Man, what a way to kick off a month.
Not only did I blow out a run on Friday, I topped the day off with an evening session with the mighty SP and Tim (non-runner - odd fish). Guinness flowed freely and it took every ounce of willpower to bail out of a late-night visit to the curry house or, perhaps worse, 'The Charky', Lewes's finest (well, only) Donner Kebab emporium.
So, that's three days off, numerous pints of Guinness, a day out at the Goodwood Revival today and a Godforsaken trudge through damp, wind-lashed hills tomorrow.
It's nice to get things back on an even keel
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Ah, yes I now have - but what happened about the qualifying time, seems to have been waived & Paris is outside of their date range.
Still my entry is in - let the training begin in earnest.
:o
Excellent, MM. Looks like Sweder has had cold feet. I never thought he'd actually go through with it.....
Yeah, I was also a bit miffed about the qualifying period though it seems not to matter if you're non-SA. That said, if you have got a decent qualifying time it would push you into a faster pen. I'm not bothered about that -- I'm looking forward to picking off at least 5000 runners who start ahead of me.
Hmm. There's nothing like 7 months of preparation time to boost the confidence, eh?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Boys, boys, boys . . . cold feet? Moi?
I was only kidding about doing an ultra y'know.
Blimey, you didn't take all that seriously did you???
Got my confirmation today - I'm in.
Chris, they did ask on the entry form for your qualification result - I ticked 'other' and stuck on Paris 2006 and my time. You might need to do that.
Oh and more good news - it's not as long as I first thought.
Only 34.8 miles, apparently.
Bloomin' cakewalk
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
6:45 am in the Sweder house. I lay still, duvet pulled up under my chin, listening to the storm raging outside the bedroom window. Violent blasts rattled the glass, followed by the loud hiss of trees bending in the maelstrom.
Ten minutes later I’m stood in my modest office watching those trees writhe, wild dancers at an all-night rave. Heavy grey clouds scudded across the garden, heading inland from the coast. It was raining but the usual pencil-sketch slash formed by the raindrops was smashed in the teeth of the gale to leave a cavorting mist to cover everything in a slick sheen. I sipped my coffee, took a bite out of my toast and wondered what on Earth was wrong with me. I was grinning from ear to ear.
I packed a couple of gels before setting off for the marina. Last Sunday had been tough, and I’d no doubt we’d be matching the distance today. In these conditions ‘tough’ wouldn’t quite cover it. I never once doubted that Chris would be there, but I was pleasantly surprised to see him joined by Purple Plodder, Micheal, Steve, Gary and Kadir as I pulled up, late, to the rendezvous. Quite a party on such a lovely late summer day.
The outward lope to Saltdean was easy enough. The wind, even stronger along the cliff tops, pushed firmly into our backs. Even the hideous climb out of Saltdean was a comparative doddle. We bounced across the road, up Telscombe Tye, behind the farmhouse and west nor’ west across the downland ridge, all the while chatting easily as the wind whipped about us, still mostly from behind. I explained to PP that it usually takes me four or five miles to get into my stride. She agreed, but having set off from Shoreham (some six miles west of the marina) at eight this morning she was by now pretty much warmed up.
I felt much better today, confident that I'd last the course, though aware that more testing times lay just ahead. Micheal took off across the open farmland towards the North Face, Chris PP and I in damp pursuit. Visibility on the downs proper was at around one hundred metres in all directions, heavy mist (or was it cloud?) blocking the views fore and aft. I hoped to measure any improvement on last Sunday by seeing how far up the NF I could run without stopping. ‘Quick feet’ I thought as I bounded up the muddy, rock-strewn goat-path, watching Mike disappear into the fog. I caught up with Chris and we huffed and puffed to the summit, knackered but delighted to have got all the way up in one go. Much air-sucking and gel-swallowing followed as the rest of our group appeared.
