November tore in like a biker gang on a drug-fuelled rampage. I awoke to find our newly-planted flowering pear bowing frantically to the neighbouring privet hedge, adjacent tall grasses similarly supplicated. Rain lashed in from the south giving everything a pencil-sketched look. A wise man would have succumbed to the duvets' Siren song, but not I: time to run.
So enraged was I (slurping coffee whilst scanning the MotD early morning repeat) by Messrs Lineker, Hansen and Shearer's wilful failure to acknowledge the majesty of Berbatov's match-changing strike v Blackburn (it's a consipracy I tell ya!) I almost missed the start. I drove like a maniac through violent, gusting winds, leaves, branches and heavy rain battering my truck as I hunched over the wheel, eyes squinting through the gloom. This’ll soon be battering me I thought, and once again the eerie call of a warm bedcover drifted out of the ether. Jaw set, pedal to the metal I drove on, a wild-eyed stubble-chinned disciple racing to meet his doom.
As I parked up and bent double to lace my runners I spied a smudge of colour on the horizon. A dozen trusty souls had gathered atop the Marina steps, dutifully waiting for the hour of nine. Stowing my iPhone and firing up the Garmin I staggered to join them, relieved that we waited only moments longer before setting off into the teeth of the storm. Below and to our right the ocean raced in as if to smash the cliffs, looking for all the world like the Australian Rugby League defensive line pounding the English forwards into brutal submission. Unstoppable power and menace screamed in from the deep, forcing the wind and rain up the cliff face and into our brave band. Such elemental thuggery strips the veneer of perceived fitness from the unwary runner like hide from a slaughtered beast, flaying bravado to leave our pink, soft running souls quivering before nature's wrath. I could feel the strength seeping through my already-sodden Mizunos into the squidgy turf as I struggled against this ferocious beating. Occasionally the wind would inexplicably drop and I'd shoot forward into a turbo-charged sprint, such was the effort just to make progress, until the next wall of salty air rose to block my path and slow me back down to a stagger.
The hills came and with them respite, temporarily shielding our drenched forms from the maelstrom. Once crested however the full rage of the storm returned, stopping us dead in our tracks and threatening to lift all but the weightiest of us from our feet. Ade chugged alongside. We tried to chat, our words torn from our lips and back through the following strugglers. As the next rise slowed me further Ade's superior fitness told and he moved inexorably into the near-distance, shape deformed by lashing sheets of rain.
At times like these I'm grateful for my current lack of progress. The Wire, an eight-mile out-and-back plod, was a more than ample target in such unrelenting foulness. Those further up the running development chain opted for a visit to Old Snakey. I was happy to be left behind with the newbies, battling on to the turning point even as the plucky forward crew struck out up Telscombe Tye. We'd struggled to make headway running west to east; our homeward run was more of a hurtled blast, the main problem being one of balance and footing. Violent shoves in the back were plentiful and, at times, welcome; however the steep descents became perilously close to being out of control, and the occasional broadsides threatened to hurl us into a bush or ditch. Back at the Marina we exchanged rueful grins, congratulating one another with brave declarations such as 'Well done - that was fun!' whilst each harbouring the same secret thought: glad that's over.
An invigorating start to a month which may yield a good deal less running than I'd planned. An offer has arrived out of the blue, one that I've all but accepted. I'll not say more just yet - I need to run this by the Memsahib first. Let's just say it's a gift horse I'd rather not look in the mouth. It involves time off work, a lot of late nights away from home, a heavy driving schedule and large quantities of just about everything on the Daily Mail's 'Look Out! This’ll kill you' list. Heh heh.
L2R: Huddled start; Drop into Saltdean;Lycra Tony blows in; Home to the Marina; Elevation Map; RunMap
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(01-11-2009, 12:34 PM)Sweder Wrote: An offer has arrived out of the blue, one that I've all but accepted... It involves time off work, a lot of late nights away from home, a heavy driving schedule and large quantities of just about everything on the Daily Mail's 'Look Out! This’ll kill you' list. Heh heh.
And that's different to your current lifestyle, how, exactly??
Who knows where the sudden urge to run springs from?
