Week 3 - The Run-In

[Sweder]

Sunday, 20th March – 18 miles downland run

Time of day: 09:00
Distance: 18 miles
Route: Brighton Marina/ Telscombe Tye/ North Face/ Yellow Brick Road/ South Downs Way/ Woodingdean/ Snake (reverse)/ Rottingdean Windmill/ St Dunstans’/ Brighton Marina
Time: 3:10
Conditions: Bright, sunny, dry, easterly breeze

It’s a funny feeling, heading off for a long run with no idea how you’ll get on.
My recent experiences at the Reading Half and Hashing in Hong Kong suggested my hamstring would stand up to a downland thrash – but I didn’t know. Besides, this would be four miles longer than my previous best this year, and that was 4 weeks ago.

The Worthing 20, a 4 x 5 mile lap of that coastal town, was on today so I wasn’t sure how many ‘regulars’ would show. At 08:55 we were a sorry few, but over the next 5 minutes runners flocked above the Marina, and we numbered 20 in our party as we set off at 9.

I started slowly, happy at the very back of the pack. A few people had asked after my hamstring, one or two of them having seen it ‘go’ a couple of weeks previous. I let them know this was to be a voyage of discovery, and if I appeared abnormally reticent to take the lead they shouldn't worry.

Remy, an accomplished downland runner, joined me. He and Jill completed the Rome Marathon last weekend, and would complete a truncated circuit (12 miles) today as a sort of warm-down. They also wanted to get back to Brighton ASAP, as a good friend of theirs was taking part in the Superheroes 10K. You may have guessed the dress code for that one. I heard later that Mr DIY did rather well, resplendant in tool belt and hard hat.

Remy told me about Rome, which sounded fabulous. Despite a mix up at the start – he and Jill thought they were in a pre-start warm up, only to pass the 1 K marker - they both enjoyed the run. Meticulous pace planning went out of the window as soon as they realised they'd effectively cocked up the first mile or so, and they ran the next 25.2 free of constraints. Their verdict: the best marathon they've run by far! Probably helped by Remy coming in at 3:30, and that with a slow first km.

I skirted the verticle climb at mile 3, not wishing to put undue stress on my leg at this stage. We crossed the road and set off up the mile climb to Telscombe Tye, a seemingly endless, straight ascent onto the downs proper. I felt comfortable, and in spite of feeling like I was holding back, took to the front half way up the Tye.

The morning mists evaporated lazily as the sun, moored peacefully over the English Channel, gently warmed the morning downland. As we crested the Tye the view before us drew gasps from a few and the admiration of all. ‘Man, are we lucky to be out in this’ breathed Nigel. So true.

At the TT Church we turned west, the morning breeze now softly nudging at our backs as we set off along the dry, dusty sheep trails. Half a mile along and we entered the fields to the right, across lush grass toward the North Face. ‘North Face’ always conjures images of Chris Bonnington for me, photographed at the summit of Annaperna. This had even more resonance this morning as I had recently finished reading the incredible Touching The Void.

Our North Face held no such perils, unless you harboured hamstring concerns. The field sloped ever more severely into the valley. The dusty path, riddled with a thousand footholds, bounded up the face of an impossible hill, leading to the wondefully named Breaky Bottom farmhouse. I ran the first 3/4s of the climb, careful to maintain short steps, until the heat burned into my calves and I walked the last 50 yards. At the top I was caught by a couple – Mr White Hair Leggings and Ms Powder Blue Slimline, for want of their real names. White Hair had run up the entire climb, and was already settled into an easy breathing pattern. Powder Blue snaffled a Power Gel, and I realised that I had come unprepared. I had my Nathan, loaded with Lucozade Hydro Active, my PED of choice, but no Gels. This would be a test.

‘If no-one minds I’d like to push on’ announced White hair. ‘Me too’ a confident sounding voice replied from somewhere inside me. The 6 of us recovering at the summit set off through the tree-tunnel behind the remote homestead, once again aided by the breeze, heading for the Yellow Brick Road.

The YBR is, as one might surmise, a man-made path. It stretches from the summit of the North Face to the top of the South Downs Way. The path is a mile long, rising steadily, inexorably, without respite. I still felt pretty good, although White Hair confirmed his climbing prowess by powering ahead. I let him go, relaxed in my steady rhythm, sucking in the staggering vista below and to my right. The Sussex Downs, now bathed in the years’ strongest sunlight to date, swept away to the North, the village of Falmer ahead, further on Kingston and my home town, Lewes.