‘Come on, Nosh Nosh!’ Kadir set off up the sheltered trail behind the farmhouse. A gaggle of runners appeared at the mouth of the ‘tunnel’ heading down the slope towards us, exchanging wild grins and friendly waves as they thundered past. In the windless peace of this short trail I chatted with Kadir about training and plans for Cape Town. He was dishing out some useful advice when we exited the sheltered track and staggered out into a scene from hell.
‘Fuckin’ Ell!!’ I heard Kadir’s expletive but nothing more.
A foul tempest rushed up from the ocean/ our left, seemingly dragging half the English Channel with it to hammer our frail bodies as we fought our way across open farmland. I couldn't hear a thing above the fierce roar; every shrub, tree and blade of grass within sight bent as if in supplication. Before us the Yellow Brick Road beckoned, a mile of unforgiving climb ruthlessly exposed to the full force of God’s wrath. It was like the scenes of Hades from Constantine, happily without Kneau ‘Cuprinol’ Reeves.
Conversation impossible we hunched up and battled across the muddy fields towards the eponymous pavement. I waited for my ‘squeezy gel’ to kick in, knowing it was too soon. Inevitably I fell behind, the dark shapes of my companions fading into the swirling mist. I got my head down, focused on the road a few feet ahead and plodded on. My left ear seemed to fill with water then went numb as the infernal assault continued. I ran in a most ungainly stance, leaning to my left against the wall of wind, staggering as much as running. Imagine if you stop; for every second you rest the road adds ten metres . . . that crazy logic kept me going when every fibre of my being screamed for me to roll into a ball and wait for the sky to fall. Finally I caught a glimpse of a few dark shapes that might be runners huddled together by some bushes. It was Chris, Gary and Steve.
‘Sod this for a game of soldiers, lets head off this way.’ Chris pointed towards the sea, into the teeth of the storm.
‘It’s into the wind but it heads downhill in a bit. It does mean taking on the Snake, but it’s still a better option.’
I thought about the alternative, running the ridge across the top of the W and on up the exposed spine of the hills all the way to Woodingdean; it was all pretty much into the wind, and would be nothing short of brutal. I flashed him the thumbs up. Gary and Steve seemed to nod in agreement.
‘I think the others went straight on’ Chris yelled. There was no sign of them.
We set off left/ south from the top of the YBR and headlong into the wind.
I was amazed and disheartened to note that the paved track not only continued from this point (I'd never noticed before), but continued to climb.
‘When’s the downhill bit Chris?’ My whine whipped away and across the valleys before reaching him, and we battled on. After a few hundred metres the ground levelled off and finally started to drop away. I relaxed my stance a little, accepting gravity’s help with great relief. Whap! Something black and soggy bounced off my shoulder and whistled past Steve, missing him by a whisker.
‘Shit!’ Chris turned, clutching his exposed pate and dashed past me in pursuit of his flying cap. We carried on, the momentum gained too good to waste.
A right turn took us back to familiar territory – the perilous drop before the track to the Snake. We plunged into the slope, skipping over flint boulders. I grinned, as much at the madcap plummet as in gleeful recognition that my gel had finally kicked in. I stepped on the gas, storming past Chris and hitting top gear before the slingshot up the far side sucked all the speed out of my legs. We regrouped at the top before the turn north and I greedily sucked down my Espresso Hammergel.
As we caught our breath Chris spied the other three bounding down the slope behind us. They’d waited for us just around the corner at the top of the YBR, but thanks to the conditions hadn’t seen us a mere hundred yards away. Kadir had realised what we’d done and they’d followed us.
The path leading to the Snake sits in a partly sheltered valley, the silence and relative sense of calm welcome respite from the madness on the moors. As Chris had guessed the Serpent offered a mixed bag wind-wise. The first half-mile sheltered by trees, the next mile or so winding up through the hills, the wind with us. Only in the last five hundred metres did the head-on battering restart. By this time Mike had once more stepped on the gas, leaving me to run alongside the Purple Plodder. She ran easily, her breathing inaudible under my own ghastly rasp. My brain screamed ‘What the hell are you doing? This is madness! Just stop, have a rest . . . ’ all the way up that remorseless track. But I looked across at the calm, relaxed visage next to me, gritted my teeth and dug in. We hit the final straight, still climbing, still shrouded in mist.
