Great race report. Honest and inspirational. I swear I could feel my lungs burning and my legs aching as I read it. I'd managed to repress most of the horrors but they've all come flooding back! I ran this for the first time this year and I was pretty emotional when I crossed the line too.
The jog shop should post a link to Sweder's report - it should be required reading for everyone thinking of having a go. They'll want to do for sure when they've finished.
A four day amnesty for my legs and lungs had left me itching to get out and run.
Finally, in the dawn’s early light this morning I cracked. Out the door by 07:15, hounds at my heels, an eerie Spielberg sky fomenting above; thick grey clouds wrestled with their darker, rain-laden cousins, the occasional sliver of sunlight piercing the rolling thunderheads. Someone’s going to cop it and soon; best make haste.
As expected my thighs and calves creaked a bit on the outward climb, the vicious blast of wind seeming mercifully to help us on the outward lope. The dogs rejoiced, having been subjected to a series of short strolls with Mrs S, racing up the slopes of Landsport Bottom until they were mere dots on the horizon.
I stretched out at the top of Blackcap, watching the battle rage overhead. The black clouds were definitely winning, the first spots of the approaching deluge blowing across the downs. I struck for home into the teeth of the howling gale, struggling to find a rhythm and solid footing on the slippery trail. Over Wicker Man Hill and down towards the stables, my hamstring humming, left knee chuntering, all the while thinking how I must get some of the RC-ers down here to share this feast of autumnal running. The rain intensified, slanting in like the thick angry strokes of an artists’ pencil.
I confess to grinning; I just love it.
Home in around 48 minutes, exhilarated, ready for the rest of the day.
Slurping a coffee before my shower I watched the heavens open full-bore, lashing the leaves from the trees and drumming crazily on the roof of my truck.
Here’s to Sunday and next week, when the Two Oceans training really starts.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A post-JSJ Sunday blast was needed to run creeping leg-rust out of town.
Paul had suggested a change of scenery which we all agreed was a grand idea, even if there is something mildly masochistic about meeting at nine in the morning outside a place where they're setting out chairs and starting to sizzle bacon . . .
Setting off from the Hove Park café I soon realised I’d not be keeping up with Paul and Steve. They ran easily, chatting all the way up the long haul out of the Park and up onto the Downs proper. Their easy pace was as much as I could manage so I dropped back to run with Gary who by his own admission was looking ‘for an easy one’.
‘Easy’ is a relative concept. 13 miles on an out-and-back loop with the first six and a half miles virtually all uphill might be considered by some (me included) as something slightly different. We chatted between huffs and puffs, recounting old marathon stories and how we got started. Gary was a good runner in his youth, turning out for school and then County on the track and cross-country. Like so many of us after a love-affair with competitive team sports – in both our cases football, where the rigours of getting kicked every weekend had taken their inevitable toll – Gary had sought a source of fitness with a social element and returned to running. He ran his first marathon in London this year with a target of ‘3:59:59’ and came home a good deal closer to 3:30. Despite his excellent time Gary couldn’t believe the price a full marathon exacts on a first encounter.
‘I got to twelve miles and knew I was in trouble. Cramp kicked in at around nineteen but I kept going. It was the most painful six miles I’ve ever run.’ I know the feeling, but assured him that the next one would hold less fears, especially after an impressive JSJ last weekend. Once you've tamed the Beast, whilst it won't necessarily get any easier it's secrets are at least revealed. You know how hard it's going to be, and you can get ready mentally as much as physically.
Turning west at the Dyke Pub we set off over the rolling hog’s back of the South Downs Way, the westerly continuance of my weekly BlackCap run. Walkers speckled the grassy trail, their untethered dogs taking great interest in our sweaty endeavour. Crunching up the final grinding ascent to the half-way mark I looked up to see Paul and Steve starting their homeward journey. They looked comfortable, relaxed. I felt anything but.
A brief rest to fill the lungs and slow the pulse and we followed a few hundred metres behind. A sharp blast of wind reminded us that we’d had it easy up ‘til now – the next six miles would be into an increasingly violent headwind. A mile in and the rain joined in. I can’t say it bothered me at all; this is after all what downland running in October should be – brutal.