At the top of the Road we crossed a National Trust path and joined the South Downs Way. To our left (South) Death Valley dropped precipitously to the foot of the Snake. Our route today would circumnavigate this regular feature on our Sunday runs, keeping us at the higher level, bearing us to the town of Woodingdean. At Woodingdean we executed a hairpin turn, climbing the grass-covered downland to meet the head of the Snake. I'd anticipated this section all morning. I’ve run up the Snake many times, reaching deep into myself for crucial reserves of mental and physical strength. The Snake has battered me, sapped my strength, constricted my resolve. But it has never beaten me. And now I was going to run down her scaly hide for the first time. And boy was I going to enjoy it!

I harp on about the views, but you must understand most of my training in this area is undertaken in awful weather. Howling winds, driving rain, freezing cold, sliding mud. I have rarely looked up on this section of the run, so today, in the warmth, bounding down her slippery back, I drank in the valley and hills that make up the Snakes’ Lair. Death Valley, mottled with scrub, sheep and the occasional group of horses, looked magnificent, all the more so as we were not to set foot there today.

At the foot of the Snake our mini-group paused to take on fluid and double-check the way forward. It was South-West, towards Rottingdean. I briefly stretched, checking for signs of impending catastrophe. None. OK, my knees ached, my ankles were whinging and my groin felt tight as a drum. In fact every facet of my legs required attention – except my hamstrings.

Off again, up a steep climb on asphalt, past a group of well-upholstered lady riders atop equally substantial mounts – the last was actually a carthorse. We breezed by the water pumping station and into the gentle descent to the village of Rottingdean. As the picturesque, flint-walled buildings drew closer I considered how inappropriate some place names can be.

Through the narrow, winding streets, ducking right into the one-way lanes, right again and the steep climb to the windmill. For the second time this morning I slowed to walking pace as my calves turned to granite. I marvelled at White Hair as he flew up the torturous climb, but was relieved to note my other companions were also slogging up the incline at a pedestrian pace.

'16 miles and then this' grinned Powder Blue.
To the crest of the hill, past the windmill and the pitch & putt, through the wire fence at St Dunstans’, down the grassy green slopes to the tunnel and finally up and onto the last 1½ mile section to the Marina. My legs ached and my hips and knees appealed for mercy, but I smiled to them, chuckling inside.
‘No chance – we’re almost there. Dig in, kick on, get home’.

And home we were, knackered, grinning, stretching. Someone called it at 3 hours 10 minutes, but frankly this was irrelevant to me. I was elated – 18 miles of rugged offroad adventure, plenty of aches and pains but not so much as a twitch out of place in the one area that really mattered.

[Sweder]

Time of day: 17:30 hours
Course: Lewes/ Black Cap round trip – 5 miles
Duration: 44:47 (24:59)
Conditions: Blustery, fading light, muddy
Companions: 3 hounds
Soundtrack: Planet Rock – Jimmy Page; Tom Petty; Rolling Stones; ZZ Top

I decided to rest up following the 18 miler on Sunday, so no run on Monday. Despite some minor aches in my knees I felt pretty good this morning, and decided to get home in time for a dusk run to Black Cap.

Much-needed rain had fallen for most of the day. Along the ridge of the South Downs Way the track retained a good deal of rainwater, creating a tricky mixture of wet chalk, slippery flint and thick, clinging mud. Heaven!

I pushed hard on the outward leg, pumping warming blood into tired legs. My Sunday stiffness ebbed away as I climbed above the Town. By my reckoning I had around one hour to get home, although the hastily gathering clouds suggested this may be optimistic. Black Cap (half way) in 25 minutes; I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. I had purposely worked harder than usual on the climb, only to beat my previous best by a meagre 30 seconds.

A minute’s pause to survey the rapidly fading vista – and off down the lush turf that carpets the south west face of the Cap. Willow appeared at my heels, carefully carrying an eviscerated rabbit’s carcass. She seemed delighted to have unearthed a new companion – she has several soft toys at home which take regular, fearsome batterings. I ignored her offers to play, preferring to focus on the music served up by Planet Rock.

After the demise of Led Zeppelin as an ensemble, Jimmy Page continued on a solo career, yielding variations on some of the bands’ classics. As I hurtled down the springy hillside towards the chalk track his live rendition of Cashmere built beautifully through my headphones. The rhythm of the drums offset the ethereal ‘reading’ of the lyric, Page’s violin providing an atmospheric substitute for Plant’s original honeyed tones.