This morning it was all I could do to haul my battered carcass out of bed. Any ideas of running were instantly banished, my aching legs pleading loudly for a straight red card at the first hint of such foolish thoughts.
A few hours later, sat at my desk watching the light fade and the full moon rise, I felt an uncontrollable desire to hit the hills. I hauled on singlet and shorts, grabbed my just-dried Mizunos off the radiator and called the dogs. I set the iPhone to shuffle, relieved that the first few numbers were relatively easy-going; David Gilmour's A Pocket Full of Stones, The Comsat Angels' Waiting For A Miracle, America with Horse With No Name and Zeppelin's Your Time Is Gonna Come. Check out the church organ intro on that one; it's not always easy to spot as a Led Zep track; that is until Messrs Bonham and Plant give the game away. As the hills started to bite the grand old statesmen of rock made way for Stiff Little Fingers and their hard-nosed hommage to John McCarthy, Under A Beirut Moon. The vitriolic contempt for an inept, gutless British government seemed to light a flame within me and I fair flew up Wicker Man Hill.
But when Brits get caught they'll be left to rot
Under a Beirut, under a Beirut Moon
I hammered up Blackcap, thinking as I did so about a remark made here recently, possibly by MarathonDan, about hillwork being a kind of Fartlek. The added effort required to attack long climbs is certainly equivalent to interval sprints. The resting jog at the plateau offers recovery before the next ascent just as slowing down does between balls-out, bug-eyed blasts on the flat. It's all about improving recovery time, working the lungs, seeing how quickly the old bellows can recover after a good thrashing. On Sunday I'd floundered badly at the summit of the hard climb out of Saltdean, a sure sign that solid fitness remains some way off.
Sucking air manfully at the turn I launched off Blackcap and into the gloom. Although the moon was full and getting higher by the minute the last vestige of daylight had already dropped over the western ridge, a faint orange tinge on the horizon the last memory of a stunning November day. I could just make out the rutted trail dropping away before me, feel the flintrock poking through the thinning souls of my well-worn shoes as I hurtled into the night. Mindful of the perils of night running offroad I redoubled my efforts, charging up the western slope of WMH and again up Stable rise just as Deep Purple, thoughtfully maintaining the nocturnal theme, chimed in with the excellent Highway Star. I took up the boistrous cadence to blast up the last ascent, surprised at how much I had in the tank after yesterdays exersions. Fifty yards from the top I felt the fuel guage sink towards zero. Bereft of oxygen the blood in my legs turned to lead and I slowed, breathing hard but grinning madly at a fine effort. The last half-mile rumbled gently by as the lights of Lewes and Newhaven winked playfully in the dark.
Home in 46:50, by far my quickest outing in recent weeks and one that's left me feeling great.
As I said to EG (via Twitter), I ran like a God. Or a Dog. Either way I'll sleep well tonight.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(02-11-2009, 08:21 PM)Sweder Wrote: ... and Zeppelin's Your Time Is Gonna Come. Check out the church organ intro on that one; it's not always easy to spot as a Led Zep track...
Actually I reckon that entire first album lends more to the Yardbirds than it does to Led Zep, but yes, a fine running track.
Who indeed, knows where your urge to run comes from? But I know this much - if you could figure it out, distill it and bottle it, I'd be lining up to buy the stuff. Guaranteed. The Sweder running instinct is like nothing else.
Blue skies, crisp and clear; tall winter sun shining, high and white, sharp wind out of the south west adding bite to the still-cool air. Dead-white grasses looking for all the world like old man's stubble waved lazily across the abandoned sheep fields.
Legs still sluggish after recent outings were cajoled into action by Jim Kerr's wonderful refrain, so apt on this outrageously beautiful morning: Alive and kicking indeed. As the miles swept by the lactic acid receeded, loostened legs finding some form. That breeze, straight into my face on the outward 4k, helped boost my homeward pace, aided and abetted by some quite wonderfyl music. Pat Travers, he who once snorted whiskey and drank cocaine, invited us to join in with some rythmn and boogie on the live cut of Boom-Boom: Out Go The Lights. The audience reaction is infectious; you can almost see the clenched fists and straight arms pointing at the stage as they scream the reply.[/align]
I rocked up at the front gate in a shade over 46 minutes, another decent effort. There's still a proud ring of blubber around my middle but I can feel the layers of base fitness building. This bodes well for my goal of cranking up the long run mileage towards the end of the month.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A sun-drenched Brighton & Hove ParkRun 5K and a PB for the year:23:41. 45 seconds faster than last week. Still a full minute outsde my all-time best but I'll gleefully accept the improvement.