‘Where’s the bloody gate?!’ I gasped, wild-eyed, oxygen-starved, desperate.
‘Its OK, where almost there’. Calmness personified.
Finally there it was, the dusky outline of Mike just beyond the boundary fence.
I spent a minute or two with head bent towards the muddy grass, hands gripping knees, chest heaving. Chris arrived soon after.
‘Blimey you flew up there!’
Mike started to seize up so we set off once more, splashing through puddles on the gravel track. Soon Mike, PP and I were alone, leaving the rutted path behind the houses to detour through the less hazardous streets to the racecourse. Across the main road and onto the gallops, though not the long route to St Dunstans; the thought of another mile and a half along the cliffs straight into the wind was too much. We bounded down the woodchip trail, East Brighton golf course to our left, the marina - home! - less tghan a mile away and below us. I couldn’t believe the number of golfers on the course; it must be purgatory trying to play in this. They must be daft.
Back to the marina in a shade over two hours thirty. No-one had a clue as to the distance so I’m banking sixteen based on last week’s calculations. On that basis PP managed a total of 24 inhospitable miles, admirable stuff. Happily for her Mr PP was due to collect her from the marina – another six miles in those conditions might have tested even an athlete of her considerable standing.
A quick stretch revealed no major worries; in fact I felt good. Compared to last week I’d have to say I felt bloomin’ marvellous. I celebrated at Macs with coffee, a bacon and egg sarnie and a slice of fruit cake, jabbering away about Cape Town and training as the battle-weary Chris and Kadir looked on aghast.
Thinking this through after a fabulous hot shower a pattern has definately emerged. I blew out a run on Friday, swapping diligent exercise for a night on the Guinness and roll-ups with SP and Tim. The night before the Henfield Half it was the same story – SP + Guinness = decent run. This obviously agrees with me, acting like a sort of slightly debauched mini-taper. I resolve to repeat this exercise before future long runs and record the results. Should be fun.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A sixth sense told me to take the i-plod this morning.
Something about the murky exterior suggested I might want to choose the soundtrack to today’s run. I grabbed the hounds and set off for my usual five-miler, slouching up the early, ugly slopes and into a blanket of fog. Visibility was down to about fifty metres, dark shapes looming out of the gloom; here a shrub, there a sheep. At the top of Landsport Bottom several eerie forms appeared behind the five-bar gate; horses. I tethered the dogs, accepting the thanks of the riders, usual indifference suspended as we acknowledged the madness that brings people out in such foulness.
Strong legs carried me up Wicker Man Hill, the dogs alert, taunted by rustling from the shrouded gorse bushes. At Black Cap I looked back into a wall of grey mist, took out the music player and thumbed through the register. There could only be one selection for me in these conditions, one band guaranteed to set the perfect mood for the canter home; Pink Floyd.
The first strains of Shine On You Crazy Diamond set me on my way. The strengthening sun singed the overhead haze, blotches of blue appearing as the music soared in my headphones. My feet flew over slippery flint, danced across muddy pools and around lurking rocks. We finished on my favourite, Wish You Were Here. Despite fatigue in legs and lungs I’d’ve happily run for another hour in this little patch of heaven. Sadly there’s work to be done; rather a lot of it, too.
Five miles. No idea of the time
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
There’s some conjecture amongst the Jog Shop Joggers as to whether the Big W should keep its name. In reality the tough section resembles two ‘V’s with a connecting stretch of downland ridge between the first climb and the second descent. Having revisited the section in the still warmth of this morning I can settle the argument; the W simply stands for ‘walk’.