We both struggled as we encountered that age-old running truism. No matter how much the outward leg had seemed all uphill there were still a few climbs to negotiate on the return. My hamstring murmured a veiled threat or two but I ignored it; we were hardly pushing it over the last few miles. Rain-soaked, wind-lashed and grinning like a loon I chugged back through the park to meet up with Paul and Steve, their coffees already drained, cake-plate empty. I set off for home and my own reward.
As someone almost said recently, I predict a fry-up.
As suggested this proved a pleasant break from the usual landmarks and we’ll probably do it all again next Sunday. The Jog Shop Marathon group is up and running again, around four-and-twenty virgins taking the first challenging steps on the long, hard road to London or Paris. They’re ‘doing the Wire’ now, four miles out, four back along the cliff tops, inevitably one way with the wind the other against. A whole new world will open up for these lucky few in the months to come. I’m looking forward to guiding them through the valleys and across the naked hillsides, to dragging them up the North Face and the Yellow Brick Road whilst all hell’s unleashed by the Gods of Winter.
And of course to introducing them to my old slithery friend
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Oh no, MLCMan, there was Guinness a-plenty . . . supped even as I watched the MU Rowdies thrash a lacklustre Stevie Me and the Merseyside Slouchers at the Old Trafford Devilbowl. Much more rewarding fare than the ugly capitulation shown by our white flag-waving cricketers on Saturday.
Poor old Aussies - just when you thought you were in for a cracking test and one-day series we decide to stop feeding our sportsmen the self-deluding drugs and let them slump to their former mediocre crapness.
Pray for rain, else McGrath is odds-on to get his whitewash.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Oh no, MLCMan, there was Guinness a-plenty . . . supped even as I watched the MU Rowdies thrash a lacklustre Stevie Me and the Merseyside Slouchers at the Old Trafford Devilbowl. Much more rewarding fare than the ugly capitulation shown by our white flag-waving cricketers on Saturday.
Poor old Aussies - just when you thought you were in for a cracking test and one-day series we decide to stop feeding our sportsmen the self-deluding drugs and let them slump to their former mediocre crapness.
Prey for rain, else McGrath is odds-on to get his whitewash.
Good to hear Sweder - Guinness gives you strength after all, everyone knows that. Except perhaps the England cricket team. But we shall see, we shall see. I reckon even SP will be taking an interest in this Ashes campaign. Tickets were all sold out months ago - quite unprecedented. In fact there seems to have been more demand for Ashes tickets than for the U2 tour, which coincides. Personally I'd like to see both, but will probably see neither Oh well, at least I'll most likely get paid to sit at work and watch the cricket... I love working for the national broadcaster during the cricket season
I know the route from Hove Park to the Dyke pub (a hostelty frequented on many occasions in my youth since it is miles from anywhere and offers many an opportunity to park up somewhere quiet for a ..............anyway I digress )
The first 6 or so miles of the route you guys ran is seriously, I mean seriously uphill. You really are nutters.
One of those mornings.
You know, when you seem to hit ‘snooze’ on the alarm a dozen times, knowing you’re already late for a busy day. Watery daylight snuck under the bedroom blind as I crawled from the wreckage. Somehow I just knew a run this morning would be harsh. The constant howl of anguished winds hammering the trees outside my window painted all to clear a picture of the fun awaiting me on the downs.
And yet I pulled on the Sauconys, under-used, definitely second cousins twice removed from my cherished ClimaCools and Mizunos. For starters the Sauconys have a cavity in the heel. What self-respecting off-road shoe has a place for storing mud and detritus? No, the Sauconys are not serious runners, but there again, neither am I; not today. I harnessed the hounds and staggered onto the rain-soaked streets like a condemned man. Ten minutes in and my worse fears were realised as every fibre of my hill-weary legs screamed to go back, the westerly gale pounding into my face and chest without mercy. I clung on, sucking on my lower lip, justifying this madness to myself. Look; you have great run after great run – you have to have these crap outings to appreciate the good ones, right?
Yes, but can’t I just acknowledge all that before I fall from under the duvet? I mean, I could have stayed in bed, told myself exactly how rubbish this was going to be and skipped straight to the next good one . . . Aww, come on now, you know it don’t work that way Bubba . . .
No, it doesn’t. Suffer, then rejoice. It’s like the old adage about banging your head against a brick wall; it’s great when you stop.
