There have been a number of outings so far this year.
NYD Twittens wasn't too terrible, despite the NYE 7 Course Taster (with a different, delicious wine with each course) at Limetree Kitchen and a late, bubbles-fuelled night with Mr Jools Holland and local Blues Fusion sensation, Rag and Bone Man.
I also ventured into the world of off-road mountain biking. I picked the muddiest day in history, as evidenced by the state of my brand new bike - and me - after an hour of thrashing through thick porridge last Thursday.
Since then I've managed various plods in the local hills. I dodged Parkrun today, opting to volunteer. I wanted to see how these events operate 'from the inside', as OATR, CC5 and I are looking into launching a ParkRun in Lewes. I ended up spending three hours with the organisers, going through every step of the process including the data capture, merge and upload. My head's still spinning. My role on the day was Time Keeper, an alltogether far too responsible position for a man of my, ah, proclivities.
It's VERY early days. We'll need volunteers and at least 4 or 5 locals who will step into fairly committed roles. The course would be two laps of Landport Bottom, the sheep field behind my house. This was the scene of the Battle of Lewes (1264) when De Montfort's men rousted and chased the King's men down into the town ... I digress. There are all sorts of reasons why this won't come about, as there were with the Moyleman, initially. We recently topped 250 entrants for the 2017 Moyleman, and that's all I have to say about that.
It'll be hilly, off-road, adjacent to Bevendean ParkRun in terms of effort and degree of difficulty. I completed two (clockwise) circuits this week. The views are spectacular, the undulations unforgiving. There is, apparently, plenty of local appetite. We'll have to see if that extends to people stepping up to get involved. We'll also need to raise around 3.5 grand, get local authority permission, go through the whole ParkRun franchise process ...
There's a long way to go. But hey, you only live once, and this is a really, really good thing to do.
On, on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Took on an 18 kilometre hill run this morning. Ladyrunner called this one, a gathering of various Canine Runners (runners with dogs) plus CharlieCat5, Mary-Lou, Brian and Naomi (Moyleman veterans).
I was pretty nervous about the run. The planned route would take us over ten miles, easily the longest run for me since the (flat) Key West Half last January. Once I got to the car park and saw the class of the field, rather than feel at home I wished I'd stayed home. These guys are all in great shape.
We took off along the banks of the Ouse, heading south out of Lewes along the slippery mud-trail to Southease, the halfway point on the Moyleman. Here we turned West on the South Downs Way and into the eastern foothills of what becomes the Yellow Brick Road. I ran with Duncan, then Brian and Naomi, then Cam and Mary-Lou, gently slipping back through the pack. Mary-Lou is working on a piece about Chris and the origins origins of the Moyleman. We chatted about the place names on route, mostly born of the Jog Shop 20. The North Face, just south of our route today; the Field of Incontinent Cows, The YBR, The Big W. Sussex Folklore.
Once we hit the slopes of the YBR I'd settled into a mildly distressed flog. Halfway up my legs seemed to say 'hey, we know this. Relax, we'll get you to the top'. I actually sped up a bit, side-stepping CC5 as he stopped to despatch a wounded pigeon. It's been two years plus since I took this on and I grinned as the false summits came and went. It was going to be OK.
Having regrouped we took off across the top of the Big W, dropping down the third slope towards Kingston. Here the mud was like slick porridge. We slip-slid our way down, perilously close to going arse over tit at every step. I actually whooped. As we hit the outskirts of Lewes, people peeled off, the remaining peleton ending up back in the car park, mud spattered, grinning like fools, steam pluming off damp, colourful shirts and matted, panting hounds.
Cracking run, a couple of metres shy of 18 kms.
Hats off to Ladyrunner for putting this together. Almeria feels a step closer tonight.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Recovery plod around the 'Lewes ParkRun' circuit this morning.
Even by my standards, this was a slow one, yet I was thrilled to note that my legs moved without much protest.
I do love running. I just wish I would prioritise it over the thousand and one other things I seem to be doing at the moment.
I know, it's my choice. The Train of Life seems to be gathering speed instead of slowing down.
