyond the finish, veering off the pavement and onto the pebbles, heading for the ocean. A loud roar greeted me as I crested the piled stones. White horses raced in to hurl themselves ashore in a mighty crash. I really wanted to wade in, to treat my battered legs to nature’s icebath, but this seemed a bit daft. All the same I stepped forward, dropping my water belt and iPhone on the dry stones some way from the foaming surf. The water felt warm on my ankles. Smaller waves rushed in and I ventured further, head down, up to my aching calfs, then my knees, then my shredded thighs. The constant roar abated and I glanced up. Oh dear. A wave as tall as me reared up. Before I could move it broke, smashing down right in front of me. My already soaked jacked filled with rushing water as I was hurled backwards to land on my backside halfway up the pebble slope. Alrighty then, plan B.
Tom invited me back to Chez Roper where he prepared coffee as I showered. We retired to the Seaford Sailing Club with Tom’s delightful daughter (like my own, a talented dancer), where we feasted on jacket potatoes drowned in chilli, washed down (by me, at any rate) with a pint of Harveys, finished off with a generous slab of Pavolva. Grand.
![[Image: 556136_3777328425777_1455377456_n.jpg]](http://a2.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-prn1/556136_3777328425777_1455377456_n.jpg)
Mile 3, queue for the gate