I plugged onwards and upwards, feet slipping on the loose, sodden soil, skipping around and then through murky brown rainwater pools. We’ve had three days of solid rain up here and much of the trail to BlackCap is part mud, part water with the occasional sharp flint rock providing grip and peril in equal measure. Mist – or was that low cloud? – shrouded the summits of Wicker Man Hill and BlackCap, blowing eerily across the gorse bushes like wispy grey battle-smoke.
On the way home I was treated (by Planet Rock) to some Joe Cocker. Joe, the original honey-and-gravel voiced crooner, asked me if I felt alright, because apparently he wasn’t feeling too good himself. Funny you should ask, Joe; I’m feeling a bit better. Perhaps it’s the firm shove in the back I’m getting from this westerly now I’ve turned for home, or perhaps it’s the crack of sunlight lacing the distant downland ridges to the east. My legs have stopped whining – in fact we’re fair flying along.
I like Joe Cocker. I’m no aficionado but I love ‘Help from my friends’ (and the fabulous John Belushi spoof on Saturday Night Live). I used to sing ‘You Are So Beautiful . . . To Me’, used to great effect at the end of Carlito’s Way, to Phoebe when she was tiny. She wouldn’t let me do that now of course; she’d rather have her own teeth pulled out by a tractor with a wonky wheel than risk any of her mates hearing her Dad sing.
Alice Cooper tells stories of Cocker on the road. Over to you, Alice.
‘Joe would belt out three tunes on stage, go off to the side, vomit, come back on, sing three more, vomit, and so on. He always sounded constipated to me. Do me a favour, go ahead and send Ex-Lax to Joe Cocker; you know, in the same way you send money for children in Africa, send Ex-Lax to Joe Cocker. It’s the right thing to do.’
Thanks Alice.
Just at this point, when life on the downs was getting a little weird, my mud-splattered entourage startled a pheasant. He (for it was a male) lurched from the cover of a gorse bush and scuttled across our trail, making for the long grass sanctuary of the adjacent field. His running style, straight back and bobbing head, brought to mind that unearthly Olympian Michael Johnson. I had watched in awe as Johnson destroyed a field including our very own Roger Black, then at the peak of his powers, to win the 400 metres by almost a quarter that distance. How a man running like a frightened chicken could be so far ahead of the rest of the world amazes me. Watching the Pheasant this morning I could appreciate the natural efficiency of the technique.
This lesson in the fine art of sprinting did little to improve my posture this morning. I resumed my trademark slouch, loping heavily into the last mile, dogs at my heels, head filled with thoughts of hot coffee and honey-smeared toast.
A ‘good-bad ‘un’, then, in a shade under 48 minutes. Soon it’ll be time to turn these fives into tens as the quest for mileage becomes all-consuming.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:You're making us look bad, big guy...
...especially SP
It's hardly a challenge MLCMan! :p
Dan, no, it wasn't the plan, but the JSJ HAD to be done as its my 'home' race and I'd wimped out with minor ailments last year. It's one of those that just won't get any easier with the passage of time. Of course I'll have to go back next year and do something about that crummy finish . . .
Two Oceans has dwelled in the back of my mind since my visit to CT in December last year. It moved forward in my planning from Andy's first hints (in the alcoholic haze of post-Almería) that he might join me - from then on for me it became the only target. Everything else this year, including Paris, was geared towards April 2007. It's the most beautiful marathon in the world; I'd like to be able to enjoy it.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I just couldn't be arsed today.
Apathy ruled - I think it must have seeped out of my computer screen last night as I browsed the forum - and I pulled the covers over my head for another hour roasting in my pit. That means one mid-week plod this week - pathetic but hey, no-one's paying me for this, right?
I had an odd shopping experience yesterday that I need to share.
I've been after replacement off-road shoes - my Adidas Climacools are all but shot - and promised myself a visit to the Adidas Flagship store on Oxford Street. Following a horribly early meeting in Piccadilly I shuffled along for the 10am opening. The store was, as one might imagine, blissfully empty. Rack after rack of shiny new kit, from football (a whole wall of Chelski shirts reminded me I'd skipped breakfast) to leisure to running. I'm a crap shopper. I get The Fear. I break out (duh duh duh duh-duh) in a co-o-o-o-old sweat; I panic, end up buying something inappropriate or just plain wrong and scarper swift-like, relieved to escape the claustrophobic clutches of the Big Store.