The early cliff top miles were cooled by a gentle sea breeze as we set off eastwards. Paul, Dave, Chris, Steve, Kadir and I were joined by Jill, Remmy and Terry, three people with whom I’ve shared many a wintry battle across these hills. Remmy has lined up a return to the Amsterdam marathon, scene of his first race over 26.2 and for him a chance to set the record straight. Barely warmed up and into the first 10k he'd suffered a calf injury on his debut, running on through considerable pain to finish in a creditable yet personally disappointing 3:26. Whilst many of us might dream lazily of such dizzy heights Rem was gutted. Judging by his impressive form today he's right on track for some sweet revenge.
A sleepless Friday night and nowhere near enough catch-up yesterday left me resigned to a gently-paced outing. The relative warmth (insert withering antipodean comments here) confirmed my tactics and I happily chugged along at the back of the pack chatting with Jill. Approaching the North Face we gawped in admiration as Paul fair flew up the steep trail ahead of us. Remmy, Chris and Steve, no slouches on the hills themselves, trailed in his wake.
Without the fierce headwind and lashing rain the Yellow Brick Road was a much less formidable foe. We continued our conversation in reasonable comfort along the concrete path, enjoying the views over Kingston and on to Lewes away to our right. Any energy saved was spent with the ease of an unshackled WAG in the foothills and trails of the mighty W. A sharp right turn off the YBR lead straight into a perilous, bone-shaking drop; knees shuddered, arms flailed as our band of runners careered towards the welcome shade of the deciduous wood far below. After looping along a rutted track through the trees we started the viscous, strength-sapping climb, the loose flint and crumbling dry mud adding to the challenge. The Fit Dogs hammered ahead leaving we lesser mortals to stagger and stumble behind, floundering like debris cast off from a shuttle breaking orbit. Around half-way up sleep deprivation and lactic acid launched a combined assault and I took my first walk-break.
There’s no shame in this; in fact it could be a useful policy in the weeks and months ahead.
As I hauled my carcass up the chalky track I considered this further.
1) You should always listen to your body (if not the weaker parts of your treacherous mind) on a training run. There’s no valour in breaking something with no glory on the line - if you need a rest, take one.
2) I’m not a mountain goat. Whilst some of my companions have developed hooves and super-sprung achillies I have not.
3) Walk-breaks are something I’ll need to embrace if I’m going to complete the TOM.
We re-grouped at the summit, chests heaving, sweat pitter-pattering onto dusty trail shoes. A few minutes later we did it all again, tearing down a rough, rutted trail only to U turn at the base to clamber up another brutal, sun-drenched track. I walked for a hundred metres or so, smiling cheerily at a lady in a purple running vest as she hurtled towards and past me, grinning as one does when one is on that narrow bridge high above the twin gorges of peril and exhilaration.
Once again we filled our lungs at the crest of the ridge. Remmy announced his intention to cut through Castle Hill and dive back down to take on the Snake. The responses, delivered in a variety of witty and colourful ways, were unanimous; he’d be travelling alone.
The six miles home were a struggle. Having jumped aboard during the two heartless climbs of the W fatigue appeared to be in no hurry to abandon my weary bones. I ran-jogged alongside Chris, a man also suffering - his girlfriend arrived home at four this morning making just enough noise to wake him - and Jill. Of the three of us Jill seemed the least troubled, her action as smooth as ours were ragged.
We finished by running through East Brighton Park, the echoing cries of portly Sunday League footballers ringing in our ears. 'Early ball, early ball - easy! Awwwww!'
On me 'ed, son.
17 miles in around 2:45.
There’s plenty of hard work ahead.
[SIZE="1"][COLOR="Purple"]Photos:
1: Catching their breath at the top of the North Face L to R: Steve, Remmy, Jill, Chris and Kadir.
2: Plunging down the first section of the W [/COLOR][/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Running, and especially hashing, seemed to be the right thing to do on this fifth anniversary of a dark, dark day for our planet. There can be few better celebrations of life than tearing across the open countryside with your fellow man, yelping and whooping as you spot the trail of white flour that will, eventually, lead you home.
