I have my target time firmly etched inside my eyelids.
It's sub 5 hours - the time required to gain access to the Two Oceans in April '07. I'm sure come the day I'll have a time in mind, maybe even a first sub-4; but Paris is a door to Cape Town.
Eveything else is secondary.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I don't think you'll have any trouble getting the qualification time if you're knocking out hilly 15 milers in 2:20.
I've got the same target as you, but mine really is going to be touch and go. I'm getting the distances in, but am having trouble cranking up the pace.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I'm not worried about the QT, just not getting excited about anything else (PB wise). I could shoot for 3:55, overcook the whole darned thing and wind up trying to get into (and stay healthy for) an Autmn race
Looking at your race times over the past 12 months I don't think you need to worry too much about pace. So long as you bank the miles I reckon you'll do it. It's building sufficient strength to maintain the pace right through that's key to achieving the time you need. In London last year I had to make a choice at 13 miles - shoot for a sub 4 and risk blowing up or stay steady and finish in relative comfort. I chose the latter and nailed a PB. It was the Sunday mileage from January to April that delivered for me. Of course if I'm wrong, dumping the track work this year could prove to be a horrible mistake.
It's funny, I'm really not thinking about times this year.
Maybe I'll knock out a quick 5 over my old route this week to compare with January '05 - could be interesting.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I hope you're right, Sweder. I've just been writing about today's run (though it won't get posted till tomorrow), and expressing a bit of concern about pace, even though the distances (15 miles today) are fine. Although I tired towards the end, I pretty much ran (my version of "ran") the whole way, so yes, as you point out, the endurance seems to be building nicely. I need to keep running with my local group on Tuesday and Thursday as they drag me from my comfort zone.
What about Almeria? Are you aiming to beat last year's time, or just treat it as a training run?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
andy Wrote:What about Almeria? Are you aiming to beat last year's time, or just treat it as a training run?
That's a tough question, and one I hadn't considered until now.
I think the absence of Nigel will play a part in this. Had the Rockmeister(I want that name!) been with us we'd have undoubtedly egged each other on, for better or worse, in pusuit of a better time. Without him though I'll be in there alone, and if I stick to my principals that this year is all about building steadily I'll run as comfortably as possible without pushing it and let the (champion)chips fall where they may.
Ask me again when I hit the Rambla on the second loop . . .
The way my legs feel after yesterday's cruel slog any attempt to push for a time might result in my legs going 'ping' and coiling up 'round my ears like busted watch-springs . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
'Something went wrong I tell you - something got in with me on that last teleport. A piece of wood somehow managed to crawl into the pod and the machine spliced our DNA at the molecular level.
I'm turning into something new - I'm turning into Swedertree.'
Rolled out of bed this morning onto lifeless, alien limbs.
14+ miles of crunching downland hills on Sunday following a week of illness and little running appears to have cost a little more than I'd bargained for.
Staring at the rain-lashed sodden turf outside my house I smiled at the irony; on this day when my legs are at their most vulnerable I will have to plod the Townie plod. There's nothing for it; a pavement run it is. The dangers of slipping and subsequent muscle tears (or worse) far outweigh the mild discomfort of a bone-jarring, carbon monoxide infused lap of Lewes town centre.
So, decision made.
So why am I still sat here? Get out there, embrace the concrete and asphalt.
Truth be told I've no stomach for the fight today. I just read Glaconman's brief yet revealing post from Bombay, and my heart goes out to him. Fate's cruel fingers delivered bad news in his very hour of triumph; his sense of deflation and sorrow is palpable across the ether.
I'm off now. No music today, just a swift leg-warmer and stretch.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Dark thoughts on a long, dark road.
I'd been feeling a little stale long before SP hung up his runners. It may be better to burn out than to fade away.
I'm not fading away, just going through a lazy period. Lazy running, lazy writing.
