May 2014

[Sweder]

Whoops! It's May already.
Best re-post that last bit here.

Tribbles

An extended plod this morning, nudging the thick end of fifty minutes.
Like heavy revellers that descended on the town overnight, the clouds seemed reluctant to leave. I set off through a light veil of cool droplets, feet (knees, hips, saggy bottom, wobbly belly and hunched shoulders) alll very much in the clouds.

I took the Moyleman track up past the stables, turning right at the top of the flint path to head home via the forest. This proved a treacherous trail, slick mizzle over firm mud and part-submerged stone. Small round balls of moss lay like Tribbles on the path. Normally seen clinging to trees, I wondered if they'd come down to frolick in the early light only to be disturbed by my heavy lumbering.

   

Further on a purple-pink edition of the bluebell - there will be, no doubt, a proper name for this delicate lady of the forest - shone, beautiful in the half-light. I could hear the patter of tiny droplets smacking into leaf, repeated a hundred times a second as the forest shared the rain.

A nice, gentle outing to wave adieu to April and say hello to May. Next stop: Geneva.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

So are you over the asthma, Sweder? I don't imagine that frollicking among Tribbles is the best thing for you if not.

[Sweder]

*Sigh*
So far it's Geneva late nights five, Sweder early runs in the countryside nil.

I shall obfuscate my sloth by paying tribute to the Greatest Living Welshman, a man who, I am not shamed to say, has raised my pulse like few others can. A man who, when she first saw him in live action, caused Mrs S to stand up (along with 50,000 others) and remark 'Oh, he's good!'. A boy who, when a recently-arrived Alex Ferguson walked club legend Sir Bobby Charlton across the training ground to point out a new talent, caused Charlton, still a pitch width away, to say 'I can see him from here'.

He's been tearing opponents apart since 1991, scored the best individual goal I have ever seen* and still plays the game like a starving man falling on a free banquet. Last night Ryan Giggs, aged 66 and 1/2, took to the Old Trafford turf, most likely for the last time as a professional for his one and only club. He hasn't formally hung up his boots, but with a new gaffer likely on the way he afforded himself an untypically indulgent cameo for the last few minutes. He twisted the blood of Alex Bruce, son of former team-mate Steve (in the opposition duggout last night) before setting up the third goal. Sublime.

So long, Ryan, and thanks for all those magical moments.
It's been a wonderful run from Giggs.

   

*context: FA Cup semi final v fierce rivals, Arsenal; extra time, United down to ten men and hanging on for grim death; a goal that ultimately lead to a Premier League, FA Cup and Champions League treble. Don't see too many of those in a lifetime.

[Sweder]

After last night's classically comical last-minute dash straight from the Palexpo loading dock to the Easyjet check-in I fancied an easy plod. Thick, low mist shrouded the hills when I set off just after nine am. Invisible rain lanced out of the fog to sting my face. My feet air-kissed the soft turf, slipping and sliding, desperate for purchase as the wind tried to heave me off them.

I set off across Landport Bottom, scene of the recent Battle Of Lewes 750th Anniversary celebrations, no clear route in mind. I ended up running past the stables and into the woodland. Here the slick mud trails offered a lethal slalom around, under, over and through dense foliage and felled tree limbs. Emerging on the lower slopes of Mount Harry (aka Wicker Man Hill) I skirted the climb, heading home along the flint trail by the western gallops. The mist lifted as the rain stopped, sunshine flooding the fields and hills. I felt pretty good, if more than a tad heavy.

With no travel plans until early July I'm looking forward to an extended sequence of these back-to-basics runs. With CharlieCat5 finding his running mojo and Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man burning up the Sydney streets there's no lack of inspiration around here.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Yay, excellent to see you back on the Downs, Sweder. I trust you enjoyed yourself out there - it might be your last blast of winter for a while, yes?

[Sweder]

Blue skies and strong sunshine coaxed me out for a pre-breakfast shimmy. So it came as quite a shock when a spiteful, icy wind cut me in half at the first turn onto the downs. Despite thirty five minutes' honest toil up hill and down dale my hands never got warm. A few rusty creaks and groans aside I felt good, settling into my lazy stride to chug along at a modest pace.