There's a lot to be said for the simple life.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(07-01-2017, 06:01 PM)Sweder Wrote: bubbles-fuelled night with Mr Jools Holland and local Blues Fusion sensation, Rag and Bone Man.
Ah yes, Rag 'n' Bone Man.
Some 4 years ago Claire and I went to a gig at that well know music metropolis, Framfield Village Hall. We were drawn there by the delightful Southern Nights, but the undercard was this enormous, beardy, tattooed bear of a man named Rory Graham. He lumbered up onto stage with his battered old guitar, sat down, started fumbling around with his mic and generally faffed around trying to get comfortable - no mean feat on a small wooden stool. Then he began to sing.
Claire and I exchanged glances, man he was amazing. It was a soulful blues number about losing your pa to whiskey or something, but that didn't matter. We were struck dumb by his voice; a sort of Joe Cocker rasp mixed with BB King charisma.
Illness - full blown ManFluTM - has taken a toll, as has some serious and unexpected work pressure.
January is usually a time for clearing out the warehouse, literally taking stock, and prepping for the new year. One of our best clients decided to launch a massive RFP offensive, culminating in me missing the first four days of our planned family holiday. That this coincided with a few days of vicious lurghie is of little comfort. My family send me daily missives from the Bahamas, leaving me certain I'd have recovered faster in warmer climes. C'est la Vie.
I strap myself to an unfeasibly large aircraft first thing, catching the others just as they peel themselves off the beach to hop across to Havana where we plan to stay in an actual house with yer actual Cubans, innit? No idea where Alf Garnet came from, sorry. An open-topped classic* American car tour and nightly salsa sessions are top of the bill. I don't see much room for running but, as ever, I've packed my runners, more in hope than expectation.
*old and buggered
Lard-wise, things have slipped a tad. Like MLCMMan, I've doggedly eschewed the loaf. Unlike my inverted friend, I have not stayed true, snacking on motorway service station sandwiches a little too often of late. I've noticed an instant affect on my waistband. Beer, as ever, remains part of my balanced diet. The 2Bs have conspired to cause inflation. I'll do well to shift any timber in the next ten days.
Good luck to all on the road to Almeria. I'l post evidence of anything like a run here as and when it happens.
On, on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Evidence of recent running, as promised.
A beach run in Nassau, a city tour of Havana and another beach run, on the softest sand, into a 30 mph headwind, just this morning. Nothing spectacular and not much over 5k a go, but all grist to the Almeria mill.
I've not much to say about the beach outings, other than the first reminded me of a fabulous flog along 7-mile beach with Suzie Q and MLCMMan back in 2013. That, and running in soft sand for any length of time can be a bit of a bugger. I'll head back to Pink Sand Beach this week for another go, this time in the Five Fingers.
Havana is another story. A glass or two of this Island's finest and a few hours under the stars tonight should see that taking shape.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It was the kids that put Castro's archipelago on our radar. Get to Cuba before it really opens up, they said. As it turns out, Cuba 'opened up' some while ago. At least, Old Havana did. It's now something of a theme park, so long as you stay on the well-beaten tourist track. Classic American cars, canny street performers, churro vendors, kiss-me-quick ladies hustling photo-ops, images of Fidel and Chez emblazened across a catalogue of cheesy merchandise.
Havana being our sole Cuban target this trip, we shoe-horned a three-day city break into the middle of a two-week Caribbean holiday. I was obliged to miss the first four days, thanks to a pressing business matter. I arrived in the region the night before we left for Havana, barely time to get some sand between my toes in a pre-dawn oceanside plod.
Beyond the tourist-centric facade, Havana did not disappoint. A patchwork of architecture and culture, buildings ranging from near collapse to fully renovated. Art Deco giants rub rounded shoulders with mildewed, lofty appartments, crumbling edifices leaning on shining modern fascias of glass and steel.
We opted to stay in a private house. Tales of over-priced, under-whelming hotels reached us just in time. We signed up with Cuba Direct for a three-room apartment in the Calle Habana, a narrow, dusty avenue set a stone's throw from the old fort and entrance to the labyrinth of Old Town. Our slightly precarious balcony overlooked a well-worn courtyard, housing a busy five-a-side football pitch. Ireana, our gracious hostess, greeted us warmly on arrival, offering advice and helpful dining suggestions.
