Technically we're half way through week three.
Those forumites who frequent this diary will know it has been a week less ordinary, and will understand the tardiness in diary-keeping.
I read Andy's Sunday report tonight with mixed emotions.
Delighted that Andy, despite reservations about a dodgy toe, completed an admirable 16 miler in conditions that I can verify were foul;
Flattered that my early Sunday ramblings on here (in between toast 'n' honey/ black coffee breakfast and leaving the house) had some bearing on his decision to venture into the storm;
Envious that he rose above his injury demon when I could not, slayed his weather dragon and ate those 16 miles, rampaging Godzilla-like through the sludge, chomping on miles, spitting out their bones as he stomped homeward to a warm hearth and a fine pub supper;
Last, but certainly not least, the warm comfort of being surrounded by fellow runners who care, offering sympathy, throwing a virtual arm around the shoulder in a runners' darkest moments.
We lucky few, We band of Brothers.
And Sisters.
Oh yes, and Rude Arrogant Foreigners
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Back to the treatment table tonight.
I've done precisely zero miles since the last twinge on Sunday, and I have to say the Lord hath smiled upon me this week. For once I managed to develop a stinker of a cold in sync with a leg injury. Having a stinking cold when you can't run anyway is like having a cold for free. Trust me, it's a great feeling.
That's not to suggest I'm out of the hamstrung woods just yet.
Nicola, my physio, welcomed me this evening with all the concern of a worried parent .
'How's it been then' she asked, brow furrowed, hands warmed and ready to probe.
I told her I'd had no reaction to the molestation she'd administered on Tuesday, other than the area has been extremely sore. She seemed happy with this, and proceeded to get right back into the muscle with an enthusiasm I found mildly alarming.
The prognosis is better; the knotted muscle (where part of the muscle had torn, the remaining strands had bunched up in a protective knott) was breaking down much easier, allowing her to push my leg back over my head (again, my perception) a lot easier than was the case on Tuesday. She explained that she pushes her finger into the knott from the side (I refrained from pointing out that under new RFU laws you get penalised for entering a ruck or maul from the side) and 'wiggles it about' until the knott frees up. At this point we resume stretches.
I have to say all this seems to be paying off. The only yardstick I have is the amount of resistance/ pain involved in stretching, and tonight it really did feel a lot easier.
I'm an odd sort of bloke really. Quite often I'll 'feel myslef up' - hang on, don't switch off just yet. Besides, most blokes do, whether they're big enough to admit it or not. To be clear, I'll subconciously run a hand over my hamstrings to 'gague my fitness'. Ordinarily (just walking around the office or the house) I'll do this and marvel at how 'firm' they feel. I've always taken this to be a positive sign, that I'm making progress, developing stronger legs.
This, I now accept, is complete and utter tosh.
What I have managed to do is to crank up the tension in my legs to such a degree as to play double-bass on the contorted muscle groups. Just a few days of disciplined, supervised stretching has shown me that a happy hamstring (in normal, waddling about mode) is a relaxed hamstring.
As for Sunday, I've agreed to enter the race, but I won't be racing.
I'll be doing a 13.1 mile training run surrounded by 2000 fellow runners. Nicola recommends reducing my stride length slightly, keeping the thought of 'running within myself' throughout.
'If you do that, and you get through without incident, you may be surprised at your time' she offered with an encouraging smile. She's off to consider her entry for the London to Brighton 55 mile race later in the year. She plans to run 8:30 miles. Bloody hell, it's another world.
For me, knowing I'm going to start a Half on Sunday, I can belatedly build the excitement. SP's been on about meeting up before the start, and my fellow Lewesians (Telly Tubbies no longer) Tim and Simon are both in. Whatever happens it'll be a great day, and win lose or draw you'll hear all about it right here.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I´m glad you´re feeling better and can take part at your local half even if it means taking it easy but you´ll have the chance to do it better at Reading half. I´d keep Andy SP company at the half and I´ve noticed it is good to avoid injuries to take a one minute walk break at least at the drinking stations so that your muscles relax a little and you feel stronger later. I have even tried that in long runs taking a one-minute break every 10 minutes after having been running the first thirty minutes.
Best of luck for you and Andy at your local half. Perhaps next year I can go and take part at the half marathon and visit again that lovely city.
Thanks Antonio, I really appreciate the support.
I will certainly start the race running easy and see how things go.