Yesterday, almost a year to the day since she passed away, we gathered the clan to bid farewell to Mum's ashes. She'd asked for her remains to be scattered over the south face of Box Hill, a spot with a view across the fields and forests stretching off towards the coast. Clouds scudded across the valley as we stood in quiet reflection before I read the Ishi funeral prayer. The words sum up Mum's feelings about leaving your family and how those left behind should deal with their loss.

When I am dead
Cry for me a little
Think of me sometimes
But not too much.
Think of me now and again
As I was in life
At some moments it's pleasant to recall
But not for long.
Leave me in peace
And I shall leave you in peace
And while you live
Let your thoughts be with the living.

[Seafront Plodder]

Perfect.

Not seen that before.

[Sweder]

A bit of a curate's egg of a run this morning. Another stunning start, sun lamp full on, the whisper of a cloud-kiss smudging an otherwise clear blue sky. Cool breeze, fresh damp under foot, birds cavorting. All the ingredients for a fab dash through the hills.

Yet this was a stop-start affair, a run that ever really got going until it was pretty much over. Van Morrison told us there would be days like this. There's no point griping, just suck it up and look forward to the next one. I'd gone to bed early with plans for a full Black Cap circuit. When the alarm sounded I hit snooze twice, a clear indication that my body had not prepped well. I ended up doing a run/ walk of my new short circuit, gallops, all-weather track, across to the copse, drop down the flint track to farmland and back up through the trees to meet the Moyleman start.

I managed to find a few redeeming features, including, on the 750th anniversary of the Battle of Lewes, the birth of parliament, stumbling upon a cabal of rabbits and rooks muttering darkly behind the hedgerows at the top of the long climb. The hounds put paid to their plotting, scattering all and sundry with their clumsy charge.

As sometimes happens with these disjointed affairs I felt ready to run just as we reached the last turn for home. I gazed wistfully up the Moyleman trail. Another time, perhaps.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Yes there must be something in the forum's air today. Never mind, we live to run another day.

Maybe this blast from the past might inspire you:

[Sweder]

Running has taken a back seat this week as I mend my broken legs.
I turned up at the Pan Siro on Wednesday lunchtime, ostensibly to offer moral support to Sean McLeod and the club for their staging of the inaugural Mental Well-Being Tournament, an extension of the club's Football Therapy sessions. Clubs from all over the country took part, including teams from Wales, Brighton &Hove Albion, QPR and Blackburn Rovers.

On arrival I was greeted with the news that one of the teams had had to withdraw, and did I still have my boots? Thirty minutes later, decked out in running shoes and a Lewes FC away strip, I was lining up for the hurridly-cobbled-together Desperados against a QPR team apparently full of NFL Line-backers.

Six hours later I was still playing, having lost narrowly to the Rs, been buried by Blackburn but notching a notable 4-0 win against the Welsh. I was in goal by this time, both knees having seized up after some robust, if ultimately futile, defending. After the last match ended, not to be parted from my Lewes FC 'keeper's jersey, I stood in for a kids' penalty shoot-out. Unfortunately the kids were joined by beer-fuelled adults intent on smashing the ball - and me - through the back of the net. That's when I ripped the ligaments in my wrist. Happily there were pints of Harveys on hand to help with that, so I carried on until my battered body begged for mercy.

What fun, and what a brilliant tournament. More about it here.
Hopefully I'll stagger out for a run this evening, or perhaps early tomorrow.
I'll need to. My legs are like petrified oak.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

My God Sweder, I hope that's not half as bad as you made it sound! It's exactly that kind of impromptu sporting activity that fuels the wealth of physiotherapists and orthopaedic surgeons everywhere.

Do be careful OM!

[El Gordo]

Six hours later I was still playing, having lost narrowly to the Rs.....

"Yes! Get in, you soooper-Hoooooppsss-ah! U-RRRRRRRRRsssssssssss............"

Er, well done.

