Crashed into February tonight with an ugly eight miler along the will-to-live-sapping A27.
I'd scarfed a whole pack of wine gums this afternoon in the hope that they would provide an energy boost - of course they just made me feel fat and slow. A fabulous moonlit night, the hills surrounding my out-and-back pavement plod bathed in a silvery sheen. I wish I could run on the downs in the moonlight. Sadly thoughts of slipping down a rabbit hole and snapping an ankle are too horrible; even I'm not daft enough to try.
Home in one hour nine minutes, four minutes slower than last Friday (I blame the wine gums!) but still useful. I've banked a lot of man-made miles in the last few days - eight tonight, thirteen last Sunday and a couple more on Monday morning. Happily I've got sixteen plus on the wonderfully sticky downs on Sunday to give my aching bones some respite; yippee!
A (hopefully edited) short clip of my moonlit plod with some eerie night vision headlamps will appear here sometime soon. If I can't edit it I'll forget it as mostly it's pitch black with some disturbingly heavy breathing and the occasional trippy dancing headlights. Perhaps I'll sell it to the Trance crowd.
Hmm . . . added a soundtrack which seems to have been lost in translation from my pc to YouTube.
Back to the ol' drawing board I guess . . .
Here's another. Last for a while, I promise. This one has the added soundtrack, but has lost the original commentary. Methinks there's a lot more work to be done . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Back to business in the land of mud and hills-a-plenty with my Jog Shop comrades. Despite the freezing start I put my trust in the forecasters and opted for a skimpy vest, leggings and gloves. Sucker! Despite a valiant effort the sun rarely found a way through the maze of thick cloud and dense fog enveloping the route.
Paul the Goat and Steve did their usual, leaving Chris and I for dead at the top of the unpleasantly steep hill out of Saltdean, hammering up the tye in their matching red tops. I agreed with Chris that our aim was more time on our feet rather than blistering speed, justifying our inability to live with the inhuman pace as we loped away from the fog-bound sea.
Our route today would take us on a truncated tour of the Jog Shop Jog route; up the North Face, along the seemingly infinite Yellow Brick Road, across the uppermost tips of the Big W, down through Death Valley, back up the Snake and on home through East Brighton Park. The terrain proved treacherous, the soil recently ravished by giant, rapacious earthworms before some sort of drunken tractor-fest. I bemoaned the loss of my beloved Adidas off-roaders, the new Brookes comfy enough but simply not up to the rugged demands. The North Face is no place for a feint heart. You have to hit the base running, shorten your stride, pump your arms and grit your teeth. All these I did, and to my surprise only stopped once the summit was reached. We exchanged pleasantries with a middle-aged dog-walker between desparate gulps of air before taking half a gel and a slurp of water.
On then to the Yellow Brick Road, or at least the preamble, a couple of Somme-like cattle fields offering more ankle massage before the eponymous concrete track. At the end of the first field, marked by a barbed wire fence and a five bar gate, a group of shifty looking bovines blocked our path, chewing the cud as hoods outside a nightclub might chomp on their gum, observing our squelching approach through half-closed eyes. The largest beast, parked next to the gate, had its head through the wire, bellowing mournfully at the cows in the next field. It was as we drew level, reaching for the gate latch, that I noticed the dirty brass ring through the monsters’ nose.
‘Err, that’s a bull.’
‘Yeah, reckon he’s yelling at his harem in the next field.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Lets get a move on.’
We danced through the gate, across the rutted track and into the next field.
‘For the love of God . . . '
We'd run staright into a small lake of urine and steaming cow excreta.
‘Bloody incontinent cows – it’s like a geriatric picnic in here!’
Chris pointed out that this is why we wear off-roaders, but I didn’t feel any better about navigating through the filth. One of the beasts lifted her tail as if to wave us off, only to expel a dirty yellow waterfall into the mire. Lovely.
The concrete path leading up and onto the top of this section can be a true test of one’s resilience. As you chug up the inexorable rise you catch glimpses of the summit only to find you’ve been tricked; it’s a mirage, a false promise; there always seems to be another section. We were spared this torture by the return of sweeping, impenetrable fog, limiting our vision to a handful of metres in any direction. Heads down we chugged on in silence, focused on keeping a strong pace until finally, thankfully, another wire fence loomed out of the mist. A right turn then left, through another gate and we were running west along the pinched track above the Big W. Dropping sharp left into Death Valley we briefly met two ladies on horseback, holding yet another gate for them as they clopped through onto the slippery stone trail leading into the valley.