The airwaves had been filled with remembrance of the 9/11 atrocities all morning. I listened to moving accounts of loved ones making last desperate calls from the hijacked planes and from the doomed floors of the burning towers. A man called his wife to say goodbye to his two young children, the wife of a cleaner wept as she recalled speaking to her husband even as she watched the second aircraft swallowed by Tower Two on live TV. It was almost too much to bear. I have some sympathy for those quick to point out how many women and children perished under the US/ UK-lead onslaught that followed. Another caller claimed that on that very day twenty-four thousand children worldwide died from malnutrition or disease. These comparisons are sobering and valid. Yet there was something utterly horrible about the manner of the deaths in New York, Washington and on flight 93. It had something to do with being ‘played out’ in front of a watching world, the awful inevitability of the collapse of the towers, the tiny fluttering objects hurtling from the ruined structures that the CNN presenter whispered were people. People making choices; leap into the abyss or stand and burn.
My own recollection of that day is crystal clear. I was working at ExCeL, London’s newest exhibition centre. The event, open that morning, was one of the world’s largest displays of state-of-the-art military hardware; a market place for arms dealers. Contraptions designed to streamline the killing of our species lined the halls; here a glistening rocket launcher, there a gleaming multi-purpose tank. The irony was not lost on me as I watched US nationals, purveyors of misery, watching their worst nightmares unfold on their laptops. The cynic within me looked on; for many gathered there this was ‘good for business’.
I walked outside onto the south lorryway to get some air. A small passenger aircraft took off from London City Airport, flew directly over my head, climbing past the glistening spire of Canary Wharf and into the clear blue skies over the city. I reached for my radio and quietly informed my staff that they should wrap things up and head home.
Now, five years to the day after those life-changing events, I’m hurtling through the Surrey countryside in my way-too-hot pick-up truck, desperately late for my rendezvous with Nigel and the Oilfield Hashers. It’s seven-oh-five; kick-off was scheduled for seven. Nigel’s voice crackling through the mobile is calm. He’ll call me if they set off and I’ll have to catch up by following the trail. Ten minutes later I’m in the vicinity and Nigel’s back on the blower. They’ve set off but he’ll meet me along the route - there’s a car park I can use and we can set off from there. At last I spot that familiar lanky frame on the roadside pointing across the road to the churchyard. I park up and scrabble to get changed, racing to tie on my runners as Nigel assures me there’s no need to rush. I hate to be late and I’m patently aware that I’ve cost Nigel precious time and yardage that he’d rather not have to make up.
I leap to my feet, ready to set off.
‘Which way? Right!’ and we’re off across the road and into a rutted field. Another latecomer joins us but I’ve no time for pleasantries; got to catch the pack. I’m guilty of an LJS-like sprint-start, sucking wildly for air as I scamper across the fields, breathing tight, all upper-chest struggle. But wait – there! A small collection of brightly coloured T-shirts disappearing into a thicket. I change course, heading across a ploughed field, the baked, dusty ruts playing havoc with my ankles. Boy I hope they’re not blackberry-pickers or . . . the distant cry of ‘On On!’ as the Hashers pick up the trail rings out ahead. Excellent! On On indeed!
I continue my mad dash, catching and overtaking the stragglers, telling myself I really need to slow down, too excited to listen to such (t)reason. I push harder, my calves whining at this unnatural pace, but I’m grimly determined to catch the leaders. It’s madness of course; I’ll spend the rest of the evening drenched in sweat, catching a chill as the night rolls in, but hey – this is a Hash; there’s no holding back. Another half-mile of winding paths, ducking low branches, scraping past nettles and bushes, dodging rocks and loose scree along the sheltered pathways and the runners start to slow.