You are right, it would be good to be really fit for Reading when I can go for that PB and really enjoy a tough race. For now it's all about survival.
It would be great to be your host next year. It's a fun race (not quite as many serious competitors as Almería!) - I know you would enjoy the family atmosphere and the visit to the pub afterwards!
St'logo Amigo!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I finished.
Lets get that out of the way. Im delighted, and a little surprised, as the conditions were not conducive to a successful run on a dodgy hamstring, but hats off to Nicolas torture technique on Thursday night and some good advice.
SP popped round just after 9 so we could travel in convoy into Brighton. He seemed in fine fettle, sporting new shoes and a bizarre piece of German headgear which Ill leave to him to explain. We discussed the weather and our conflicting information on wind direction. There was, we agreed, plenty of it, and it was mighty cold.
To the car park then, accompanied by Mrs Sweder and the Swederettes (Jake and Phoebe) plus Willow, the only one of the three dogs to be trusted all day on the lead. We met up with Tim and Simon, race virgins, in the ASDA car park near Brighton Marina. I had assured Mrs Sweder that this would be a short walk from the start/ finish line. This was, of course, a horrible lie, as the distance was well over half a mile. We climbed the steps to leave the car park and Mrs S announced Hey, the winds not too bad.
Right on cue we crested the rise at Madeira Drive. WHOOSH! a strong, continuous blast of artic air knocked us back. I shuddered, not entirely from the drop in temperature; this is not good for the hamstring. Up to this point Id ignored the offending musculature, focused on my usual pre-race routine and some boisterous banter with SP. Now a small storm cloud formed in the back of my mind, and an icy wind was blowing it closer.
We checked in, stripped to race-wear and dumped our warm togs with the race officials. It was obvious with 15 minutes to go that Sussex Beacon had enjoyed a record entry this year; the start area was packed. I elected to wear my NZ All Blacks top with my JDRF vest over the top. Leggings, whilst accentuating my sparrows legs, were de rigueur.
We lined up some way back from the start line, hopping about to keep warm, chattering excitedly about the beauty of the day crystal clear skies, fabulous sea views, Brightons eclectic mixture of Art Deco and abrasive post-modern high-rise bathed in the strongest sunshine of the year so far. And then we were off, inevitably shuffling towards the start, the Championchip readers chirruping like demented pedestrian crossing signals, and we were into the race proper.
My running thoughts were well rehearsed, and they circled in my head now like cautionary vultures. shorten the stride, run well within yourself, take it easy. I had considered the obvious temptations placed before me: race conditions, good friends around (one of whom -Tim - I felt sure would be right on the money as far as my best time was concerned) and the inevitable lure of lycra-clad bottoms screaming ahead with their catch me if you can taunts. I considered them and I rejected them, coldly, one by one.
This 'race' was about survival, getting to the finish. Nothing more, nothing less. My race plan was to set off easy, get easier, and take stock at half way. If all seemed well I would gently increase the pace and see where that got me.
The first couple of miles, restricted to narrow areas of the esplanade, were crowded. Maintaining a gentle pace was no hardship; it was unavoidable. The occasional latecomer seeking a PB sped by, but generally my fellow runners seemed content to plod along. Tim was right with me (wed stay together for several miles) and appeared comfortable. I considered the wind direction. By my reckoning with the Westerly wind (as predicted correctly by SP) we should be struggling for the first 3 miles, but the combination of the crowd and the easy start reduced the impact on our progress.
To the turn past Hove Lagoon, and I felt my pace increase without additional effort. Another willed reminded to throttle back and shorten the stride, but we were still moving faster with the wind at our backs. I had special internal sensors on leg patrol, which curiously reported back several groin and knee niggles, but joyfully the hamstring department remained clear.
On past the West Pier, its rusting, burned-out hulk separated from the shore, cutting an eerie silhouette against the sunlit sea. Recent inhabitants, hundreds of sea birds, squawked and screamed, circling their des res, disturbed by the multi-coloured snake wending its noisy way along the shore.
And on, to the Palace Pier and its funfair and bars, the rides in full flow, lights wastefully flashing, dull in the bright winter sunshine. Another sweep of the danger zone: nothing to report. I relaxed again, checked my stride pattern and stepped down into Madeira drive and the half mile to the start/finish line and half-way.
