[SIZE="6"]Happy New year! [/SIZE]
to all fellow plodders, bloggers and groupies (?!).
Whatever your dreams for 2006 may they come true in style.
Tuesday 3rd January - 5 early miles
First run of the year, and an early one at that.
Dawn arrived breathless, draped in heavy cloud. The valleys hid from morning, clinging to the mist like a teenager to a duvet. I stumbled onto the downs, just the two hounds in tow. Our whippet managed to remove an impressively large flap of skin from her back whilst chasing rabbits yesterday - Mrs S had her to the vets this morning for a stitch-up job.
Felt good, two days' rest after Saturday's long run produced fresh legs and an eagerness I'd not expected.
Not especially fast but a good steady run a shade over five hilly miles.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I'm getting a little paranoid about Thursdays.
As last week this morning offered bleak prospects; ice-cold wind knifing in from the north under a thick blanket of cloud. I hit the reset button on my alarm about four times before falling out of bed and crawling downstairs.
No music today, just me and the two fit hounds against the world.
Five minutes in I started writing this entry. It happens from time to time, but I rarely remember the original script by the time I plant my sweat-stained rear in my office chair. Here's the report.
T'was dawn's crack, at sparrow-fart
The north wind jag'd, cut with ice
Donned leggings, vest and gauntlets black
Left his dwelling, stretch-ed thrice
O'er mud-fed grassy hillocks plod
This chill-ed mortal man of hills
Tho teeth did chatter on't poor sod
His constitution brook no ills
Through fields of sheep our threesome ran
Where horsemen took their morning stretch
Galloped fast as wild beasts can
Pounding past our frozen wretch
O'er the hilltops, through the gate
And into pastures filled with gorse
Our Loper spied the horseman late
His Gypsy chased without remorse
To Blackcap's summit laced with frost
And homeward 'cross the grass and loam
His two dogs miss'd but ne'er lost
Their baying clear 'round Rabbit's home
Return to homestead at suns' rise
Breath in plumes of frosted cloud
To warmth of kitchen stove arrive
Coffee, toast and music loud
Steaming shower re-store health!
Or shall I seek Apocathary?
Spread this tale of running wealth
On this here Running Commentary
I have no idea where this came from. Oh well.
5 miles banked in 55 minutes; hard work, but satisfying.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
There are some pleasures in life that can only be enjoyed as a consequence of suffering. The intensity or severity of the hardship increases the anticipation and the ultimate enjoyment of the moment.
So it was with my hot shower this morning. Somewhere between 12.5 and 13 mud-splattered, wind-blown, rain-lashed miles across the South Downs left me hammered, frozen, soaked, pebble-dashed, grinning like a loon and full of anticipation. The shedding of my sodden second skin and the first hot kiss of the steaming shower verged on the indecent.
The main body of runners huddled above the marina this morning would once again traverse the 11 miles of the New Residences. Last weeks Saltdean Five became the Saltdean Three, Jill and Terry joining me in rebellion as the others re-grouped at the three mile mark. We fought the wind and rain across the landscape, up the snake and around the gallops home in a shade over 2 hours, chatting comfortably on all but the steepest climbs, the circuit very much a carbon copy of last Sundays run.
With one exception. At the descent from the top of the ridge down the farmers field, just past the halfway point, the following breeze added perilous speed to an already treacherous slope. I took it on, gunning my legs to embrace gravity, and almost came to grief. As I thundered down the hillside it occurred to me that I was running at my absolute maximum. I felt on the very edge of control, a heady mixture of exhilaration and blind panic. Just when I felt certain I should succumb to momentum, legs folding, my sodden carcass ploughing into the rutted earth, the gradient eased, flattened and started up the other side. Phew!
Another good outing, evidence that my lightweight midweek schedule is adding energy to my long weekend runs.
[SIZE="1"]Below: Jill & Terry, top of the Snake[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I really really really REALLY didn't want to be out there this morning.
My legs screamed with a hundred ailments, it was cold, very windy, overcast, muddy and 'orrible. I threw on a few extra layers, opting for a long, slow, sweaty lope rather than a 'run'.
Planet Rock was a requirement if I wasn't to expire in some awful parody of Captain Oates, will to live eloped with my dogs, bloated carcass picked over by the crows. Alas! Vintage Wishbone Ash and Yes did nowt to fire my passion as I crawled up the slopes, a picture of misery. Then, out of the gloom, a knight in shining armor - rather a lot of armor. Meatloaf!