Another rumour we'd picked up on was of bland food. This seemed odd. Cuba lies in the heart of the Caribbean, a hot-bed of spice and flavour. Perhaps this lack of pep is government-driven, as the best food in our experience was to be found away from the big, state-run restaurants, in the Paladares, small private bistros restricted (by law) to 50 seats or less, just as our hostess had advised.
Our first night saw us boarding a Purple 1950's Chevy Impala, headed for the Hotel Nacional, the iconic colonial building sat on the hill towards the western end of the Malecon, Havana's ocean-front highway. Black tie waiters, long tables and silver silvers are de rigueur. Glittering chandeliers flew overhead, slung from thick oak beams forty feet above us as we chowed down on Ropa Vieija, paradoxically a peasant dish of shredded beef served with rice and beans.
We dined in the Aguilar room, named after the first hero of Cuba, a man who successfully saw off the British invaders and built the Castillo de San Salvador de la Punta, the impressive sea fort guarding the entrance to the old Habana Port. This place had hosted any number of luminaries, as the illustrated menu showed. Winston Churchill, after whom the walk-in wine closet appeared to be named, Al Capone, over in the late 1920's/ early '30's, to oversee rum-running arrangements, plus a variety of stars of stage and screen.
The big disappointment for me was the plantain, or fried banana, a Caribbean speciality. This hadn't simply been baked, it had surely been buried in the depths of the hot, dry earth for weeks before being hung out in the midday sun. Without a hint of original flavour or an ounce of moisture, it was harder to swallow than a White House press statement. Something that did not fall short of our high expectations was the coffee. Cuban coffee is like crack cocaine. Chug a cup and you'll feel your heart start as if zapped with jumper cables.
Thursday morning arrived, as did Ireana, to lay out a delicious spread of watermelon, papaya, toast, scrambled eggs and sweet, fresh beef tomatoes, washed down with iced guava and more essential cafe Cubano. At 9am sharp Guillermo arrived. Handsome, tanned with short, salt n pepper hair, here was our guide for a pre-booked city tour. Moments later our tour bus appeared. A gorgeous black and white 1953 Chevrolet, all toothy chrome grill, white-walled tyres, bench seats and muscular haunches. Sadly I wouldn't get to drive this classic; Guillermo had someone to take care of that, a silent giant of a man, hunched over the wide, manually operated steering wheel, a well-chewed cigar-stump clenched in a permanent grin.
No sooner had we climbed aboard and set off along the Malecon, sirens wailed and we were pulled over. The driver rolled his eyes as Guillermo muttered 'time-wasters'. Goliath eased himself from the front bench, clutching a wad of crumpled papers. 'They always travel in twos' explained our guide. 'High school diplomas require 12 years of study. Police must travel in pairs because each has only six.'
In Paris they say 'one can read, the other can write'.
After a good five minutes of checking and chatting, we set off once more. Around the hotels and casinos, into the leafy lanes of Miramar, adourned with great houses, once occupied by gangsters and rich American businessmen.
'After the revolution they fled to the USA to wait for Castro to fall. Those still living are waiting still.'
Under Castro the houses fell into the hands of gardeners and house keepers, some of whom, and their families, live there now.
On to the Colombus Cemetary, home to a bewildering array of grandiose monuments honed from the finest Italian marble, proof that, whilst you can't take it with you, you can try to spend it on the way out. The tallest of the mausoleums is that dedicated to 20 Cuban firemen. On 17th May, 1890, these brave souls were lost at a fire at the Havana armoury when a basement full of explosives went up. To this day, no structure in the cemetary is permitted to stand taller. One former president, perhaps a relative of the incumbent POTUS, had the entrance to his own family tomb built to half-height, so that all who enter should bow good and low on the way in.