Id not thought about time. This will come as anathema to my fellow RC competitors, but I had avoided use of any electronic devices to so much as hint at time. Time today was irrelevant. Any indication that I might approach the proximity of my best time at any stage could prove a fatal distraction. However I was not so blind as to avoid the electronic readout at the start line. 1:01 flashed up as I passed, bringing warm memories of Haile G and the Almerĩa Half to mind, this being the great mans finishing time on that wonderful day.
It occurred to me that, my easy start considered, I would, without further complication, easily complete the race in under two hours, a secondary target I had allowed myself in moments of quiet reflection if all goes well.
continued . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
All, it seemed, was going well. It was time to re-evaluate now as we entered the tricky part of the course. Up till now the terrain had been flat, paved and uneventful. After the 7 mile marker the course headed upwards and inland, up and onto my regular Sunday training path from Brighton Marina to Rottingdean. I was naturally happy about this, familiar with the route and with faith in my ability to handle the slopes and inclines. But also slightly wary: hill work requires additional application and stress on the legs. Again, pace would be the key, and I resolved not to blow up here.
As expected a number of early pace-setters found the slopes not to their liking and I picked off a few stragglers. Remy, one of the Sunday regulars, a monster for eating the toughest of hills, roared along, travelling in the opposite direction looking comfortable and fast. He was I reckoned a good 2 miles up on me. I felt happy for him having such a good burn.
Inclines increased as did the number of slowing runners I passed, maintaining my easy rhythm without lighting the afterburners. Past Roedean School, its usual gothic gloom diluted by the fresh wind and continued sunshine. On to Rottingdean and the turn for home, just under 3 miles from the finish. I bypassed the water offered by the marshals, my trusty Nathan providing frequent refreshment en route, and turned. Into the wind.
Devoid of the human shield wed enjoyed at the start, the Westerly revealed itself in all its undiluted glory; strong and biting. What had felt like the lightest caress on our backs now took on an altogether more malevolent visage. Coupled with the wobbly terrain of the off-road path I embraced the wisdom of holding back a little for this last effort. Runners streamed past on the road side of the 2-way circuit, headed for the recently-ignored water stop. I spotted Tim, still looking pretty fresh and only a few hundred yards behind. Wed parted company, gently and without acknowledgement, between the piers. It occurred to me he might overtake me on the run-in, but so happy was I to be still going it wouldnt have bothered me if he had.
I plugged on, steadily passing tiring runners. A few minutes later I exchanged Shearers with SP as he appeared at the top of an East-bound climb. He looked tired, but then he always does, and his wave was cheery enough. Later still I saw Simon, resolute, eyes fixed ahead. I called to him and he waved, grinning. This was Simons first sojourn of any description into the runners world (Tim had run when much younger) and he was performing admirably.
Another climb into the wind, atop the crest and into the slow descent towards the Marina. A young girl overtook me and it occurred to me that now, with the welcome waft of the finish in my nostrils, I could finally give chase. We entered the last mile together, weaving down the ramp from clifftop to ocean-side drive, catching yet more flagging early flyers. Then into the straight, the final ¾ mile. I thought of Tuesday night track, the hated last mile, and I cranked up a gear. I cant say that I sprinted home, but I got up to around 7 minute mile pace as I crossed the line, the family waving and shouting wildly from their balcony vantage. I glanced up at the clock as I crossed the line: 1:52omething. It occurred to me as I fought for breath, hands on knees, medal delivered by a marshal, that with the time spent crossing the start line this might be fairly close to last years time and my PB. Remarkable! Only in the last 200 metres had I forced any amount of serious effort through my legs, yet I was so close!
What does this mean? Am I fitter? Did the week off really help that much? Was it last nights Cadburys Fruit and Nut bars (plural) devoured selfishly during Match of the Day?
Who cares? I finished, and I can still walk! Marvellous!
I grabbed my finishers pack, wolfed down a banana and some water, and turned to seek out family Sweder. Then back to the finish. I felt sure Tim would not be far behind, and sure enough he crossed at 1:57, a sub 2 half at his first attempt. We embraced, and he revealed his calm exterior was just that: an exterior. Im bloody knackered he huffed in his best Wolverhampton dialect.
Well, duh! So you should be mate!
SP came in soon after, and we gathered near the finish as Tim and Simons families joined us. I reckoned that Simon would find the last few miles pretty tough, and forecast a 2:30 finish. But much to our delight he crossed in 2:23 (these all to be rounded down), a fabulous effort and far better than he had hoped for. As he turned towards us we noticed his cut knee and a fair smattering of claret on his shirt.