‘Nice to see some fit men out’ quipped one obviously myopic rider.
We thundered down the path, the unyielding surface of rocks and stones jarring my legs and back. This route weaves through a collection of hills before emerging at a derelict farmhouse, the familiar mud bowl that is the foot of the Snake proper lurking beyond.
With so many hard-run miles behind us the Snake offered a stern test today. Our pace remained solid up the slippery track, emerging from the fog-bound valley, chests heaving, doused in cooling sweat, steam rising from our hunched backs as we toiled against the gradient. A brief breather at the summit and an unspoken agreement to eschew the double-back route, chugging instead straight on to the race course and the final, painful mile down through the park.
This was a tough outing, my legs aching for hours afterwards despite a decent stretching session at the Marina. Around sixteen miles in a shade under two hours thirty to complete a week of seven, five and eight midweek miles for a grand total of thirty-six.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A routine if chilly outing to Blackcap this morning.
It seems churlish to mention the cold when one considers Suzie’s recent post from sub-zero Calgary, but with a seven-fifteen start I’m entitled to a little cheese with my whine.
The legs were, as expected, laden with lactic residue after Sunday’s struggle. I fought manfully on, distracting myself from the queuing complainants with a little Breakfast With Alice from Planet Rock. Coopers' style, as with his taste in music, can be eclectic but I'm learning to love No More Mr Nice Guy's sarcastic wit. I shot yet another movie and will post a very short clip later. Frankly the quality of these shaky, wobbly vignettes needs to improve or its not worth the effort. The movies are pretty poor, too Sorry to say my latest effort would have the hardy Trawlermen heaving over the side.
Five chilly, hilly miles, a good workout in around forty-eight minutes.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yep, I've recently received my number - its one of those new-fangled jobbies with what appears to be some form of fusewire stitched into the back (it's the time chip apparently). There's a brand new route that heads off into the town and eliminates most of the hilly finish (sob) - in fact the entire 21k is now very much on hard standing. I suspect this is to allow the organisers to increase the numbers. The foul weather last year created a treacherous finishing stretch with many runners taking a tumble on the slippery slopes.
Personally I'm starting to take it all . . . well, personally.
I mean, what's wrong with a few muddy hills?
It's plainly hillist, or at least pro-pavement; either way it's discrimination. I'm writing to my MP.
Oh, hang on, he's Norman Baker - think I'll find something more productive to do, like listen to England football fans crying about the ineptitude of Second Choice Steve and his band of heartless, wandering millionaires.
Waiter, could I take some St. Agur with my Cloudy Bay?
Chris and I will stick six miles on the front end of the half (we're doing the three out to Saltdean and back) - with two week to go before the Steyning Stinger we can't afford to drop the mileage. It'll be interesting to see how close we can time arriving at the start just after the gun. After the start is ideal as the chips will still give us a time and it'll be easier to carry straight on without the road being swamped with plodders.
Not sure if there are any entries left - I'm darned sure there are none 'on the day'. Best to check out the Sussex Beacon website for more gen. I've just peaked and they still show on-line entry as an option. You're welcome to stay overnight at Chez Sweder on the Saturday. Don't panic - I'm still off the beer (mostly) so you should be safe. We've a spare room going, um, spare, anyway.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Wow!
A fabulous if exceedingly cautious splurge through the snow-mantled hills this morning. The higher I climbed the thicker the snow, the only down sides being a) poor visibility (cloud sat like a great grey mother hen atop Blackcap) and b) the potentially lethal camouflage concealing the myriad of nooks, crannies, rocks and tree-roots along the trail. I hadn't realised quite how constant my off-road reconnaissance usually is until I got the equivalent of a series of warning lights and alarm buzzers going off in my head, the terrain before me innocently portrayed as smooth and flat with no sign of the perils lurking beneath.