In the gathering gloom and with this surreal soundtrack I relaxed into a trance-like pace, skipping lightly across the treacherous terrain toward the racing stables. The horizon to my right (east) boasted a fluorescent orange-red border, accentuated by the thick dark clouds, as the sun bid its farewell to the downland. Light spots of rain reminded me that these clouds had relatives overhead, and my pace increased further. One thing’s for sure, I thought: this hamstring is healed.

My band of homeward-bound hounds swarmed over/ under/ through the gate into the last sheep field. I turned to join them, the heavy latch clicking shut behind me, as the opening bars of Tom Petty’s Running Down a Dream wrangled my ears. Perfect! There is no finer or more apt song for hurtling headlong through this final quarter mile. I relaxed into my running, arms rocking in time with my pounding legs; I was flying! I really can’t remember running this fast at any stage other than in my track sessions earlier in the year. I felt strong, swift, energised. I’m sure my mind is playing tricks now, but I’d swear the dogs struggled to keep up.

We crashed through the front gate as one as I fought to bring my water carrier around front, grab my mobile and halt the stopwatch: 44:47. Bloody hell – 44:47? That can’t be – I mean I was flying back there! The figures don’t lie. OK it’s a best time for this run, but by no more than 40 seconds.

On reflection, more conscious effort does not necessarily equal better times. I learned this on the track; I could hammer 200 metres at full pelt in 36 seconds. The next series I’d run a ‘relaxed’ 200 – ‘sitting back’ and deliberately not pushing at all – in 38 seconds.

More recently I’ve run a couple of half marathons under threat of injury. My approach in each case has been cautious, yet my finishing times have been within a few seconds of a PB. Food for though here, certainly.

Coming up:
Friday: The good Good Friday Friday run with the Jog Shop crew
Sunday: 20 mile offroader – a real tough cookie. Can’t wait.

[Sweder]

I was thinking of arranging a Running Commentary summer outing on one of my weekend runs. This would coincide with a BBQ at mine, co-hosted by Seafront Plodder. Then I thought about where we'd run; I really wanted to 'show off' some of the fabulous countryside I enjoy week in, week out.

Looking on the Jog Shop website I see they are running the 13th 'Jog Shop Jog', a legendary sojourn along the very paths of which I speak. Check out the link, and let me know what you think.

http://www.jogshop.co.uk/html/jogshopjog/

My Sunday training run will follow exactly this route, so I'll be able to tell you all about it this weekend - or at least have my doctors relay the gist of it.

[El Gordo]

Sweder - with all the recent website problems, I managed to miss your description of last Sunday's 18 miler. Fantastic stuff, great descriptions. The views sound incredible.

You're lucky to have that sort of area to run in. My own territory is OK. Very pleasant farmland, some 'olde world' villages and the long, tranquil towpath of the Kennet and Avon canal, but Berkshire has a serious lack of hills.

I like the idea of the race and BBQ - thanks for the offer. But I'm bit confused... firstly, the date on the website is August 29 2004. Have they just forgotten to change the year? It was run on Aug 29 last year, which was a Sunday. This year it's bank holiday Monday. More confusing is that Runners World gives the date as 16 October...

Hang on, I've been proactive... Just rang the Jog Shop and they confirm that they've had to change the date. The race is Sunday 16 October this year. Hmm, well, that makes it much more suitable for running 20 miles, though perhaps not for having a BBQ. Either way, I'm up for doing something.

Good luck with the long one tomorrow.

[Sweder]

Time of day: 16:15 hours
Route: Brighton Marina/ The Wire/ Brighton Marina
Terrain: cliff top grassland
Conditions: Perfect
Distance: 12 kilometres
Overall time: 1:06
Race time – 6 kms: 29:39
Entrants: 65

Oh it's such a perfect day,
I'm glad I spent it with you.
Oh such a perfect day,
You just keep me hanging on,
You just keep me hanging on.

Pretty much sums up my good Good Friday friday run.
I’d read Nigel’s account of the Bath Half in the morning, a timely reminder that everyone and anyone can have a bad day at the running office.

65 excited, chattering souls gathered above Brighton Marina at 4pm, waiting for Sam to arrive and set us off. Amongst the runners Sue Gorringe, a good friend who recently took up running and to date had a longest distance of 5 miles. Sue had never run in a large group before, and I suggested this would be a good opportunity to do so.

The good Good Friday Friday run is a race of two halves. Part one sees us jog in a companionable cluster heading East along the cliff tops. The idea is to get everyone to the other end of the course, 6 k’s out, turn and hammer back as fast as possible.

Blue skies kissed a pond-still horizon as we loped gently into our outward cruise. The light seemed a little odd, then I realised we normally leave this point at 9 am. The sun, having enjoyed a cloud-free view of the downs all day, slipped gently toward the western horizon, our shadows leading us out across the springy cliff top turf.