Lazy running? Andy talked about being dragged out of his comfort zone when he runs with a group. Well, I'm so much in my comfort zone I could pull up an armchair and light up a pipe. The mileage is OK - 15(ish) hilly ones on Sunday was testing enough. But training has become predictable, and aside from the terrain, pedestrian. Same old plods, Tuesdays and Thursdays, same group runs on Sundays. Plain lazy.
Lazy Writing? I took the time to read over a few of my early posts on this forum. Most of them training runs, some of them races. All laced with insight, invective and a passion that hides poor prose. Recently I've been writing by remote, or, as they say in Hollywood, phoning them in. I went there, I did that, I saw so-and-so . . . I guess writing, like running, requires an 'off' period, a time where you just chug along, clocking the miles. Time to rest the brain-cells, a mental 'time-out'.
Using the excuse of the slippery conditions I dodged my usual offroad circuit and set off for town. I found an odd collection of emotions sloshing about. First up was guilt. I'd jumped onto the forum this morning in the hope of reading about Glaconman's epic encounter with the streets of Bombay. On viewing his muted missive (muted for entirely understandable reasons) my immediate reaction was disappointment. My need to feed vicariously on GM's success made way for sorrow and empathy, yet for a fleeting moment my black heart held sway as I scanned in vain for the joyous report needed to lift my mood.
I plodded past the turning into town. What I needed was punishment, self-flagellation to drive away this introspective funk. I turned right at the lights, past the flinted walls of H M Prison Lewes, and on down the hill. True catharsis Lies in the hell that is the A27. There's nothing to force ones darkest thoughts to the surface quite like a roadside run. Like a lustful 10 minute 'romance' 'round the back of the bike-sheds. Not a thing of beauty but of necessity. Seems to me running is like sex, in that it's one of life's pursuits from which one can derive pleasure without being proficient. This thought made me smile, and the thunderheads around me lifted a little. I looked ahead. Another straight mile of on-coming traffic piercing the gloom. To my right, the hedgerows spoke of winters' dead, spent seed-heads bent towards the rubbish snagged in spikey brambles' clasp. Beyond the spiteful thorn bushes, vacant sheep fields dozed, defined by Sussex flint, host to the occasional, leaf-bare tree.
As often happens when my thoughts turn inward a familiar face swam up through the darkness; my Father.
I have run the gamut of emotion with my Dad throughout my 44 years. I loved him as only a small boy can, my fondest, most real memory of him as a colossus, striding alongside me, holding my hand. His pristine black shoes gleamed in spring sunshine as we walked from our flat in Surbiton towards the station, to spend a magical hour on the platform bridge, watching the great steam-beasts pull in from London. We'd laugh heartily as plumes of smoke and steam engulfed us, wrapped us in our own world, untouchable.
I have other memories of him, but the reality of some is a little suspect. My Mum kept a lot of photos, many of them taken of me on trips to the beach or walks in the park. Do I truly remember, or do the photographs trick me into thinking so? Like Deckard's haggard Bladerunner, smashed on booze after the harrowing execution of a Replicant, staring at a collection of pictures on top of a piano. Are these my memories, or have they been given to me? The lines between what we remember and what we're told blur easily.
The subjects of black moods and my Father make appropriate bedfellows. In the late 1960's manic depression was a much maligned condition, treated only with sedation and ECT. My Dad was a gentle man, a lover of classical music, of nature and the good in people. He struggled to deal with the reality of life, the cruelty of man to his fellow man, falling victim to terrible bouts of despair. I recall visiting him in hospital. I remember the tall ceilings, long curtains, nice gardens, his checkered dressing gown, an overwhelming aura of calm.
In 1970 my Father succumbed. In the grip of his illness he took his own life, laying down in his favourite park, belly full of pills, a terrible darkness in his heart. As I grew to learn, if not initially understand, the impact of his actions, my love for my Father was choked by weeds of resentment. He left us, two young boys and their Mum, penniless, bereft, distraught. Mum's family rallied round and her boys were not to want for love or care. Family on Dad's side stayed away, shamed by the stain of suicide. As I grew to manhood, leaving home to start a family of my own, I came to learn more about my Father. My Mum talked more openly about his condition and, of course, as medicine advanced and we saw manic depression for the very real illness it is, my bitterness turned to sadness. Help had been just a decade away.