‘Checking!’ The call just ahead – and sure enough, around the next bend the leaders have stopped. On the ground a large white flour circle – a checking point. Somewhere within a hundred yards or so of this spot the trail continues; all we have to do is find it. I venture left onto a concrete path festooned with huge rolled bails of hay. A fellow hasher has already weaved through the massive spools, diligently searching for that tell-tale blob of flour. I look up. Hashers are milling about like lost sheep, checking grassy trails and shortcuts through the farm. I reach the other side of the yard to be greeted by a large iron gate.
‘What’ya reckon?’ gasps a man in an ‘On On’ vest.
‘Shouldn’t think we’d have to hurdle that - ’
Deliberations are cut off as the cry goes up.
‘ON ON!’ A surge as the pack pick up the scent and we’re off, through the farm buildings, across a road and up another leafy lane, more breathless scrambling and friendly jostling on the narrow trail. Another half-mile and there’s a drinks stop. A large wooden dinghy sits incongruous under a backyard umbrella in the middle of a grassy field. A grinning man is handing out plastic beakers and pointing to two large buckets filled with clear liquid.
‘One’s virgin tonic and one’s vodka tonic’ he beams.
Yeah right. Bloody hell! He’s not kidding.
I heave great gulps of air as the pack arrives. The light’s fading rapidly and we’re still around a mile from home. I start looking for the next trail. I find the flour circle and in keeping with tradition yell ‘checking’ to let others know I’m starting a search. A very dark pathway leads into heavy undergrowth, but the tiny fairy lights set evenly along one side tempt me this way. I break into a jog – what’s that up ahead? Oh it’s a busted branch, the dry blonde fibres looked a bit like – wait! A definite white blob; and another. One more a few yards ahead.
‘ON ON – ON ON!’ And I’m away, pounding feet just behind me. The trail twists and turns, the lights disappear and it’s very dark now. An opening up ahead in the gloomy half-light reveals a long straight path rising gently across a series of fields. A watery moon hangs low over the trees, an ineffectual lantern on dusk's backdrop.
‘This’ll be it’ pants a large bearded man as he flies by me up the path. Another two follow him and I try to step on the gas, but there’s nothing there. I hang on grimly as the runners become dark shapes and then only fading sounds as they pull away into the night. My legs ache, my lungs burn; my body’s in revolt. What’s going on? This is a rest day, not a lets-go-run-like-a-loony-in-the-dark day!
Pack it in!
But I can’t, I have get ‘on in’, get to the beer and grub. Another patch of woodland, black against a dark grey background, more winding dry-mud paths and at last a glimpse of a car, two cars, a whole host of them, then barns and outbuildings – we’re home. I stop, the thudding of my heart and rasping of my breath masking any clues as to where the on in might be lurking. Another hasher arrives and he seems to know the way so I follow him through a series of turns, down a grass bank and into a generous back garden adorned with a large tent, a series of tables and chairs, two gorgeous beer kegs and a large man flipping a variety of meat products on a crackling oildrum barbeque; home!
Five minutes later I’m slurping fine real ale and chomping on French bread dipped in warm brie and mango chutney – I’m in heaven! There’s around ten of us in now, all grinning like loons, saying little; slurping and chomping is the order of the evening.
In groups of threes and fours the pack arrive, asking the same questions;
Where’s the beer? Is there food? Where’s Popeye?
Popeye is our host, the barbeque-flipper and a very popular man just now.
The Down-Down, a series of tributes to sponsors, hares and sinners involving ritual chanting and the swift consumption of ale, is followed by some serious eating. Nigel’s arrived and we’re chatting about running and writing. He tells me he’s started a new site, a showcase for his travelogs. I vow to check it out – it’s called Roads of Stone, combining Nigel’s twin passions of rocks and running.
Finally the cold wins the battle against my body heat. My sodden Forbidden Hash T-shirt clings to my ample, rapidly cooling frame like slewed translucent skin - it's time to go. I bid farewell and thanks to my generous host and head back towards the main road.