Blimey Si, what happened to you?
Took a tumble after three miles. Nipping into the bogs for a slash and whey-hey, watch the steps! he grinned. Sub 2:30 with a cut leg! Impressive stuff.
SP said farewell and left to cook Mrs SP her Sunday Roast (sorry girls, hes happily married), the rest of us retiring to Alfrescos, an excellent Italian lunchery situated to the West of the crumbling West Pier with excellent sea and promenade views. As I sat ruminating, laughing and exaggerating with friends and family over good food and cold beer, I once again remembered the camaraderie of Almerĩa, the hospitality of Antonio and José, the banter of friends, a welcome meal in elegant surroundings. This is some life!
postscript: I did the text thing offered by the organisers to obtain my official time, 1:50:15. I missed a PB by 7 seconds. If Id known, would I have put the hammer down? Would I have cranked it up with 2 miles to go? Would I have blown that hamstring with the finish in sight? Who knows, who cares?
I for one dont
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Enhorabuena, Ashley. Wonderful report and time in spite of having been injured recently, without being able to train much lately. Well done SP and your colleagues, too.
I expect we can meet at Reading half in two weeks´ time.
Thanks for your kind words fellas. It was a great day, and even now I'm pain-free, although this has more to do with a decent Merlot than anything else.
And yes Andy, I even managed to catch the second half of Chelsea's FA Cup demise in the North East. All this and Andy Hunter gets chucked off a bridge (viewing the Eastenders omnibus the reason I missed the first half). Marvellous.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:and Andy Hunter gets chucked off a bridge (viewing the Eastenders omnibus the reason I missed the first half). Marvellous.
Have to say I'm both shocked and stunned that Eastenders is still being pumped out. If you ever want a reason to emigrate to Oz, here it is: Australian TV networks stopped buying Eastenders around 15 years ago.
Did the consumption of merlot have some kind of stupefying effect on your choice of programme, or was it just a post-race "devil may care" attitude?
And no reposte about "Neighbours" please - we only make those programmes because you guys buy them. No-one here gives a toss.
I failed to elucidate.
The 'Eastenders over Footie' concession was just that - a concession.
Mrs S had lost the best part of her Sunday to yours truly and my running passion; she was entitled to a bit of self-indulgent rubbish-watching, albeit only for an hour. I have no axe to grind with 'Neighbours' or any other soap. People are free to use up their time on Earth in whatever (harmless) way they choose. My own penchant for filling hours tapping away at a plastic scrabble board whilst supping the finest classic rock stands as testament to the diverse nature of our proclivities. How does the Hard Rock Cafe put it? Love All, Serve All. Amen, brother.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
OK, I'm a Soapaholic. There, it's out. I feel so relieved, no more hovering outside Dixons for my nightly fix, balaclava on, scarf wrapped tightly round my shoulders, heavy overcoat disguising my svelt runners' form. For weeks I've convinced my friends and family that I hit the streets in training, when all this time I've been cruising from store front to store front, lip-reading the latest exciting developments in Corrie, 'Enders, Emerdale, Hollyoaks, Home & Away.
Outed by a dead playwrite!
Ah, the shame of it!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Mate, if you run marathons, you can do whatever you flaming well like in your own time... anyway, never could get into Hamlet myself. And I thought Mel Gibson was quite stupid in the role... I kept expecting him to pull a gun, or dislocate a shoulder or something.
Um, my thoughts are straying again. Help, help, I'm becoming disingenuous.
Thanks Suzie. Breeze? Strong wind at least I suspect . . .
to be honest I'm pretty stiff today. To be expected after a week off I suppose, but it's still a shock when you stand up and start walking like Herman Munster. Went back to the physio this morning. She was delighted and asked about my time with a wry smile on her face. She runs 3:30 marathons and says that her half marathons work out about the same pace, give or take 10 to 15 seconds per mile. Her secret, she says, is running well within her capability. She's an advoctae of the slow start, and I have to say it worked for me this time. We'll see how quick I am in two weeks at Reading. I don't know if it's a quick course but I should be able to push a little harder sooner in the race by then.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
omething. It occurred to me as I fought for breath, hands on knees, medal delivered by a marshal, that with the time spent crossing the start line this might be fairly close to last years time and my PB. Remarkable! Only in the last 200 metres had I forced any amount of serious effort through my legs, yet I was so close! 
