An early morning scrape across local hills under blue skies scarred with aircraft trails.
Lewes dozed under a dreamy veil of early mist. Chugging through Landport Bottom I could almost make out the ghosts of De Montfort’s army chasing the King’s men into the valley.
Pushing hard to make the most of the climbs I struggled to maintain a good pace right through the run. Wickerman Hill passed without incident aside from a couple of rabbits getting an early morning fly-past from my hounds. Blackcap offered the steeper climb. I kept my steps short and swift in an effort to keep some speed in my legs only to wilt badly just before the crest.
Another five miles tucked away in a hair over fifty minutes, some hard work mingling with downhill recovery coasts. Note to self: more effort required in post-run stretches – the shower can wait, the hamstrings and groins can’t.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Seafront Plodder Wrote:Go round a mates house and lay some garden decking. That officially counts as cross-training ya know. :p
I'm not sure what kind of cross training you mean SP. In my experience, one drinks about three beers for every square metre of decking. Well, if it's a real mate you're helping out that is
Took a day off - purely on golfing grounds, a MGS day at Westerham - and couldn't resist the chance for an early plod in the rain. Setting off at 8.30 with the hounds into a misty screen of steady drizzle, the chalky flint paths hosting the first muddy puddles for many months, I figured on a gentle four, turning at the top of Wickerman Hill.
Forty minutes later I stood dripping sweat and rain onto the hallway parque, dialing Tim to find out our departure time of the wilds of Kent.
'What time is it now?' enquired the man with the shniy new decking and impressive curved wall.
I told him.
'Oh, about twenty minutes or so should be fine.'
Add a couple of frantic stair sprints to those four miles.
Prior to leaving for Westerham I took the tour and can attest to the competance of SPs bricklaying. I have no confirmation on the nature or quantity of alcohol consumed during or after the construction, but I do know a late night curry was involved.
Henfield Half tomorrow, no more than a training run for me and a flat one at that, a welcome break from flogging my bulk up the Sussex hills.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A quick note as I'm duty bound to return to hall-painting detail.
An excellent course, mostly flat, under heavy grey skies with occasional sunshine in the latter stages.
Nice to see Purple Plodder (more of her epic endeavours later), Chris and Micheal from the JSJs.
Completed the course in 1 hour 51 - very happy with the time for what was little more than a stern training run.
More to follow.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
All this and 'no hopers' Man United managed to fluke a 5-1 hammering of Fulham. Reckon I might crack a tinnie or two this evening as I watch Luke Donald beat Tiger Woods like a drum to win the USPGA title . . .
I failed to mention the 'training session' with SP last night.
The Great Man was in town to attend a friend's 50th at the tennis club.
'Pop over to the Royal Oak for a beer before I go to this party' he said.
'OK, but I'm not staying long - I'm doing the Henfield Half' . . .
Just the six pints of Guinness in two and a half hours
I hate that bloody man . . .
12 foot ceilings? Pah!
I've been teetering on a stairwell ladder painting 16 foot high walls.
And there's only two more coats to go . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Due to the disturbance to sleepy village life caused by several hundred lycra-clad runners descending, the organisers of the Henfield Half opted to start the 2006 race at 10:30. Frankly I needed all the preparation time I could get. A ‘swift pint’ with SP the night before, on the back of several weeks on the wagon, had developed, most acceptably at the time, into a mini-session. My head on this damp, grey Sunday morning was decidedly woolly.
Arriving in the West Sussex village the nature of this annual problem became clear. The leisure centre, home to the race organisers and the start/ finish line, accommodates around fifty vehicles. With well over three hundred entrants the remaining cars were scattered liberally around the leafy streets of Henfield. 'This would probably piss me off too' I thought as I abandoned my pick-up truck on someone’s grass verge. With thirty minutes to the off and me not yet registered a cursory thought for the locals was all I had time for.
Chris and Mike were already in the registration hall clutching their entry forms. I thought this might be the sum of the Jog Shop Joggers – Shaun had managed to bash his knee, no-one had heard from Gary and Rog was missing presumed on holiday. As we loitered in the (rather small) car park we were hailed by Purple Plodder, replete in her Brighton AC vest and looking horribly fit. Turns out she’s currently running a hundred miles a week (that’s one hundred miles every week, ladies and gentlemen). PP is going for a PB in the Washington Marathon (October). With a FLM 2006 time of 3:23 she’s shooting for a sub 3:15 and following the Runners World ‘Hard Schedule’. Whilst this is obviously diametrically opposed to my own ‘less is more’ strategy I’m not one to speak ill of others so I’m saying nowt – except bloody hell!!! I don’t even managed a hundred miles a month!