So a day that started with somber reflection ends wreathed in sweaty smiles and firm handshakes between friends. A timely reminder that whilst the gone are not forgotten, life is for the living. I’ll drink to that.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Coincidentally, I crashed into a hash group on my walk home two nights ago. I saw the chalk marks and piles of flour, and heard their shouts and bugles long before we collided of course, but there they were, terrorising a very respectable neighbourhood that I (and they) deign to venture through.
I have to say, I wasn't all that inspired by them. It looked to be a tough run, and the flabbies at the back were being flogged mercilessly by what looked like a drill sergeant with an acid tongue. I presume they were having fun, but a couple of them looked on the verge of being sick. And a few of the residents looked on hte verge of calling the police, although I think even the worst of the hashers could have outrun your average porky pig without too much trouble.
I expected trouble as I ducked and weaved through the group (I now realise how terribly bad runners smell) but they clearly recognised a fellow runner (at least in spirit) and I only got tackled to the ground twice, had three flour bombs and half a pint of lager thrown at me and chundered on once*...
But I felt really, really sorry for the girl wearing chain mail and very nearly in tears. Even the sweeper had given up on her.
Tough sport, this hashing.
*[SIZE="1"]I may have exagerrated slightly for effect.[/SIZE]
Hard graft in the muggy, misty hills this morning.
Despite cool conditions the air hung heavy with clinging moisture. Not missle or light rain but a kind of crazy English version of south-east Asian humidity. Within a mile my T-shirt was drenched in sweat and I was struggling. Having rested yesterday after the madness of Nigel’s hash run I found this baffling; I should be full of vim and vigour – it’s Wednesday and I’ve done one (swift) three miler this week. I can only surmise that this weird wetness has in some way stifled the oxygen supplies; that or I’m just generally knackered. With three weeks of horrendous work-related travel ahead – Copenhagen, Shenzen, Moscow and Los Angeles – running opportunities will be thin on the ground. I’d hoped to bank some quality mileage this week, but c’est la vie.
Running 'on the road' is a subject I discussed with Niguel on Monday. Of all the people I know addicted to this running life Nigel travels more than most. He always packs his runners but as I know only too well you don’t always get the chance to use them. At best I can expect a series of short, early morning city runs. This is a double-edged sword; flat hard pavement pounding will do little for my prospects in the Jog Shop Jog, the barbaric ultra-hilly off-road 20-miler, next month, but may benefit the [b]Brighton 10K[/b] in November.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Readers may be surprised to note that the first mile from Sweder's 'way too hot' (and fairly late) truck was timed by my very astonished Garmin at 7 minutes 31 seconds.
And by that stage, I was over 100 m behind Sweder, too - this enthusiastic Two Oceans Marathon / Jog Shop Jog training clearly has a lot to answer for amongst those of us left far behind amidst the still-smoking flints of the dusky trail.
Despite an unconfirmed sighting of Sweder thirty minutes later, far in the distance and somewhat alarmingly downing a large plastic cup of vodka, I didn't actually reel in my 'guest' again at any stage throughout the run.
Neither did I see any checking of the trail - those flour circles were all well and truly busted by the time I gasped through. So much for a pleasant lope - to me it was more like 4 miles belted flat out through the dusk with only a few puffing geriatrics and my camera for company.
Strangely though, I did finally catch Sweder at the beer stop. And soon after, I slipped swiftly and elegantly past in the food queue - the important lesson being that conscientious training alone can't provide all the answers ... or at least not where the more tactical scramble for extra sausages is concerned ...
I read a piece in The Times this week comparing current Government missives with an episode of Seinfeld. The American sitcom takes themes and runs them cleverly through each show, weaving them seamlessly with the characters' lives. One such was Yada yada yada, the lazy, uniquely American Ism tagged onto the end of a story or sentence to indicate the passing of time or inconsequential happenings.
The writer referred to a Seinfeld episode where George became increasing frustrated with a potential girlfriend's habitual use of the phrase. Pressed about his last significant relationship, tragically ended when he procured some impossibly cheap, fatally toxic envelopes for their wedding invitations, George invokes the phrase to avoid the potentially deal-breaking detail.
