Depends on what you're doing . . . when struggling uphill I find Under the Bridge or Scar Tissue calm me down to a nice easy rythm . . . for a more up-tempo cadence 'Can't Stop' and 'By The Way' work rather well.
Actually Zeppelin have (for me) the best running music (amongst the artists currently dwelling on my i-Pod). Bonham and J P create strong drum n base lines that just seem to fit my stride patterns perfectly at certain points of a run. 'Kashmir' or 'Ramble On' work well early on. The very best are 'How many More Times' and 'Achillies Last Stand' - the latter perfect to hammer home my last (slightly downhill) mile
Think I might squeeze in an extra run in the morning just so I can set that up . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Depends on what you're doing . . . when struggling uphill I find Under the Bridge or Scar Tissue calm me down to a nice easy rythm . . . for a more up-tempo cadence 'Can't Stop' and 'By The Way' work rather well.
Ah yes, Scar Tissue is a great song and about my pace
Possibly not to your taste Sweder, but I've found George Harrison's Any Road a nice boppy, pacey, and ironically appropriate runner's song too [INDENT]
If you don't know where you're going
Any road will take you there.[/INDENT]
[INDENT]
(RIP George)[/INDENT]
Rather like a streaky boundary nicked past forth slip I stole a crafty four this morning.
Encouraged by a cool, sprightly breeze and the boundless enthusiasm of the hounds I crammed this unscheduled lope into an already impossible Friday. Darned glad I was too. Far from suffering the expected stiffness that usually plagues back-to-back runs I felt in fine fettle, bounding easily across Landport Bottom and into the slopes of Wicker Man Hill.
Resolved not to push on, rather to keep this short, sweet and swift, I turned my back on Blackcap and set off for home. The reason for my apparent fitness became clear as a juvenile gale greeted my descent, a blissfully cool wind that felt as if it had blown straight out of my new Husky beer fridge. It had certainly lent wings to my heels for the outward miles.
I hammered down the hard, bumpy slopes, Achilles Last Stand thundering in my ears, hounds bounding excitedly at my heels.
The slightest hint of pre-Paris form, then - a small reward for recent sweaty endeavour.
A late, drink-fuelled night beckons, but I shall feel a shade less guilty as I sup my ale tonight
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Don't y'all find that any music is likely to disturb your running rhythm? That's the reason I tend to shy away from the mp3 player. Admittedly, I'm rather obsessive about my breathing / footfall coordination. But I always find I'm being pulled either too fast or too slow by the music. Possible the only solution is to embrace the DJ's obsession with BPM.
marathondan Wrote:Don't y'all find that any music is likely to disturb your running rhythm?
Not me, Dan.
The dinosaur-like thud of my heavy tread seems perfectly suited to the likes of Led Zep. Once I've warmed up (after a few miles) and I get onto some downslopes zippier stuff like AC DC, Tom Petty and Motorhead spur me on to greater deeds n speeds.
I do accept that running to music is not everyone's cuppa tea. I've tried many things - cricket commentary, silence (perfect for thinking!), talk radio, football commentary, chatting with fellow runners . . . but for me, when you absolutely positively have to kick some ass and drag yourself off the Sofa of Eternal Lethargy you can't beat a bit of Rock n Roll Rehab.
Obsessed with breathing & footfall?
Ten minutes of Motorhead, preferably from a live recording, you'll forget all that nonesense
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A Friday night/ Saturday morning of affable ale-quaffing and a lustrous variety of anonymous nightclub cocktails left me little hope of a successful outing this morning. Unshaven, eyes stuck together with sleep-glue, I staggered through the house at an ungodly hour trying to locate my running ensemble. Thankfully Mrs S and Phoebes were up and at ‘em preparing for a dance comp* so hot fresh coffee was at hand to wash down my hastily prepared toast and honey.
A gentle sea breeze cooled our band of seven as we embarked from Brighton Marina, heading east under a clear blue sky and a sun that climbed with indecent haste above the coast. The first seven miles were tough but uneventful. I chatted easily enough with Chris and Rog about expected conditions in Cape Town, both next week (when I hope to run Chapman’s Peake) and next April for the TOM. We bade farewell to Ade as he set off for The Wire, a recent house move and imminent new arrival limiting his free time; lucky swine! The climb out of Saltdean, always tough, took a large bite out of my limited resolve. Reserves were further depleted on the ascent of Telscombe Tye, the sun-baked ground dry, dusty and cruelly unyielding.