By chance, in my early thirties, I came to meet my Father's best friend. A lovely man, Dudley had been devastated at losing his friend and lost contact with our family, finding the pain of seeing us too much to bear. These great pals had shared many joys in life, the greatest being a burning passion for classical music. I spent a magical evening with Dudley here in Lewes, supping ale and hearing tales of a man I hardly knew. That night I came to love my Father again. You could call it closure, except that the evening opened so much for me. On the day of my wedding Dudley sent me a tape and a letter. Both contained collections from my Dad's life. Music and notes explaining where they'd first heard the pieces, a story about my Dad almost getting slung off the bus for conducting music that, pre personal stereo, played only in his head.
All this passed through my mind as I flogged my sweaty self along the cycle path to Falmer. The grubby little Texaco garage that should have marked my turn-around was way past. I blundered on into a relentless nor-westerly, embracing the brutality, the bleakness of the journey. The smell of hot grease announced the proximity of the layby roach-coach. Impressively large truck drivers crammed seared meat wrapped in ghost-white buns into unshaven faces; you could almost hear the arteries clogging. I ran on, up the steepening climb, my journey broken only by the occasional greeting of passing cyclists. As with my feelings for my Father, my mood this morning had taken a positive turn. Legs of mahogany had so far born their load without complaint. I turned at the Swan pub, smiling as the buffeting wind subsided, vanished and reappeared as the gentlest of nudges at my back. I loped easily down the hill, altogether happier with life.
I 'wrote' a lot more on the homeward leg; reams and reams of babble. I laughed even as I did so, well aware I'd never remember it all. The final mile ascent, a brutal hill that when I first started running required the blast of the Rocky theme to get me home, seemed effortless today. But then it would, for my heart was so much lighter.
8 man-made miles, and some therapy.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A story like that deserves to have a beer named after it. My next dark ale will be called Sweder Brew - label design already done. Rowan Atkinson fans may recognise the font.
That A27 has a lot to answer for. I filled up at that Texaco garage on the way back from East Sussex National once. It was a great day for golf, but as it happens I'd got my days mixed up and gone there to play 24 hours too early.
In the beginning, I remember you complaining about the poor reception of 'Planet Rock' on that particular route. This time you hit an entirely different frequency.
Five unremarkable hilly miles this morning.
Downland mist graduated into proper fog as I left the house, the thick grey veil rolling over the muddy trails. Planet Rock provided the audio distractions as I sought an all-together more (mentally) peaceful outing.
I watched the dogs scampering across my line. Tess, the wild white whippet, has just recovered from restorative surgery. She managed to open a sizeable flap of skin a couple of weeks ago, diving under a barbed-wire fence after a rabbit, a blurred, white, fur-seeking missile. The ultimate sanction against this dog (other than lethal injection) is to keep her on the lead, a restraint necessary to safeguard the freshly stitched area. Today she was on parole. Tess embraced the thickets and gorse bushes with purpose, visiting every last nook to renew olfactory acquaintances.
There's something you should know about Tess; she has a kink, an embarrassing modus operandi that she deploys not only for her own gratification but also (and I am absolutely sure about this) to cause her owner maximum discomfort. Despite having appeared to take care of her ablutions early in any give walk, like all good combatants she manages to keep some ammo in reserve. Should we encounter a likely target - say a mother walking with young children, an elderly couple enjoying a romantic stroll in the hills or, best of all, a man of the cloth or a nun - Tess races across the ground to park equidistant between me and the oncoming innocents. She hunkers down, head back, legs trembling with extreme effort, to squeeze out her carefully smuggled deposit. By the time she's done the hapless wanderer(s) are almost upon her. At this point I develop an issue with my earphones or get distracted by something amazing on the distant horizon, desperate to avoid eye-contact with the slighted strangers.