We took the highway out of town, heading east towards Cojima, the fishing village where Hemingway sat and, over any number of daiquiris, shot the breeze with sun-dried, deep-sea fishermen, whittling and polishing the stories that became the Old Man And The Sea. Tributes to the man, and his skipper, Raúl Corrales, abound; busts, portraits, a roped off table and seats in his chosen spot. We supped his signature Blue Daquiri before returning to Havana, where the tour was to continue on foot.
Friday morning brought clear skies, perfect for an early city run. I set off past the deserted football pitch for the Malecon, where keen fishermen and occasional sea-gazers peppered the seawall. Central Havana rose from the morning haze as I shuffled past the early cruisers; Dodge, Buick, Chevrolet, not simply well-kept classics but functional taxis, filling the air with thick black smoke.
I cut inland at the hotel Deuxville, the Avenida de Italia carrying me up and away from the ocean, into the crumbling heart of the city. I overtook a tricycle taxi, making eye contact with the weary peddler. I passed the Casa de la Musica, 50's-style American Concert Hall, where later that night we would line up with the locals to enjoy a night of hot Salsa music and wild dancing. Ahead sat the Capitolo Nacional, functional scale replica of Washington DC's Capitol building. The mighty dome sat pinned by scaffold poles, undergoing a monumental facelift.
The Capitolo sits on the edge of Central Parque, atop the Prado, Havana's Ramblas. Behind me sat the delapedated Central disctrict; ahead lay it's favoured kin, Old Habana, buildings shiny, restored, undergoing or awaiting restoration. I skirted the Capitol, ducking down San Marti onto Obrspia, into the heart of Old Town. Left onto Aguate, Avenida de la Misiones, Refugio and past the Museo de la Revolucion, a solitary tank standing out front in solemn salute.
A drop of the left shoulder and I hit Paseo de Marti and the Prado proper. Like La Rambla in Ameria, the Prado has a pedestranised centre, lined with manicured trees, wooden benches, populated by locals heading to work or class. School kids chirped and chattered, attended by noisy, darting birds dipping in and out of the trees. Sunlight filtered through the gently dancing branches, casting dappled shadows across the pavement.
I turned left/ uphill, back towards the Capitol, turning at the top to start the long run home. I was met there by a young local lad, tanned, lithe, kitted out in vest and shorts. As I appraoched his eyes widened over a broad smile. 'Hola! You are running; may I join you?' 'Of course. I'm almost finished though' Smiles and gestures confirmed our clumsy exchange.
We set off, side by side. His name was Andres, a local in training for the Havana half marathon, scheduled for Sunday, the day after we leave town. I winced, thought a good part of me was happy I'd missed this. I'm hardly race-ready. I asked him how his training was going. 'OK, I hope to run 1 hour 10 or there abouts. But I need some new shoes.' He glanced down at my well-worn Adidas Boosts. 'They look good'.
I was about to say how many miles they'd done, point out that my feet were at least three sizes larger, when I noticed he was wearing odd shoes. Not odd as in unusual, but two different brands. They were dusty, the souls thin and worn. I felt both moved to help and helpless. We'd exhausted our ability to converse in broken English/ butchered Spanish, so I simply smiled.
He grinned at me before upping his pace, forcing me to work hard to keep up. We reached the end of the Paseo, weaving through some public gardens before easing up into 'my' street. We shook hands and wished each other good luck in our races.
For all the mystery and magic of travel, nothing warms the heart like the people we meet.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Excellent trip report, my friend. I have a 'thing' for Cuba, but have not actually travelled there (yet).
A good friend of mine was there a few years back and brought back for me one of the 50th anniversary of la revolucion posters that were everywhere that year. It now sits proudly on my man cave wall. I also have a Cuban flag and a copy of the rare, and beautiful 'Album de la Revolucion Cubana 1952 - 1959' complete with all the collectors cards. It's a gem, and ironically given its socialist theme, the most valuable book in my library.
I've always wanted to visit, and nearly won a trip there back in my youth. As a young lefty/socialist I subscribed to the 'Granma' weekly revolutionary newspaper and listened to Radio Habana. I entered an essay-writing competition and was short-listed for the prize of a trip there. Regrettably I didn't win, circumstances changed, and sadly I've still yet to get there.