Distant yachts barely moved, tiny white triangles leaving harbour to start a fine day's sailing in the Channel glistening below/ to our left as we headed west, the breeze deserting us to leave us at the mercy of the blistering heat. I dropped back, taking ever more frequent slugs from my water carrier. Rog seemed happy enough to stay with me and we loped along as the fit four drove on, seemingly unaffected by the harsh conditions. A quarter mile short of the Snake I announced a walk break. Again Rog agreed, himself suffering with a tight right calf. As the entrance to the serpent’s lair appeared over the ridge we noticed a large number of walkers, all wearing what looked like race numbers, armed with sturdy rucksacks and floppy sun hats. A brace of Ghurkhas in full battledress guarded a military tent – and then the penny dropped.
‘South Downs Way walk’
‘Aaah . . . lot’s of walkers then.’
‘Yep . . . best start running then.’
‘Umm-hmm . . .’
We set off on a gentle lope, brushing past a collection of solid-looking men and women, almost to a man (or woman) equipped with one or two walking sticks. Walking sticks, it seems, are not immune to the ravages of technological advancement. Most on show today appeared to be of graphite construction, some apparently collapsible in a telescopic style, and many of varied and interesting colour. Through the foothills and at the gate that marks the Snake proper my companion announced serious cramp in his right calf. We stopped, Rog stretched out, and we decided, given
a) this was only a training run and there were no medals at stake
b) Rog was in considerable pain and
c) It was bloody hot and getting ever bloody hotter
we would walk to the top. Decision made (with, frankly, no hint of argument from me) we chatted easily, taking in the stunning views over Death Valley and the Lewes hills beyond. At the summit I bid Rog farewell (he lives near Woodingdean, a short limp from the top of the Snake), setting off once more at a modest jog towards Brighton Racecourse, Wilson’s Avenue and home.
During my heavy, gravity-aided plod down the steep drop that is Wilson's, the marina spread out below, I came under attack. A young seagull, apparently concerned that this large white blob thundering past as it preened on an adjacent rooftop was some sort of threat, launched itself into a series of Stuka-style dive-bomb sorties, swooping ever lower with each run. Happily for me the bomb-bay doors remained closed and I hurried on with the warning screams of the ugly creature ringing in my ears.
A disjointed effort, with seven reasonably paced miles to start, a couple of miles walked and the last three jogged gamely for a total of around two and a half hours.
Not great, but infinitely more than I'd imagined possible at 7am.
* [SIZE="1"]An altogether more successful day for the ladies. Phoebe made the finals in her solo, pairs and rock n roll pairs, taking first, first and second respectively.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
andy Wrote:Mahatma Gandhi...... Where are you mate?
Just resurrecting this mini-thread after I heard something interesting on the radio this morning.
Quote:"The use of taxpayers' money to promote science which destroys life in order to save life - I'm against that, and therefore if the bill does that, I will veto it," Mr Bush warned Congress recently.
This is actually about stem cell research, but I wonder what would have happened if Dubya had applied this strict moral code to all aspects of government policy? Need I add the words "military research"?
marathondan Wrote:Quote:
"The use of taxpayers' money to promote science which destroys life in order to save life - I'm against that, and therefore if the bill does that, I will veto it," Mr Bush warned Congress recently.
This is actually about stem cell research, but I wonder what would have happened if Dubya had applied this strict moral code to all aspects of government policy?
Does this mean he's opposed to nuclear bombs as well? Cool!
I don't think Dubbya's got long left.
It's been a while since we had a serious attempt on a western World Leader. I reckon if / when someone has a pop at the Highest Ranked Chimp On The Planet (or Galen, as we like to call him) the Secret Serviceman on duty might just prove to be a tad slow catching the bullet.
Stem Cell Reasearch is one of those tricky subjects I used to feel ambilvalent about . . . until my daughter picked up an incurable condition. Dubbya doesn't give a monkeys (see what I did there?!) because his condition is curable - his relatives just need to leave their cousins alone.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A stiff-legged warm five this morning.
Butterflies danced through the wavering grass-heads, the scorched Sussex downland lazed under blue skies, caressed by a soothing breeze out of the west. Hard work in the company of Alice Cooper’s Breakfast With Alice on Planet Rock. Floyd, Petty, U2 . . . all did their best to carry me up the hills. The aches and pains eased a little on the homeward lope, my soaked vest clutched in one hand, dog leads in the other. Willow, my plucky spaniel, sought respite in the sheep trough at the top of Landport Bottom, eyes and ears peeking out from the grey-green water, looking for all the world like a miniature hairy hippo.