I've told this tale a few times and I'll tell it briefly now as I cannot bear the horror the memory brings upon me.
In our previous house our garden backed onto another. The owners had a pup, installing a dog flap to allow the youngster access to the garden whilst they were out at work. Tess used to hop the fence to go call on this dog and they'd play happily in the garden for hours. At some point they fell out. Maybe a dispute over a freshly unearthed bone or which cat to terrorise first. No matter. Tess resolved to get her pal into trouble with his owners.
Late one evening we sat around the telly, Tess fast asleep in her basket. I answered a knock on the door and there stood the owner of the puppy from the neighboring house. 'I don't know how to tell you this' he began, then proceeded to tell me, in remarkably calm tones, how his wife had observed Tess enter their house through the dog flap and run upstairs. Moments later the brazen hound returned, skipping past the woman before escaping across the garden and leaping the fence. Curious, the woman went upstairs to find that the intruder had taken a dump in the middle of their freshly-washed duvet.
If you're wondering what might be the best way to respond to such news I'm afraid I'm not much help. I stood, slack-jawed, mumbling something about being 'terribly sorry' even as I thought how surreal it was to be apologising on behalf of a dog for crapping in another man's bed. My words died on the cold night air and I lifted my head, silently pleading for someone to beam me up. The look in the man's eyes was somewhere between incredulity and sympathy. We stared at one another for a few seconds (a lifetime) before he spun smartly on his heel and marched off up the driveway. He must have been incredibly angry yet there's no doubt in my mind that in some small way he felt sorry for me.
Such has been our life with Tess. Along with these tales of the unexpected she brings us immense joy. To watch her run, belly flat to the ground, legs spinning the Earth beneath her, is to witness a force of nature in spectacular action. My heart soars watching her twist and turn, darting this way and that at break-neck speed. She's a good running companion. I'll certainly miss her when she's gone.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:How would you react if your neighbour, an amiable sort with a lovely family, appeared on your doorstep one evening to tell you that your dog has crapped in his bed?
I'd probably feel sorry for him and the extreme embarrassment he must be feeling. I'd like to think that we'd have a good laugh about the whole thing, and then I'd just bung the duvet cover in the washing machine.
Is your neighbour still speaking to you by the way?
Yeah, as you say, you get over it and now it's just a funny story.
He was horribly embarassed - we Brits excel in the uncomfortable moment - this was pretty special though. I'll never forget his face as he struggled to find the words. He wasn't angry, just filled with horror and bemusement. I truly think the coming round to tell us was far worse for him than the actual discovery.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Presumably the perpetrator had been spotted at the scene of the crime, otherwise the origin of "Exhibit S" would have remained a mystery - doesn't bear thinking about.
I like to think I have a sophisticated sense of humour, but the truth is there's nothing funnier than a good toilet joke or knob gag.
As I said, it's not like she'd been a paragon of virtue before that, especially where public displays of defecation were concerned. The trouble is she looks so sweet, so innocent. She trembles if you look at her harshly. Everyone you meet with her says 'Oh, what a delightful dog!'
You feel like saying 'Yeah, she's lovely, except she'll shit in your neighbours' bed as soon as look at you'.
She has one blue eye and one brown - we should have called her Ziggy.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Some things about you Brits I will never understand. Andy has mentioned this "embarrassment" at causing a scene despite having a legitimate complaint more than once before as well. Ziggy would have a very short life if let loose here in Oz, I assure you. Sheep and horse botherers and duvet crappers are about as likely to escape the bullet as Andy is to break 4 hours.
And yet you have all this football violence...? How is that that a stranger who supports some other team can be thrown off a moving train for wearing the wrong coloured scarf, yet when your neighbour's dog craps on your bed, you are embarrassed to mention it?
I'm going to need an etiquette coach if I ever visit, I can see that.