Last of my travel runs was a tough ten kilometre exploration of Harbour Island.
Sat atop the streaky bacon strip that is Eleuthera, one of 700 Bahamian islands, Harbour Island hosts a mish-mash of local fishermen and boutique hotels. It is also home to Pink Sands Beach, voted consistently in the top five beaches on the planet. I can vouch for the softness of the sand, the pinkish hue and the clarity of the ocean, which rolls in like molten glass.
I realised squeezing a 10k into this relatively small habitat could involved some duplication, so I went a bit off piste. So much so, I invaded a private enclave of impressively large homes at the southern end of the island. These are linked by a private highway, a golf buggy - vehicle of choice here - concrete path. There were also hidden trails, service paths, sandy avenues roughly cut through thick jungle. Being the adventurous type, I ducked into these, rewarded with a face-full of thick spider yarn and a series of spiteful smacks from looming palm leaves.
Undaunted, I ran further and further into the jungle, until I emerged, via a soft-sand trail, onto an exposed outcrop of long-cooled lava. The rocks clawed at my running shoes in much the way I imaged those on Crete shredded Paddy's boots in Natural Born Heroes. I walk-hopped along for a while, realising as I did so I should have turned back. The detour added fifteen minutes of extremely sluggish progress to my journey. I was actually relieved to get onto the soft sand of the beach, at least for a few minutes. One kilometre later I was yearning for the asphalt, legs straining with the extra effort of having to lift my feet up to 'run light'.
Back on the narrow roads I rounded the northern tip of the island, passing the fabulously-named Lighthouse Church of God and local store, Conch Town. Once 10k had elapsed I returned to the digs, hopped aboard our rented golf buggy to drive back to the beach. The ocean's cool waters did their thing, easing the burning in my legs and bringing my core temperature back to below that of the surface of the sun.
I reckon that's it for me before Almeria. I'll manage a couple of very gentle plods back home this week, but effectively I'm now tapering. As if there were anything to taper from!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(27-01-2017, 06:27 PM)Sweder Wrote: I reckon that's it for me before Almeria. I'll manage a couple of very gentle plods back home this week, but effectively I'm now tapering. As if there were anything to taper from!
(27-01-2017, 06:27 PM)Sweder Wrote: but effectively I'm now tapering. As if there were anything to taper from!
Apart from Sunday's run over the Downs?
I reckon that'll do more harm than good at this stage.
If I've learned anything in this running life, it's that you can't do much good a week before a race, but you can do a lot of harm.
I shall ferry my mass around the town with as much dignity as I can muster.
It won't be quick, or pretty.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yesh, I promish -- that'sh definitely the lasht bottle of errrmmm before Shunday. When should I shtart my practish thing and yesh, any hintsh or shtuff....?
[THUD]
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Hold the phone, I've mastered this tapering malarkey, chaps.
True to the Good Book, I've throttled right back since my return from the Outer Colonies.
So much so that this morning's dainty wobble across the Downs is my ONLY outing since arriving home on Saturday afternoon.
4.44 humbling kilometres at the gentlest of paces. It was quite lovely, completed just before the nail sank in the cloud and Sussex started to sink.
As if that wasn't enough, to guarantee a star turn this weekend, I nipped out to GBK last night for a pre-movie burger. In fairness, I did go naked*, so there was some thought given to training. I washed down the wonderful Kiwi Burger with a large glass of Malbec, staying true to Dr Phil even as my arteries audibly clogged. The movie in question was Split, the James McEvoy/ M. Night Shamalangadingdong hide-behind-the-sofa fest. It was enjoyable nonsense with a dash of genuine horror. McEvoy was exceptional, playing all 23 DID personas tucked away inside Kevin, a poor wretch long since hi-jacked by a gang of alter-egos known as the Hoard. Fans of Night won't be surprised to hear that the ending was a bit iffy, not to say confusing.
And so to Southampton on business, thence to meet MLCMMan in Lewes for supper and up at daft O'clock to ferry us and CC5 to Gatwick.
Commence au festival! Safe travels all, see you in Almeria.
*Naked at GBK means without buns. This isn't making things any easier to read, is it?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