I seem to be getting to grips with these warm-weather jaunts. The irony is that I’m about to leave these shores for cooler climbs. Cape Town shivers in winter, battered by rain in a 10 degree chill. Is this the first recorded instance of ‘cold-weather’ training? I’ve two opportunities to run in my three days there. The first will be an early morning coastal jog along the route where we’re hoping to stage a 5k fun run during the World Diabetes Congress in December. The second, early Tuesday before I fly home, will be a Hout bay/ Chapman’s Peake/ Hout Bay loop, around 12 k in all.
Can’t wait.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It’s officially the hottest July day in modern recorded history.
36.5 degrees in Wisley, 36.3 in Charlwood (near Gatwick). Municipal trucks are on the highways spraying stone chippings to minimise damage to the melting tarmac; the tracks on our railways are buckling.
What to do?
Dive into the cool ocean?
Head for the shade with a bucket of Pimms and a straw hat?
Nah . . . enter the Weakest Link relay race!
It all sounded like a good idea at the time.
Chris and Gary, redoubtable Jog-Shop-Joggers, mainstays of the Sunday sojourns in these summer weeks, had fallen on hard times in their search for the rest of their Fantastic Four. I got the text on Tuesday night, safely laid out on my sofa half-watching Batman Begins and nursing my last cup of coffee of the day.
Standing on the grassy embankment at Blackrock in the lea of the old Volks Railway terminus, watching the laden beach-dwellers heading for their camper vans, I pondered the wisdom of my agreement. Around me runners of all shapes and sizes gathered, the one common denominator the absence of excess flesh. Sam ‘the legend’ Lambourne had set up his registration table near the start/ finish line. His minions busied themselves with registration forms, runner numbers and buckets of safety pins. The tables groaned under the weight of large water containers; recently purchased watermelons lounged in the shade, awaiting dissection.
Chris arrived – another fit bastard – and looked around quizzically.
‘No Gary?’
No, no Gary. And no mystery fourth musketeer, neither.
'No, Rog bailed - his calf's still sore.'
Two out of four wasn’t going to slice the mootard so we set about finding a similarly short-handed team to suggest a merger. No less a man than Kadir, our guide and Sensei from Paris, was one such leader looking for a few good men. He got us.
The Weakest Link is a relay race over a course of approximately 3 kilometres, taking in a couple of decent hill climbs from sea-level to the upper promenade and a set of merciless zig-zag steps scaling the cliffs above Brighton Marina. Each team of four designates a running order for their members; A, B, C and D. As is customary A sets off (with all the other A’s), completes the course and passes an invisible batton to B . . .and so it goes, until runner D returns, whereupon his team joins him/ her for one last torturous circuit. The teams’ time (and finishing place) is determined by the slowest runner . . . or, if you will, the weakest link.
Slot A (generally accepted as the duffer's leg, as you get the most time to recover before the last lap) had be snaffled by Kadir’s only other original member, Ian. I grabbed B, Chris C with our glorious leader taking the demanding anchor role. Gary arrived cursing the inability of Southern Trains to cope with the meltdown and, having lost his team, found an altogether more accomplished band of athletes. His penance for arriving late? He got the dreaded D slot.
After much milling about and general confusion Sam called the A runners to order and set them loose with a blast on his air-horn. All too soon the leaders reappeared along Madeira Drive, looking relaxed and comfortable as they fair flew past the assembled throng of waiting runners, supporters and families. Shouts of encouragement rang out across the quadrant as the teams, 24 in all, filed past. Despite modest protestations before the start Ian had performed well, holding 12th place and looking pretty good. We watched as the runners disappeared over the rise towards the Marina, and I realised my moment was close at hand.
When it arrived, some five minutes later, I was far from ready.
Since I ditched the Tuesday night track sessions (I blamed the springy surface at The Withdean for a series of hamstring flares in 2004) my ‘prowess’ over short distances had withered. How cruelly this was exposed as I struggled to find the right rhythm and pace tonight. My run can be summarised as a circuit of two halves; extreme huffing and puffing on the climbs, rasping recovery on the descents. At no stage did I feel comfortable or controlled; rather I fought for breath like a diver who’s O2 tank has hit empty yet is still some way from the surface.