I compensated by slowing down and adjusting to a sort of slip-sliding gait, run-shuffling up the hills into heavy mist and Narnian landscapes that took my billowing breath away. On top of Wicker Man Hill the snow, whilst not deep or crisp, even, was considerably thicker than the semi-sludge back down the trail. It looked for all the world as if it had been dumped from a giant snow skip, all in one go. Tree branches and gorse bushes groaned under their sudden burden, bowing as if to kiss winters’ cold white hand.
Despite my pledge to spare all the wobbly hell of my phone cam I shot a couple of clips. The first shows the dogs chasing around Blackcap, frolicking in the snow like children. This is not too bad, as I remained pretty much static.
The second returns to seasickness hell with a chug down the east side of WMH.
Five miles in a shade over an hour.
How can time be relevant on a day like this?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Very nice clips, gentil that you put a pullover to your white dog, they were lucky like children. We haven't any snow neither, so thanks for the refreshing video and enjoy it.
I met some old friends on the lonely Falmer road this evening.
First up, no more than a mile in, my old pal Lucifer.
‘Evening. Nasty night for it.’
‘Hello Dark One; yes, it’s a rotter.’
‘Sort of night one might think about turning round at the Texaco’. The voice was barely a whisper rustling in the dark dank hedgerow. I'd been thinking the same treacherous thoughts; no-one would know. It's still a five-miler with a hill finish, and it is a foul night. The lights of the twenty-four hour petrol station winked conspiratorily through the trees.
‘Not me old chum. I’m in this for the long haul.’
‘Please yourself.’
And he was gone, returned to Hades as swiftly and silently as he’d arrived.
Two miles in another far more fearsome acquaintance appeared; my dodgy hamstring. First a lancing streak of pain that ran from my groin to the back of my knee, calming momentarily before setting up camp deep in the back of my thigh.
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
This had to be psychosomatic, induced by thoughts of an early bath. I decided to shrug it off, to continue my steady lumber up the A27, the i-pod feeding me suitable tunes to keep spirits and pace comfortable. The pain eased to a dull ache, lingering on the edge of perception, careful not to intrude on my thoughts, like a fellow passenger on the London train. I let my mind drift as I hauled up the slope to Falmer, the wind and rain slanting in from behind, neither help nor hindrance. At the pub I thought it best not to stop for a breather; better to keep the blood flowing, get home to a hot shower and a cold compress. I turned, head down into the wind, freezing rain driven into my chilling midriff to mould my yellow Saucony windcheater in a 'VacPac' style. The endless parade of dispassionate vehicles swooshed by, spraying my lycra-clad legs with filthy roadwater laced with oil.
And then the third friend appeared.
She came to me, a memory from long ago, borne on the wings of a song so beautiful the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I felt light for just a moment, lifted as priceless memories swam up from the depths to fill my mind.
A young man sits on a single bed, a crash helmet discarded on a lone wooden chair. The room is small, a box sash window to his right; it’s evening, summer, the sound of birds on the pre-nest twitter floats through the half-cracked portal on a warm, gentle breeze. The man-child takes out the letter, folded twice in his back jeans pocket. He’s read it several times, and each time the same thing happens; he feels those desperate siblings, anxiety and love, wrestling like baby alligators in his quivering belly. His organs float, weightless in his body, and his head swims like he’s taken a heroic draw on a heady, hedonistic brew. He reads the words, written in careful, generous hand on cheap lined paper, familiar words, stolen from a song, but no less poignant for that. The words wash through him, filling his head and his heart with light, and he sobs softly, his mouth creased in a wry smile, his face the very picture of tortured confusion.
The song ends and I’m back on the A27 with a tight right leg and a face full of ice cold, hammering rain. Thank God I’ll never be seventeen again! And this road, this black, soul-less bloody road; it’s done it again. Dredged emotions out of nowhere and, for a few short minutes, taken me, like Sam Tyler, on a trip across the decades.
I limp-loped up the hill, past the prison, onto the hills of the estate and home, outwardly frozen yet harbouring a warm glow in my chest. Careful stretching suggests the hamstring damage isn’t too bad; a scalding hot shower followed by strapping, ice, Guinness and ibuprofen should do the trick.
What’s that? Oh, the song? Yes, well, I suppose it’s only fair.