Paradise By The Dashboard Light is one of those songs that just makes me smile.
The story of adolescent fumblings in a large American automobile, sound tracked by a baseball commentary on the car radio, is one of the finest works on the excellent Bat Out of Hell. Hearing it today brought back memories of the late 1970's and my own early forays into the world of women. The affect on my movement was remarkable. I felt several hundred pounds lighter and actually started to run as the music coursed in through my ears, around my brain and into my blood. I grinned like a fool, waving at horsemen, sheep, even the buffeted gorse bushes. Close on the heels came Black Dog by Led Zep to mark Jimmy Page's 62nd birthday (yesterday). The pounding rhythm of Bonhams' drumming carried me easily up the last steep climb and into the homeward mile.
5 tough miles tucked away followed by a vicious stretching session.
Looking forward to Thursday.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Cancelled my scheduled 5 this morning. Ironic that the vista greeting me though the window this morning was far better than any in recent days, but the bods not up to it. I've been fighting something off for the past few days and this moring I just knew a run would be counterproductive. This exposes a basic flaw in my 'less is more' schedule, as a missed run takes on greater significance. However, running with illness leads to injury and long-term problems, so feet up it is.
My good friend and RC Mentor SP decided to hang up his Marathon running boots yesterday. I know he's thought long and hard about this, and I also know it's the right decision for him just now. He's threatening to keep his eye in - personally I think once you master the art of lifing a pint you never lose it.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Hmmm. Is that really 'lifing a pint', Sweder, or 'lifting a pint' ? Or is that the same thing, anyway ? And is that your whole point ? Er, yes. I guess.
Indeed. I had been 'lifing' a fair few pints myself that day, most out of sync with the rest of this month when I've been estranged from my regular 'squeeze'. What conclusions can we draw from this experiement? That's easy. Laying off the beer is bad for one's health and can impair one's ability to spell-check. Hic.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
No danger of a run (as defined by this site, anyway ) this morning
A most uncomfortable night, much of it spent strapped to a large piece of porcelain, coupled with Mrs S enjoying a sleep-free night, lead to ugly scenes in the house this morning. Nigel's cruel exposure of my poor spelling added pain to an already sore solar plexus. I crawled off to work, dishevelled and empty, pondering the possibility of a dodgy pint last Wednesday lunchtime.
I shall lay low until Sunday. Hopefully the lure of a windswept, rain-lashed downland lope will be just the tonic I need.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It's 07:19, I'm sat here in my new(ish) lycra knee-lengths & long-sleeve running vest waiting for the sun to rise so I can gauge the sort of day we're going to get. Spent all yesterday convincing myself I felt chipper and of course life did it's best to stop that.
First City thump United comfortably, any danger of an unlikely comeback quashed by the ref. He booked Rooney as they left the field for the break; the Boy Wonder was anonymous after that.The salt massage was completed when Robbie Fowler, astonishingly the fourth richest Premiership player did what Robbie Fowler does best; got booked for an extremely unpeasant assault in the 92nd minute (Ronaldo having been sent off on a straight red for less some time before) and promptly thumped the ball into the net 30 seconds later.
But like the Murphy's, I'm not bitter. I still managed to smile and whistle my way through an afternoon that saw Liverpool sneak a win against Spurs (albeit with a cracking goal). Succur was on offer with news of Brighton's late winner against Leeds United, and my mood improved no end when my son anounced he was staying in to watch a movie with Maw and Paw.
Sadly that movie turned out to be Be Cool, the impoverished sequel to the enjoyable Get Shorty. There's 2 hours of my life I'll not get back.
Still, after all this I still crawled into bed with a smile having just set the alarm for 6:40.
Miss a Sunday run? Not on your Van Nelly, mate.
Bet you're glad you asked now, eh?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Fowler's wealth comes from canny investment in the property market, apparently.
I seem to have lost my knack for early morning rising. It's now around 9:50, and I've just completed my ablutions and careful breakfast. Supposed to shoot for 15 miles today, which I'm notfeeling much appetite for.
Positive points: 1) the weather looks good and 2) I've finally acquired a portable DAB radio that I hope will help me get through the distance. I looked at the Roberts, but eventually went for the Nevada. The former was better made but the latter was a bit lighter and had rechargeable batteries. Will report back later on my run out with Planet Rock.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
The sunrise revealed a dull, overcast Sussex morning.