I moved easily amongst the runners, chatting idly about this and that.
Should UEFA dock Chelski points for their catalogue of infractions?
UEFA can’t dock points. OK, should they be kicked out of the Champions League then? Well, no, and besides Abramovich would have them all knee-capped . . . and on and on. I checked in with Sue. She seemed comfortable at the pace, despite the undulating terrain, and I move up to run with my Sunday Lopers Lawrence and Nigel.

‘What are you tactics then Ash?’ Nigel asked.
‘Well, last year I went full bore from the off and blew out horribly a mile short, so I’ll start slowly, get slower for the first 2 miles, and see what’s left in the tank’.
Ah, the best laid plans of mice & men . . .

The last 150 yards of the outward leg are almost vertical.
At the top a marshal took names to start the count-‘em-all-out, count’-em-all-back process. Sue appeared in the final group to arrive, looking flustered but still moving well. She expressed concern at making the return, and I ventured that walking intervals were not only permitted but a very good idea. This seemed to be the right answer.

We reached the Wire, an incongruous chain link fence stretching 50 yards from cliff’s edge to the pavement. It appears to serve no purpose other than to provide a starting point for this annual event. C’est la vie.

Sam arrived. Sam Lambourne is a Sussex Legend. I refer to him as Jog Shop Sam, but this is to dismiss his stunning record in local, national and international running events. Veteran London marathoner (his pb is sub 2:20), Sam ran in the inaugural marathon in 1970. He has traversed Europe, taking part in ultra-marathons, John O’Groats to Land’s End 4-man team races, Mountain marathons and more besides. He held the record for the Seven Sisters Marathon (2:51) in 1986, and organises local races such as the Brighton Triathlon and, of course, the good Good Friday Friday run.

The rigours of extreme running have exacted a fierce toll, and Sam’s right knee is all but shot. He runs infrequently now, choosing to dedicate his time to the youngsters of Brighton & Hove Athletics club, and to preparing starry-eyed old duffers like me for Marathons. His current running style is best described as a ‘very fast walk’, but this doesn’t prevent him from entering races, and it was great to see him out with us today.

‘Right!’ came the familiar growl.
‘6K back to the marina, flat out! Go!’
The usual suspects, lithe, tanned and moving with an ease that I find baffling, set off full pelt. I loped off, no faster than I had jogged on the way out, determined to build slowly. Halfway up the second major climb, Jill, one of our Sunday runners, appeared at my shoulder.
‘You OK?’ she puffed.
‘Mm-Hmm’ I grunted. ‘Fine. You?’
‘Oh I’m OK – it’s just that (huff, huff) you’re normally off in the distance over this (huff, huff) sort of ground.’
Panic set in. I looked ahead and realised that Lawrence and Nigel, running as a team, were barely in sight. Damn! I put my foot on the gas, leaving Jill and sprinting up the last 20 meters of the hill. I kept this up for about a minute before my brain caught up. ‘Whoah!’ I thought. This is not good – you have to build, but do it slowly. Too late. The manic spurt had done its damage. As I lightly pressed the accelerator once more I knew; it’s not there today. Subconsciously I’d known this from the off. All my thinking was geared towards conserving energy, taking it ease, steady pace. Now I knew why.

No-one knows why you have days like this. Sometimes, as in Nigel’s case, you can point to disruption to your training schedule. Maybe you didn’t sleep well, or ate badly the day before. But sometimes you just have a bad day.

Far too soon I found myself digging for form. I could still see the lads ahead, looking comfortable, steady. I abandoned thoughts of catching them, focused on the one thing that mattered; finish! I took a swig from my water bottle and relaxed a bit. The next hill came and went easily enough, and I relaxed further. OK, here’s the deal; stop trying to speed up and you’ll get home easily. Keep pushing and I’ll drop you like a loose-lipped Tory.

And so so it proved. I still ‘kicked’ over the final 200 yards, teeth gritted, eyes squinting into the setting sun. I hadn't planned it, but a chap I didn’t know appeared at my left elbow, head down, arms pumping, intent on stealing my place. I wasn’t having that! I stretched out and hammered home, weaving ever so slightly to cut him off. Tim, Sue’s husband and photographer for the day, assures me it was classic Schumacher, the affronted runner throwing his arms in the air and throttling back, distraught that this apparent corpse had burst into life and thwarted his manoeuvre. I’m ashamed to say this gave me a flare of pleasure, and I apologise now unreservedly to my victim.