Gazing around at the assembled throng I realised there was a distinct lack of lardies – these people looked serious; trim waists, developed muscles, a high percentage of vests bearing running club emblems or commemorating tough races like the South Downs Marathon. Being someone of rather less-than-svelt proportions I’m always happier with a few dumpy folk in the field – it helps me blend. Oh well, I’ll just have to act like a runner.
The race itself starts in the playing fields adjacent to the leisure centre. Rather annoyingly it begins with a couple of laps of said field – hardly the stunning countryside views we’d been looking forward to.
‘Reckon we’re just going to run round this field then?’ asked Chris.
That wasn’t even funny.
After the second lap we set off for a break in the hedgerow and the first bottleneck as runners squeezed through the narrow gap and into a shaded lane. Several twists and turns took us through farmed fields in various stages of harvest and through more lanes. I struggled with the early pace, foolishly hanging on to Chris’s shirt-tail for the first three miles. Finally it dawned on me I was running closer to 10k pace and I’d better ease off. I relaxed into a far more comfortable gait, calming my breathing and enjoying the feeling of running in the shade with a cool breeze for company.
Despite my throttling back I didn’t truly settle into my running until mile six. This seems to correspond with my Sunday runs, when I struggle until well over Telscombe Tye - about five-and-a-half miles in. There may be something I can do about this, maybe not, but it’s something I need to think about.
After mile six the countryside opened up to reveal a river gently meandering through unkempt tree-lined fields. The cloud cover started to break up, bathing the winding, multicoloured running snake in warm sunshine. I took regular belts from my water bottle, the contents enhanced with a dash of Lucozade Sport, mindful that most of last night’s Guinness had sweated out. I perspire copiously at the best of times; today in muggy conditions I was drenched, my shorts, suitably enough Ripcurl swimmers, saturated with recycled beer; it wasn’t pleasant.
Miles 7, 8 and 9 seemed to fly past. I’d not been overtaken – or for that matter gone past anyone – for some time. My pace was steady, I didn’t push, just ran according to my breathing, nice and comfy. The lack of any hills worthy of the name – the trail occasional rose and fell, but the exertion required to maintain pace was negligible – meant that my energy reserves remained healthy. Through this stage of the race the circuit joined the riverbank. Swans dabbled in the murky brown water, the river engorged by last night’s heavy rain. Silent souls adorned the far bank, wrapped in Barbers, faces hidden under floppy hats, their fishing rods angled above the water. I wondered what they made of this procession of puffing people, and if the steady thump- thump of our footfalls were in any way helping or hindering their chances of success. On reflection I don’t think they cared much either way – it seems to me river fishing is less about actually catching fish, far more about peace and quiet and one-ness with nature. Err, sorry chaps.
Another feature of the Henfield Half is the ubiquitous placement of styles in the mid-section. There is, I realised, no easy or dignified way to cross a style; how poorly these cumbersome crossing are named. Shuffling to a stop one steps up with one leg, across with the other and then attempts to pull over the trailing leg without falling arse over tit on the other side. I thought at first it was me, but as I watched runners of all sizes and both genders suffer equally I accepted this was if nothing else an equitable hazard.
Into the teeth of the race, then. That is, the part of a half marathon where teeth are bared, in some cases gritted, and one is asked to dig a little deeper. Miles 10 and 11 brought us back to the shaded, dusty lanes. The wind picked up, seemingly blowing against us whichever direction we faced, a cooling edge suggesting rain was not far away. How I would have welcomed a small deluge in these final miles! Thanks to the regular intake of fluids I was still perspiring for England, sweat running in continuous streamlets down both legs. Past the eleven mile marker I saw my first walker – ie, a participant who has run out of gas and elected to take a break. I saw only three in all, compared with hoards in the Brighton Half. This supports my early theory that this particular race is one for the ‘serious’ runner, albeit that my own presence appears to fly in the face of such a notion.
