Well, the Sauconys are well and truly broken in.
Yesterdays' apocalyptic weather left the downland tracks smothered in a blend of muddy porridge and brackish pools. A stiff nor-westerly howled across the hills biting through my new long sleeve Mizuno top and layers of Christmas blubber, cutting into the very core of my shivering soul. Perfect.
As Andy suggested Thursdays' nightmare run was now a distant memory. I felt full of energy, enthusiasm and blarney as our merry band set forth along the cliff tops. The raucous airstream carried our excited chatter eastwards. I was heartened to see Remy, Jill, Terry and Nigel, Sunday regulars from the turn of the year. Exchanged summaries of our year of running mingled with aspirations for the months ahead. The banter kept our pace steady, bringing us into Saltdean in a shade under 30 minutes. Nigel, suffering soreness in his knee following an epic PB in New York, announced he would push on rather than wait. 10 minutes in the chill wind would seriously hinder his chances of carrying on. I volunteered to go with him.
Before we left I asked Lycra Tony, our cycle-mounted mentor, what route the main group would take. It was to be the New Famous Residences, the same route we’d covered in my last two outings.
‘Not the Snake?’ Eyebrows raised, bottom lip protruding.
‘No, we’ll get everyone up to speed over the Residences and do the snake in a couple of weeks.’
Hmm - sorry, wrong answer.
‘I’m heading for the snake – anyone else coming?’
Affirmative nods from Remy, Terry & Jill.
‘Absolutely’ from Nigel. Snake it is then.
Nigel and I set of immediately, plodding up Telscombe Tye as the wicked wind cut into us from the right. We nattered all the way, again as much to keep the pace sensible as anything else. Nigel and I both suffer competitive hangovers from earlier sporting lives. Our unspoken pact not to push each other held firm.
‘When d’you reckon Remy will catch us?’ I huffed.
‘At least by the snake if not before’ puffed Nigel.
We glanced back. Sure enough, half a mile below us a trio of dark dots bobbed on the trail.
Conscious that the last time I’d completed this route (not counting my
summer episode in the heat) was pre London Marathon I’d packed a couple of Squeezy gels. Gels, like many things running, are a very personal matter. Some people say gels make them feel sick, some prefer powder mixed into a drink. Me, I like the Squeezygel brand – but only the Pineapple flavour. They actually make a chocolate version – I can’t imagine what that tastes like; chocolate jelly I suppose. But it’s pineapple for me every time.
The route to the foot (or tail) of the snake includes a wonderful, near-vertical plummet down the side of a ploughed field. I whooped like a small child as I hurtled past Nigel on the perilous decent. My feet flew and I felt lighter than air, skipping over the rutted muddy soil at a ridiculous speed. I love this bit. The drop slingshots into a short, steep climb to a gate, a natural place to stop and regain one’s breath (and senses) and to scarf a gel or swig some water.
A minute or so later I was sucking air, grinning madly as my companion chugged up the slope. As we slurped our gels I spied the unmistakable form of Remy cresting the summit. He bounded down the hill, arms flailing to maintain balance. Remy, as I’ve mentioned before, is the consummate hill runner. He clocks around 3:20 for the marathon but could manage the same time over the hilliest terrain. He joined us, setting off at a comfortable pace towards our scaly friend.
The first few hundred yards of the snake weave through badger country, their scrapings forming slippery speed bumps on the trail. Nigel struggled, his road shoes sliding at every step.
‘Best get some offroaders’ beamed Remy.
‘Those skis aren’t much good for climbing.’
The constant sliding took its toll and Nigel fell back. I glanced across at Remy. He was the perfect image of a man running within himself; breathing easily, everything about his motion suggesting economy of effort. I relaxed into a rhythm, pleased to find I could keep up without busting a gut. We passed through the gate that signals the start of the snake proper, the mile of ascending, twisting hillside path overlooking Death Valley. Remy started chatting. He’d overheard my conversation with Jill at the start when I’d declared my intention to take part in the Two Oceans. He wanted to know more, and I happily told him about my trip to Cape Town and how running part of Chapman’s Peake had awoken my interest in the race. We exchanged thoughts on exceeding the 26.2, running easily up the gently curving slopes.
To my amazement the summit came into view. We were running strongly, steadily; I felt
good. Perhaps the gel had kicked in at the right time, or my enthusiasm for the conversation distracted me. Nigel, recovered from his mud sliding, appeared behind us as we surveyed the stunning views across the hills. Rejoined, our trio set off towards Woodingdean, across the main road and onto the nastiest track yet. Hurdling puddles, sloshing through sludge up a slight incline and into the teeth of the wind, this proved far more demanding. Once again we left Nigel behind, the perilous footing causing him no end of bother.
Alongside the racecourse, left onto Wilson’s Avenue and into the long descent to the marina.
As momentum and gravity combined to increase our speed, Remy turned to me.
‘Let’s open it up a bit’ he grinned.
Before I could say ‘Well, err . . . ’ he was gone, accelerating smoothly.
I tried to follow, but no more than ten strides in I got warning signals from my groin and right leg. Even fully fit and on top form there was no way I could live with the blistering pace taking the Incredible Shrinking Runner away from me. Halfway down the hill the gap was several hundred metres. I smiled to myself, recalling my
last run before London. I’d hammered down this stretch, as close to flat out as I’ve ever run, much to the amazement of my companions.
Not today old son, relax and enjoy the last mile, get home safe and sound.
A shade over 12.5 miles under two hours - a great way to finish a good running year. Nigel finished a few minutes behind us, Jill and Terry arriving shortly after. We took off for Nigel’s place in Preston Park for coffee, Pan au Chocolat and plenty of endorphin-fuelled banter.
Whatever your running goals may be for the New Year I hope you get there happy & healthy.
Curses, foiled again!
Sounds like a great run.