Breathe, breathe in the air
Don't be afraid to care
Leave, but don't leave me
Look around and choose your own ground
Long you live and high you fly
And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be
[SIZE="1"]Breathe - Pink Floyd, Dark Side Of The Moon[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well, that's as tough an outing as I'd like to see for a while.
Torrential rain, violent hail storms and a battering wind, and that was just the first ten minutes. Relentless foul weather had ravaged the cliff top trail leaving our much-depleted, huddled group to battle into the east, shaking fists and hurling good-natured insults at the cruel heavens.
Conditions grew considerably worse when we left the seafront, the inland fields swamp-like, every step greeted with a splash into sucking mud beneath the standing water. My thigh held up well. I'd strapped it heavily before leaving the house, reasoning if it was going to go, today would be the day.
The path down to the foot of the North Face had disappeared in a sea of mud. The descent was as treacherous as any I've had to make, the subsequent clamber up the steep hill sapping my strength. We paused for a team photo at the summit before heading off into the teeth of the wind, towards the cesspit that was the prequel to the Yellow Brick Road. Here was good news; most of the bovine effluent from last week had dispersed, run across and down the slopes to the south by the torrents of water coursing off the adjacent fields. The cows remained, oblivious to our lumbering, and mercifully we were on the tinted concrete for the long haul up the YBR. Except, there was no mercy. This was akin to running up a glass slide in a powerful wind tunnel. My leg muscles clamped firm, seeking any kind of grip through my woefully inadequate shoes.
At the top of the trail my thigh tightened slightly and I dropped back. This was the deal I made with myself: first sign of trouble, drop the pace and stay comfortable. I watched, unable to respond as Chris, Steve and Paul bounded across the tops of the Big W. The drop into Death Valley proved less dangerous than last week, mainly thanks to a hammering gale sweeping up out of the valley acting as an efficient airbrake. The tracks from the foothills of the valley to the disused farm were slick with rain. I slid-skated along the trail, leaving the path to run on the muddy field, but picked up so much excess on my boots gave it up as a bad job.
And so to the Snake.
I've written a lot about my battles with this slippery foe, so today I've posted a small movie to give you an insight into what it was like this morning.
[SIZE="1"]Movie 1 - conditions[/SIZE]
[SIZE="1"]Movie 2 - views[/SIZE]
I didn't stop at the top, feeling reasonably good, chugging around the sharp left-hand turn and back down the slope behind the Snake. I sucked down the second half of an Espresso Hammer Gel (the first part went at the top of the YBR) before tackling the ugly field-edge towards the road to Rottingdean. I slid like a loon, desperate for grip, at last (and for once) relieved to reach the tarmac. Gary caught me a few hundred yards along the road, cursing the conditions and muttering oaths about 'never again'.
I walked Windmill Hill. There was no choice and even less available footing, the only route with any traction almost through the brambles skirting the mud-slide. Down past St Dunstans and back onto the cliff-top I caught a few of the main marathon group, the first (last in her group) running quite well alongside the redoubtable Lycra Tony on his trusty push-bike. I wheezed encouragement as I staggered past, genuinely impressed by the efforts of these courageous newbies, many of whom covered fifteen miles for the first time today. It's doubtful they'll ever have a tougher test.
Eighteen miles in around three hours in harsh conditions.
Good mileage, valuable time on my feet and no discernable damage to my right hamstring so in all a good mornings work. Totals for this week: 36 miles/ 58k (TOM 'safe bronze' schedule: 77k)
[SIZE="1"]L to R: Approach to North Face; Mud-pluggers; Top of the W; YBR; Death Valley[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Hmm, I don't mind so much running in foul weather, but the slippery footings make me think you're just a little bit stark raving completely bonkers. But here's the weird thing - I'm also envious
Glad your hammy held up. Looks like TOM is going to be more than just do-able for you. Nice work.
[COLOR="RoyalBlue"]Not so sure MLCMan.
According to the 'safe bronze' schedule I should have clocked up 77ks last week; my total was 58ks. Mind you, I've never paid much attention to schedules before . . . [/COLOR]
By the way, congrats on sweeping past [SIZE="6"]2,000[/SIZE] RC forum posts! A mighty effort - you forumise as well as you run - fast, furious and flinging mud in all directions
Sorry to say my latest effort would have the hardy Trawlermen heaving over the side.