Into the last two miles I stepped on the gas ever so slightly. I wanted to finish strongly (another reason for dropping off the pace at mile three), and whilst two miles out seemed a long run for home I felt good, so why not? I settled into my new rhythm and started to reel in one or two tiring runners. Weaving back through the farmland I past a girl in a yellow vest, her head down moving side to side, arms pumping, working hard.
‘Great’ she breathed a I pulled level, ‘nice strong finish – go for it!’
I found this strangely touching – she must have been thinking ‘Great – some old fat bastard’s overtaking me. Wonderful.’
Into the field once more and, yes, another bloody lap and a half. I spied Chris strolling about in the middle, cup of water in hand, and gave it a bit of extra wellie (I just can’t get the horrible image of my Almeria ‘sprint’ out of my head) crossing the line with 1:51 on the LED display. Happy enough with that – I’d hoped for a 1:55 without planning any kind of strategy. There was more in the tank if I'd wanted to push it, so training appears to be on track.
Purple Plodder was standing by the circuit tape looking as fresh and carefree as she did two hours earlier. I’ve no idea what her time was but I’ll wager it was pretty decent. I hope she ‘pops in’ to RC to keep us posted on her training and the race in Washington. Mike was long gone. He's a seriously fit fellow, and I doubt he found the Henfield Half much more than a walk in the park. A sub three marathon is undoubtedly next on his agenda.
Home then to a shower, some lunch and an afternoon painting the hallways and stairwell. Phoebe and her mate helped out, so I’ll be putting another layer or two on later in the week. Running-wise a rest on Monday then its back to some serious midweek hillwork.
100 miles? Not flippin’ likely.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thanks for the report. A half marathon the morning after 6 pints of Guinness? Yer a better man than I, Sweder. But we all knew that, anyway. Decent time, too.
I took my first faltering steps in a while this evening -- largely driven by the increasing shame of having to read your exploits over a 3rd or 4th glass of something decent.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Nice work Sweder, especially after the much-mentioned three quarters of a gallon of black stuff.
You scoff at the 100 mpw Purple Plodder, but it has come to my attention that you seem to be regularly knocking out some serious miles - "a gentle ten just to give the legs a spin", etc. Keep up the good work.
Also I seem to recall, at a 10K last summer, a number of runners taking the stiles without breaking stride - one foot on the step, the other on top of the fence, and whee! hello cowpats on the other side. I recommend you give it a try next time!
marathondan Wrote:Also I seem to recall, at a 10K last summer, a number of runners taking the stiles without breaking stride - one foot on the step, the other on top of the fence, and whee!
Ah, that wonderful feeling after a brisk half marathon . . . hamstrings like piano wire.
Nothing for it but to take the weary bones into the hills this morning to push some warm blood through the legs. And what a morning! Battle of Britain skies, high wispy vapour trails blending with clouds on the very edge of the stratosphere, a rising sun threatening to burn it all away and sear my battered carcass on the exposed downland.
As expected a stiff-jointed start, running steadily into a brisk, cooling westerly. Oddly enough the hills didn't bite as expected and I managed to keep plodding first up Wicker Man Hill and then Blackcap. I treated myself to the mother of all stretches at the summit, sneaking in a little extra aerobic recovery at the same time.
The homeward plod was more of a bound, help from the breeze gratefully accepted. No music today - someone left my DAB radio on without plugging it into the mains; I'll mention no names but you know who you are! - so I was left with the soundtrack of twittering skylarks, the occasional bleat of sheep scattered liberally over the hills and the steady rasp of my hard-working lungs. Helios won his battle with the white shrouds, golden rays lighting up the grinning maw of the Big W across the valley. I shuddered in spite of the warmth - there are testing times ahead.
I confess to topping up the weekend's supplies last night - an apres-meeting brace to help unwind the stresses of a visit to The Smoke. This was processed in the usual manner this morning, bathing my Jog Shop 'good Good Friday friday' shirt. I do like a good sweat. It's not terribly attractive but I feel cleansed afterwards. Or in this case, cleansed and knackered as I chugged in through the gate, happy hounds in tow.
Another couple of these this week and then there's talk of adding the Yellow Brick Road to our Sunday Snake run. Whoopee.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
stillwaddler Wrote:ace report Sweder, damn fine running for a painter...purple plodder sound terrifying.:o
Thanks SW.