I managed to reel in a competitor – a young girl (well, they all look young at my age) – just as we passed our team members and the start/ finish on the way to the Marina. Obviously mortified at being overhauled by a lard-bucket barely able to draw breath she responded, shadowing my every leaden step up the hideous stairs, down through the cycle path tunnel and all the way to the finish. I slapped hands with Chris at the change-over point, staggered towards the water table and stopped half way, grabbing my knees and studying the scorched grass at my feet. Sweat poured from my roasted face, splashing onto the tips of my Addistars (circa FLM 2004) to be swallowed instantly by the parched ground.
I shared some form of Lucozade chew bar with an indecently refreshed Ian. He suggested our lap times were ‘pretty close’, for which I was most grateful if unconvinced. Chris performed much better, putting in a solid lap. The damage was already done, though, and not half way round he was passed by the leading D runner; we’d been lapped on the third circuit.
Kadir, having not raced since September, took off like a rocket.
‘Christ I hope he slows down’ wailed Ian. My thoughts exactly.
But he didn’t. Kadir is a fit specimen, an accomplished Ultra runner, and extremely competitive. He flew around the circuit, eyes fixed dead ahead, arms pumping, back upright, shoulders back – he looked for all the world like a runner. In no time he was rounding the final bend.
‘Come on then!’ Chris lead us to the change point and we stepped in with our leader as he cruised across the line.
‘OK Kadir, nice run – lets ease into this second lap’ I heard myself mutter.
He may have heard me, but I doubt it; if anything he picked up the pace. Ian, the one man in the team I felt a kinship with in terms of form, turned out to be a traitorous dog of the first order.
‘Come on! If we gear this up we can catch that group ahead!’
For the love of God!
But step it up we did. I had no choice but to suck it up and get moving. There was no way I was going to hold the others back; even less chance of letting them pull away to leave me finishing alone and in deep shame.
The last half mile, from the top of the steps to the finish, was pure murder. To his credit Kadir, being the great team player that he is, dropped back to a pace or so ahead of me, offering a constant diatribe of encouragement laced with just the right amount of menace.
I have no idea of our final position.
We did catch, pass and leave the team in front, I know that. I also know where we finished; in the Bristol Bar, supping Guinness, our thoughts turned to the Two Oceans. A few other lads from the relays joined us, one of them a two-times TOM finisher.
‘I hear it’s hilly.’
‘Spppppppfffffffff’ – a cloud of vaporised best bitter filled the cool evening air. ‘You could say that.’
As I rolled a skinny Golden Virginia – yes, I’ve strayed recently, but it’s a passing fad that will vanish soon enough – a communal look of horror spread across my companions’ faces. I suspect I’d have drawn less contempt had I taken my shorts off and started shaving my tackle. Oh well.
Back at my home office desk writing this up I realise the weed really will have to go. Again. And despite my pitiful efforts tonight I’m more convinced than ever that I’ll be ready come April. Just so long as I can train over decent distances – sod these sprints for a lark.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I've got a great (or should that be "terrible"?) excuse. M has been away from home for 2 weeks on business, and I cannot be trusted to function like a normal adult. Beer, chocolate, takeaways. All the usual stuff. I had 1 brief plod last week; that's it.
Mercifully, she returns at the weekend, and life may be able to get back to normal. It will be great to have her back, and not a moment too soon. I've just about run out of clean shirts.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
andy Wrote:Mercifully, she returns at the weekend, and life may be able to get back to normal. It will be great to have her back, and not a moment too soon. I've just about run out of clean shirts.
Have I got a story for you!
Take a peek in the playground . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A quick note to record a gentle oceanfront 10k in light drizzle and 12 degreees . . . aaaahhhhh . . . heaven!!! Running was effortless; it's such a joy to run for an hour without losing a bath load of vital nutrients and liquid.
I was joined by Ronan from the IDF for this plod. Ronan recently ran the '20k of Brussels' and has a healthy respect for runners of the 'Big Race'. He fretted all the way round that he would struggle to keep up . . . Ha! He obviously doesn't read this diary . . .
Another one planned for Tuesday before I come home.
I've got my fingers crossed for some nasty weather . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Crikey, that conjoured up an ugly visual . . . 'Andy in a G String' . . . hand me a Duvel (last of the guest beer stock) . . .