Neither cold nor wet, yet somehow uninspiring. The call of the duvet was loud and insistent.
Another impressive turn-out at the marina - close to 40 runners hopping on the spot to generate warmth waiting for the off. Nigel was back after a week off, and Remy following a clandestine weekend with some bint in Bristol; a triathlete and by all accounts both fit and desirable.
I reckoned on being well-rested (having missed Thursday's run) and decided to go with the flow today. We were 'doing the gallops' - not some bizarre running style, but actually the Snake route with an added couple of miles to St Dunstans and a grueling mile slog back along the cliff tops.
I ran with Nigel, chatting happily about all manner of nonsense for the first three miles. At Saltdean we once again paused only for a brief stretch, leaving the main group behind. A new chap, Paul, took off with us (Remy stayed behind to keep an old friend company). Paul has an interesting running style - very upright, a high kicking action on the back lift. Nigel and I exchanged looks, but the unorthodox gait proved deceptive; Paul's an accomplished runner with a healthy junior record and runs 6 miles on a regular basis. Today we'd cover more than double that, and chugging up Telscombe Tye he shared his concerns over the distance.
As conversation turned to vocation Paul revealed himself to be in 'Big DJ Management' - that is, he schedules work for some of the spinners of today's platters-that-matter, people like Norman 'Fatboy' Cooke and his ilk. Moving easily across the ridge towards the Snake I conducted a systems check. A little tightness in the groin and, unusually for me, the calves, but apart from the unpleasant bi-products of last weeks' cold I felt OK. Paul was obviously very comfortable.
'Beep-beep'.
Paul has a Garmin! (actually, Timex equivalent). Excellent, a chance for me to note mileage at some of the key points on the run. Into the prelude to the long, winding climb to Woodingdean - 'beep-beep'.
'8 miles' announced Paul. OK, that's just before the start of the Snake proper. Excellent. We chatted about the climb before us, and I cautioned Paul about the succession of 'false summits' that appear along the way. He seemed happy, still comfortable.
3/4s of the way up - 'beep-beep'.
'9 miles'. So, my guess that the main part of this section was a mile and a half was pretty accurate - closer to 2 from the first, badger hole-infested mud-slide section.
'Is that the top?' asked Paul, a slight note of concern creeping into his voice.
'Nope, but not far now' I grinned.
400 metres from the real summit I felt like kicking. I rarely indulge in Fartlek on a long run, but I could feel myself pulling away from my companions and kept my foot down.
'Go on lads' puffed Nigel. I glanced right - there was Paul, grinning, matching my pace easily. This lad is very fit! We sprinted the last 200, reaching the gate at the top of the climb together. Great clouds of steam poured from our mouths and nostrils, mingling with the tendrils rising from our backs.
'That was great!' Nigel arrived, another Great Old Engine pulling into the station, more puffing and clouds of steam.
We surveyed the hillside and spotted a few of our group ascending the last climb. The chasing pack was going well, and we pushed on. 2 miles later, on the gallops to the east of East Brighton Golf Course, we started the long descent to sea level. An unexpected horror awaited us. A strong wind sweeping up from the seafront, channeled into the valley, gathering force, whipped away any relief the downhill section may have offered. My calves issued a formal complaint, followed by both groins and hamstrings. Hmm, this is going to hurt.
On to St Dunstans, our triumvirate spread over 400 metres with Paul bouncing joyfully to the fore. Through the tunnel and onto the cliff tops, blessed relief as the hefty breeze nudged my left shoulder, and into the last mile and a half. Texans have a wonderful turn of phrase, and one sprang to mind as I dragged my weary bones over the grass toward home; 'Man, my ass is draggin''.
Finally home, warm handshakes and dumb grins all round.
Paul's watch reported 14.8 miles in a shade under 2 hours 20. A tough run, but all the more satisfying for that. I'm planning a 'step back' run next weekend - no more than 12, possibly as short as 8 - an effort to charge the batteries for Almería.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yeah, it was good to get back out there today.
I really did feel it at the end, though. Still not sure about this 'less is more' approach . . . we'll see how things pan out in February when the long runs get 'interesting'. I'm not sure any marathon will ever be a 'doddle' - a dawdle maybe
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
) this morning 