PP is great - not at all terrifying . . . unless you try to keep up with her!!! I admire her work ethic. She continues to make astonishing progress and it's all down to disciplined graft. I'd love to be able to apply myself like that . . . sadly, like Andy there are just too many temptations all around. I've got a fridge dedicated to Guinness in my office at home - it's even liveried for heaven's sake, and it's never empty.
There really is no hope for some of us
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
How can I see what I’m leaving for
How can I give what I gave before
How can you tell me that you want me to stay
How can I stay when I’m trying to say
That I can live without the rain
Yes I can live without the rain
[SIZE="1"]Rain, Status Quo[/SIZE]
Hammering down it was, cats and dogs.
Coming in sideways, lashed in on the front of a mighty wind sweeping up from somewhere vaguely south-west of where I stood. Shivering, soaked, splattered with mud, happy as Larry. I surely do love the rain.
Splashed my way to Blackcap at seven this morning, hunched down in the face of the storm, hounds safely tucked up in their respective baskets shaking their heads at the masters' madness. Not a soul in sight as I thundered out and back. Visibility at the summit of WMH was about thirty yards, no more. Disgruntled sheep stood either side of the track, some snug in full woollen coat, others freshly shorn, quivering with unaccustomed cold as icy barbs stung their freshly exposed flanks.
On the return leg I exchanged Shearers and a 'nice weather' with Maria, one of the regular downland runners and a 1:30 Half merchant. The maniacal grin spread across her handsome features no doubt mirrored my own (well, the grin at least); there's something magical about having the downs all to yourself on a morning like this. The sun-dried grasses, burned whitish-yellow for weeks, took on a healthy golden glow. The grass and flint tracks offered fresh scent and perilous obstacle in equal measure, the various excreted offerings of sheep, cattle and horse turning to indeterminate sludge in places. Eyes down for a safe footing, folks!
Home in around fifty minutes, steam rising in great plumes from my rain-and-sweat soaked back. One of the best runs of the year for me; I hope this weather continues into the weekend, when the Yellow Brick Road may have something special and not altogether pleasant in store.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The divide between chalk and cheese could not be wider than the yawning gulf between two seven a.m.s separated by twenty-four hours.
Same hour, same location; the pitch-black still of my bedroom, Mrs S blissfully away in the land of Nod. I peeped out of the bedroom window, gingerly lifting the farthest corner of the blind. Where yesterday I had witnessed the onset of the Apocalypse today I was greeted with a site so beautiful I audibly gasped. All dark clouds banished from bright blue skies, early sun bathing every nook and corner of the garden. Birds sang, cats lounged, dog-tails wagged, postmen whistled.
Not so much a run this morning as an homage to a landscape in all its summer finery, a photographic tour taken at a steady plod. The dogs came along, eager to make up for their lost run yesterday, bounding across fields speckled with wild flowers under the watchful eye of twittering skylarks.
I opted for a shortened run, stopping just past the peak of WMH, the valley and climb to Blackcap liberally covered with grazing sheep; I needed to keep something in the tank for Sunday. Sam Lambourne tells us (usually when we're whinging about pain and suffering) that running on tired legs is when we do the most good. If that's true I enjoyed my most productive outing of the week by far. Back-to-back midweek runs are not usual in this land of less-is-more, and I felt far off the pace today. What, me worry? The combination of crisp, clean air - yesterday's deluge had driven the humidity deep into the Sussex soil - and crystal clear views proved a heady brew; I drank deeply, all cares carried far away on a cool downland zephyr.
Returning to Lewes via Landsport Bottom our gang of four was joined by a half-dozen horsemen. We ran, they trotted, just about keeping pace, the dogs already on their leads in a field adorned with sheep. In the background the town lay in its valley cradle, serene under morning's veil, the cliffs beyond rising to embrace the morning sun. To our right the Ouze valley reached out to Newhaven, Apollo chasing the last vestiges of mist as they clung to the winding riverbanks.
Four and a bit miles in around forty-five minutes. Leisurely stuff, and all the more enjoyable for that.
Here's a few snaps - I hope they do this magical morning justice.
[SIZE="1"]LtoR: Veil of Lewes; Wicker Man Hill; View east from WMH; Sheep, Horses, Hills[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