As I stood, chilled perspiration dripping down the back of my shirt, studying the disappointing cluster of trail shoes before me I became aware of a figure next to me; a fellow shopper, apparently equally uninspired by the collection of expensive footwear laid out, albeit beautifully lit. In that way that only men cramped into adjacent urinals can appreciate, I tried to 'look without looking'. And I did a double-take. Good Lord - yes, it was he, the self-styled Supreme Being; Jose Morinho. All alone - oh, no, hang on – there's the store managers' feet just visible under the Special One's coat-tails.
'Anything you like the look of Sir?' came the muffled enquiry from Jose's rear.
'Harrumph'. I turned back to the boots, picking up a pair of ninety quid off-roaders that looked, well, a bit crap really. The Great One shimmied around behind me, obviously trying to see the shoes directly in front of me. Give him nothing! cried the demon in my head. I stood my ground, determined to give neither way nor any sign of recognition. I related the tale to a customer and good friend over lunch later in the day. She swooned.
'Is he as Gorge in the flesh as he is on telly?'
I shook my head. This lady's a nailed-on hardcore Gooner. She's got the Highbury Gun tattood on her arm, for goodness sake. Sigh.
These moments can be awkward, more so when you 'meet' someone you actually like.
I recall a moment when I came face to face with, in my book, a real footballing legend and a personal hero. I was working at a large hotel in Manchester, setting up an NHS Roadshow alongside the PFA who had a series of meetings there that week. I stood waiting for the elevator when the doors pinged open to reveal Paul Parker and - gulp - Bryan Robson.
What do you say? Here stands a man I'd idolised as a player. Captain Marvel, the heart of a struggling United side continuing a forlorn pursuit of the League Title, still firmly in the shadow of their Merseyside neighbours. Here was the one man who shone above the Scousers to illuminate English football with heart and guts, total commitment. He led his country from the front, carrying the flag, crying God for England, Harry and an expectant nation as parts of his battle-worn body dropped to the turf. I had to speak to him, to let him know what he meant to me, the joy I got watching him batter the opposition, diving in where all but the brave and the foolhardy feared to head. I looked him in the eye and he paused in the doorway.
'Y-y- your Bryan Robson!' I spluttered.
'Alright Son' he said, the corner of his mouth creased in a wry grin.
He patted my shoulder and pushed past into the lobby.
I just stood there as Parker followed, slightly shaking his head. Bollocks.
But what should you say? What is there to say that can possibly matter to these people? Bugger all I suppose. It seems imperative at the time to deliver an earth-shattering pearl of wisdom or a succinct appraisal, something clever and worthy yet not too embarrassing or creepy. Perhaps Wayne and Garth said it best when they met Alice Cooper;
'We're Not Worthy!'
Some years later I had another 'football celeb' moment.
I was in the men's toilet at Gatwick. The next stall was occupied by the then recently deposed and much maligned Scotland manager Andy Roxborough. He was a sweaty, pinch-faced little man, all raincoat and brylcream, and he was obviously focused on draining the lizard. What the hell.
'Bad luck, Andy.'
'Fuck off.'
C'est la vie.
Morinho left, no money having changed hands - Adidas are, after all, kit suppliers to Chelski - with eight large bags filled with complimentary swag.
Me? I managed to keep my mouth shut and my money relatively safe; some knee-length running shorts and a training vest procured at a very reasonable price.
Here’s to Sunday and another hilly half.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Reminds me of when I went to see England play at Elland Road. I think it was against Sweden in the mid-90s and one of the first games they'd played outside of Wembley for years. My sister had managed to blag tickets in the press area and passes to the club bar as well. Not only did I get to sit a few seats from McAllister (who was a great reader of the game when in the Leeds and Scotland midfield) but the bar after the game was crazy. Brooking, Robson, Keegan (he'd just signed Les Ferdinand for Newcastle that day) Ferguson ... so many big names, so many raincoats, just milling around me. I adopted the 'this is just a normal weekend for me' approach. For the record I had a piss next to Sir John Hall.
I crossed with the keyboard player from Jethro Tull whilst running along a Devon lane once. He was running too. Err, thats about it really.
Oh yes, I nearly threw up over Peter Shilton
Oh well, at least I'll most likely get paid to sit at work and watch the cricket... I love working for the national broadcaster during the cricket season 