[Sweder]

I ended up putting my back-uin-the-saddle run back until this morning. Plans to run on Sunday went south for two reason. First, I woke up at 09.20, by which time there was plenty of heat in the day and the dogs wanted nothing more than to potter about and lie in the shade. No problem. A nice evening jaunt in that cool, still air that fills in the gaps after a warm day is just what the doctor ordered. But I didn't reckon on football sticking it's oar in one more time.

This morning I took off with the hounds, a thirty minute ramble to assess the aches and pains. Running has taught me the art of physical self-assessment. My inner thighs, never usually an area of concern, show signs of strain. My right knee is still swollen, as is my wrist, but if anything running helped. No part of me enjoyed the juddery drop down the flint track and I stopped twice on the climb through the woodland. A pre-breakfast half-hour well-spent, time to reflect on yesterday at the Pan.

Jacqui Agnew, manager of Lewes Ladies FC for twelve astonishing seasons, has stepped down. Or, rather, stepped up, to become director of women's football at Lewes FC. Her last match in the dugout took place yesterday. A FAWPL match against title-chasing Cardiff City, no less. First, a small but enthusiastic crew had to clear the pitch of medieval tents and the remnants of a weekend of battle re-enactments. It's no laughing matter when your centre-forward goes down in the area with a section of pike-staff sticking out of her knee.

Lewes, riding a rip curl of emotion, swept Cardiff aside. I felt sorry for them, really. They'd come to 'little' Lewes dreaming of a big win to help their goal difference and left with their title dreams in ruins. Charlotte Bennett, one of the longest-serving Rookettes, scored the second with a peach of a lob before sprinting 40 yards to embrace her manager. It was the perfect moment for the occasion, one that broke Cardiff hearts and melted ours.

Jacqui gave her usual post-match summary to the gathered players before thanking them for all their efforts over the season. If she thought it would end there she hadn't reckoned on an impromptu Lucozade shower followed by champagne conditioner and a round of the bumps. She left the pitch under a guard of honour, applause ringing in her ears, smile a mile wide. She left as she arrived twelve years ago: a born winner.

My goodness, those are rather big boots to fill.

   
Photo by James Boyes (@Gingeraction)

[Sweder]

Another average run to report. Gloomy skies heavy with impending rain, a stiff breeze, rain-soaked turf ... perfect conditions for a mid-morning jaunt. I switched on my ears to build my own soundtrack. Here's what I picked up.

- The rustling of hedgerows ravaged by the wind racing up out of the town to cavort, free at last, across the hills
- protesting sheep, jeering and bleating like back-benchers at PMQs
- the clatter of just-disturbed wood pigeons taking off from dense woodland. Take a brown paper bag, scrunch it up, pull it out flat. Repeat at high speed: that's the sound
- rain: gentle at first, the lightest pitter-patter on my wind-cheater, getting heavier by the minute
- the rising collumph- collumph- of Ripley and Murphy galloping up behind and then past me, tails twirling
- entering the woodland, beating rain magnified off a thousand bowing leaves
- that rain-sound lightened a hundred times as we emerge onto open grass-land under brightening skies
- the swish! Swish! of tall, wet grass as I stride through it
- rope tightening: the sound of my gluteus maximus contracting as I hit the wet-marble slickness of the rugged, flint-strewn bridleway
- the crackle of damaged alveoli as I reach the 'safety' of flat, wet mud, and exhale ...
- the swell of soaring Skylarks, tweeting as one as they ascend through the low, scudding cloud

And more. So much more. Just think what I'd have missed with headphones rammed in my lug-holes. So much aural pleasure, such rich reward for a simple, modest plod.

[Charliecat5]

I postponed this mornings run to this afternoon... in the hope that this mornings rain would have abated. This has given me the day to sort out my nutritional intake ready for a 16:00 start - you have to take these things seriously. But having just loaded with carbs (aka a very large slice of chocolate cake (or two)) and with the rain pelting down outside, it is going to be very difficult to get my lardy arse off the sofa this afternoon. Are there any good films on?

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

FFS Sweder, Lemmie's on the phone asking me if you've suddenly taken up poetry after a hit on the head or just got a fairy wand stuck up your arse.

I told him to send more Harveys. He said he was already on to it.