‘We had the wedding planned, the invites printed, the honeymoon picked out,
yada yada yada . . . and I’m still single.’
Well, I woke up this morning, hooked up with the usual suspects down at the Marina on a muggy, overcast morning and yada, yada, yada . . . I banked eighteen tough, hilly miles.
Oh alright, there was a little more to it, but I’m feeling lazy, I'm a little tired and I have to pack. I spent most of the morning watching the speedy trio of Micheal, Paul and Steve pull away as Chris and I fought the ‘stop and rest’ demons. We changed the route to reflect the early phase of the Jog Shop Jog, dropping down to sea level at Saltdean, running through the tunnel under the main road and into Telscombe village. Whilst this meant a weekend off from the long hard slog up the Tye we faced an equally tough climb out of the village and onto the Downs proper.
As we entered the cattle fields leading to the North Face a formidable beast stood astride the muddy path. This creature, as solid as I’ve seen in these parts, lacked the usual array of teats and sported a natty piece of bony headwear.
‘Err . . . is that a Bull?’
‘Yep’
‘Shit’
None of us wore red, but just now that particular urban myth lacked creditability. The bull eyed us directly, chewing slowly, purposefully, no doubt savouring the regurgitated breakfast as it pondered our presence. We bunched up, five as one, and picked up the pace. For the first time this morning I stopped inwardly moaning about trying to keep up with the quickies and stepped on the gas.
With Bull and YBR safely behind us we opted for the first ‘V’ of the Big W then a cut back and down into Death Valley to take on the Snake. The long and winding trail sucked the life out of my legs so I throttled back, happy to chug gently to the top. I thought carefully about what this is teaching me. There’s no doubt I am, compared to my fitter, stronger companions, severely under-prepared for these Sunday sessions; yet I feel my way of coping, learning to hang back, taking it easy whilst others race on, is all good mental preparation for the Two Oceans. I pulled alongside the parked cars some two hours forty after the start and several minutes after the others, bending to hug my knees and suck in lungfuls of air as my sweat splash into the dirt. The ‘well done’ offered by Paul was well meant and accepted with a grin/ grimace; despite his vastly superior fitness he recognised the effort I’d put in. We all agreed it’d been a bastard today; muggy early on, the barest whisper of a breeze even on the cliff tops, then just plain hot as the sun burned the mist away to shine on our battle across the windless, heartless hills.
A chaotic travel schedule offers limited opportunities in the weeks ahead. I hope to squeeze in a mid-week repeat of this run between shows, perhaps on the 27th; otherwise its time to dust off the road-shoes and steal a few concrete miles on the streets of Shenzhen and Moscow.
The Jog Shop Jog awaits, less than a month away.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well done. I'm impressed, and jealous, of you hitting 18 miles. You sound like you're in pretty good nick, considering the lardy confessional of the post-World Cup period.
Yes, your travelling schedule sounds chaotic, and it will be hard or impossible to fit in long midweek runs, but just think how much more you see of a place when running.
If you're 4 weeks out from the JJJ, you probably only need one more long run in any case. The rest of it is just fitness and staying sharp, so your travelling needn't get in the way too much. If you can manage one decent midweek tempo run and a short recovery run (preferably 2), plus your longer weekend one, you'll be fine. Pavements may not be ideal but you've put in enough trail-pounding for it not to matter much at this stage.
Keep us updated please! I've only just caught up with the hash run. Great storytelling, as always, though I do wonder about some of the ritualistic elements of the hashing fraternity. But then I'm not a very clubby sort of chap.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
"Guinness is available on draught in a couple of places in Shenzhen, the bar of the Shangi-La hotel for one, also an "Oirish" pub whose name escapes me in the Shekou area. Quality may be a bit suspect depending on turnover. The bottled and canned stuff is widely available, but brewed in China so may be something of an aquired taste."
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
When September ends . . . again . . .