‘Ash!’ I called out as I crossed the line – we’d been told to yell our names as we finished allowing the marshals to record times and names without looking up. I was knackered – breathless, chest heaving, a whale out of water. The last vestige of sunlight warmed a grassy roadside embankment, and I tottered over, collapsing in a most undignified heap next to Nigel.

‘You alright mate?’ he grinned, looking horribly fresh and happy with life.
‘Uuugh-umm’ I replied, peeking out from under my arm. ‘Urrgh-ah-urrrm left it a bit late like’ I coughed back at him, a fine interpretation of Harry Enfields’ Julio Geordio.
‘Did you do it then?’ still grinning.
Ah yes. Did I? Break the 30 minutes? Last year I’d lagged in at 30:05, agonisingly 6 seconds short of my sub 30 minute goal. I had no idea.
‘No idea’ I panted.
‘Let’s find out then’ he laughed, bounding to his feet and heading for the marshals. I was filled with dread. All that bollocks about starting slowly and pacing it just right and I was certain I’d blown it. At the start I’d announced that, following last years’ agony, I’d happily take 29:59. I peered over the marshals’ shoulder.
29:39. Yes! The feelings of failure fled into the fresh spring air. I felt half a ton lighter, standing upright, and despite myself a cheesy grin spread across my sweat-laden face. A PB! You can’t mope about with a PB, can you?

Distracted from my self-pity my attention turned back to the course. Sue! Would she make it? Had Tim received a desperate ‘phone call and was he now racing off to collect her bedraggled carcass from the cliffs? Nope, there’s Tim, anxiously hopping from one foot to the other, perched on the concrete parapet, eyes scanning the horizon. I followed his gaze and spotted a number of coloured dots bobbing along the cliff edge from Roedean.

‘She’ll make it’ I assured him. Tim was pale.
‘It’s a lot bloody further than I thought’ he grumbled. ‘I thought you said it was 6 kilometres?’
‘Well, it is 6 kilometres, from the Wire’. Best not to argue though. Tim’s a big lad, and he was very, very nervous.
‘I checked up on her at half way. She’ll be tired, but she will make it..’ Confident. Assured. Tim seemed a smidgen calmer.

Please God let her make it OK! My silent prayer floated up above the runners recovering in the late sunshine. Then a yelp, a squeal of excitement. A large man was bouncing up and down on the ledge, waving and smiling. Tim!
‘There she is – COME ON SUE!!!’ I thought for a horrible moment he would bounce off the shelf the wrong way, plummeting to a sticky end in Asda’s car park. Happily he jumped left, landing with a thud inches from my feet.

And there she was, running pretty hard down the slope to the finish. What’s more there were still a few dots back along the route, so she was far from last home. A splendid effort, and proof to her if no-one else that she can push herself and take on some races later in the year.

Sweaty hugs all round, some advice – ‘stretch!’ – and we were off, vowing to meet up later in the Lewes Arms to recount our tales of the good Good Friday Friday run. And me? I live to run another day, and despite all my whinging I have a new PB.

[Seafront Plodder]

I had it in my head that it was 12K out and 12K back! I'd have done it if I'd have known. Especially to see Sue's debut.

A great set of reports here Sweder. Good luck for the last longee tomorrow. I shall be thinking of you as I cook lunch for my mum.

[Sweder]

Hi Andies. Andy RC, thanks for pointing out the Jog Shop Jog anomoly - I hadn't got that far into it, though I'm pleased you're undaunted by the comments of the Belgian runner who famously wrote about the race:
'It has taken me 2 years to summon up the courage to write about this race from hell'


Andy SP, that's the lamest excuse I've heard yet!
Here's a couple of photos from the day . . .

First up, Sue discusses tactics with a race veteran . . .

[Sweder]

The good Good Friday friday run - the outward lope begins

[Sweder]

Storming home: my act of desperate defiance is captured, albeit slightly blurred, for posterity.

[El Gordo]

Hmmm. Just how fast was that final burst of speed when the photographic evidence shows a post edging into the lead.....?

[Sweder]

Surely a case of post haste . . .

. . . sorry. Pre long run dementia has well and truly set in.
It's so bad in fact I just sat through Sky's offering of King Arthur and The Core, possible two of the poorest examples of film making in the last few years, back to back. Watching Clive Owen 'phone in his performance in the former was tempered by the fact that
a) I didn't have to watch him in Closer (I refused to go)
b) Ray Winston (as Bors) was marvellous (he can do no wrong), and
c) I got a large helping of Hillary Swank in the latter - Mmmmm . . .

All this and we lose an hours' kip.