[Sweder]

FFS Sweder, Lemmie's on the phone asking me if you've suddenly taken up poetry after a hit on the head or just got a fairy wand stuck up your arse.

Never mind, love. Here, let's try something:

   

[Sweder]

A pre-breakfast battle with CharlieCat5 across the first section of the Moyleman in gentle but persistant rain. To save me writing this up some players have thoughtfully reconstructed this morning's events. The part of Sweder is played by Bruce Wayne.



+11 unforgivingly hilly, saturated miles. Shattered.

PS: my soft knee brace performed admirably. My post-football injury is still painful (and will need further exploration) but for now, running with the equivalent of a large white sock on my knee seems to be working wonders.

[Sweder]

Thought I'd give MLCMMan's early start a bit of a bash today. I needed to catch the 06:06 into London Bridge for a work thing and fancied firing up the grey matter with a pre-dawn plod. The dogs seemed unpurturbed, defining anticipation as they watched my attempt to tie running laces through half-closed eyes.

The human brain runs riot at this hour. 04:30. What was I thinking? Well, quite.
Once started the run took care of itself. My pace was modest at best, tread wary in the half-light. The overnight rain had stopped for a fag, tell-tale smoke wafting over the Cliffe-cap across the valley. Birds chirrupped and flirted between the hedgerows as a stiff Nor'westerley kept me hunched into the early climb.

As I reached the top of the steep drop, what Charliecat calls Sweder's hill, I thought about my new running companion. Specifically I though how unusual it was for a biker to cross over to the Dark Side. It's a bit like football. A number of players have moved from Old Trafford to Anfield over the years, far fewer in reverse. Micheal Owen did, of course, but that was via Newcastle, as circuitous a route as you'd wish to find. Ah, Liverpool. So close, and yet so far. Gerrard's slip 'twixt lip and cup, the Instabul-esque second-half resurgence of Pulis's Palace. Many United fans rejoiced in City's triumph this season, but I could not. It was rather like hearing that Piers Morgan had crashed into Nigel Farage but that Morgan was not only unscathed, his insurers had already deliverd a shiny new Bentley.

As I loped cautiously down the slick mud and flint trail I imagined it would be a good deal tougher cycling up this than running it. It dawned on me that whilst running these hills may be new to the fellow, the nature of them, the brutality, the relentless grind of besting these slopes, was not. Even so, the lad is showing signs of becoming a hillside loper of note. He's already leaving me for dead on hills I once called my own.

By now I'd tiptoed down the steepest section and reached the bepuddled track across thickening farmer's fields (the fields were thick with ripening flora. I'm not suggesting ... well, you know). Before me lay the reason for today's trial, the slippery slope I must climb without stopping. Charliecat's prowess on the climbs has sharpened my competitive edge. If we are to run together more often, as I would like, I need to at least get up to speed else suffer the ignominy of having the man wait at the summit of each mini-mountain. That just won't do.

Within a minute I knew I'd be fine. The sloppy metronome of my size twelves splashing in waterlogged filth assured me so. And so it was, a steady, easy climb to the Houndean Rise path. So pleased was I with this effort I celebrated with a few hundred yards of Moyleman ascent. The tunnelled trail offered two choices today. Wobble along the smooth yet narrow ledge, ducking rain-laden brambles and the occasional stiff branch, or splosh through rivulets of liquid mud in the gully. I tried the former, pretending that the ditch was in fact a lethal gorge. Several times my landing foot skated out over the 'precipice', sending a jolt of lightening down my spine. I gave in, plunging my already soaked feet into the filth, grinning as I splattered my way to the homeward cut-off and a steaming mug of chai.

The knee support played well this morning. There's little doubt I should be under an MRI scanner rather than jolting and twisting it on slippery slopes. I'm a bear of very little brain. My right achillies gave me some gyp on the steep drop, most likely a reaction to whatever odd manoeuvres my knee was making to stave off further injury. As I thought about this that ditty about the knee-bone being connected to the thigh-bone played in my head. Best get this looked at before I lose the leg.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Yep. I'd say getting that leg looked at is a damn good idea.