Plodder training tomorrow, a leisurely cliff-top wire 12K.
Hope this glorious weather continues.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(07-11-2009, 10:16 AM)Sweder Wrote: A sun-drenched Brighton & Hove ParkRun 5K and a PB for the year:23:41. 45 seconds faster than last week. Still a full minute outsde my all-time best but I'll gleefully accept the improvement.
It's deja-vu all over again ... sodding hoolie raging outside this morning. 8 cliff-top miles beckon. SP says he's coming - will he rock up? Must say once again I'm sorely tempted by a roasting duvet, a snuggly wife and the prospect of Match of the Day with a cooked breakfast on my knee ... but of course I'm going.
I'm just going out for a short run love; I may be some time ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Another Sunday morning alarm, another tentative peek beneath the bedroom blinds.
Cue sharp intake of breath just as a muffled chuckle sounds under the still-toasty duvet. Merciless rain beat an ominous tattoo on the window, distant tree branches flayed out like a woman’s hair on the deck of a steaming ferry. Bugger.
There were subtle, positive differences from last Sunday's maelstrom. For one the wind was not as strong, coming as it did from landward, its cruel sting drawn by the humps and hollows of east Brighton downs. On the flip side that’s where the boiling black clouds were coming from, driven steadily into our path like a slow-motion scene from Twister. I stared forlornly out to sea, watching the sun-kissed patches of clear sky edged with white fluffy cloud scurry towards France, looking for all the world like the retreating Extra Terrestrials from Close Encounters. Ahead lay only blackness and steady, heavy rain. I sighed, resigned to a good soaking. I was instantly bouyed by the sight of more runners scampering to meet the 9am start, a jiggling rainbow of Goretex and Lycra splashing across the road from the carpark. At least double last weeks’ dozen, including a Special Guest appearance from Brighton Nigel joining Gillybean, Stevio, Ade and a host of newbies. The colourful flock chattered keenly despite the gloom, spirited souls set to fly in the face of the foulest weather. Uplifting stuff.
I wound up chatting with Stevio over the outward miles, resulting in an inevitable increase in pace (for me at least). I covered the three miles to Saltdean in 29 minutes, some 4 minutes quicker than last week. Once more I stuck to my game plan – a steady 8 miles to continue the struggle for base strength. When I get to the point where my legs are running away with me I’ll up the distance, but I really need to feel that pressure, that nagging insistence to go on this time, not simply cave in to peer pressure. For me running injury-free is what it’s all about just now; I’ll know when it’s time to turn inland. Turning to the west, wind at my right shoulder gently nudging me homeward, I realised that time has not yet come. Whilst I easily out-gunned the pelaton on the long drop into Saltdean I struggled on the climbs, at least four runners moving easily past me on the steeper sections. More work needed here.
Running alone, quicker than the pack but trailing the sprightly quartet , my thoughts turned to Remembrance Sunday. My poppy, proudly pinned to my running jacket, hung battered and limp from my cold soaked chest. I have mixed emotions on this day when we remember our war-dead. On the one hand I appreciate the sacrifice made by generations of men and women fighting for freedom and liberty against the tyranny of evil men; on the other I cannot help but despise the bloated, purple politicos and Generals who waffle about making the ultimate sacrifice from their leather-bound chairs as they send young men out to die. T’was ever thus. The current conflict in Afghanistan, played out in this instant media world, raises so many more questions than answers. The battle lines are as blurred as the rain-lashed horizon. Am I safer in my bed tonight because youngsters are being blown to pieces in a far-flung alien land? There's a lot of nonsense spouted in the media about undermining our troops if you question 'our' motives. I'm afraid for me and many others it's just not that clear.
Mischievous as ever my warped mind served up a rendition of Sabbath’s War Pigs. It seems my subconscious has no such ambivalence towards the current conflict. The lyrics unraveled in my head even as two St. Dunstans coaches unloaded a flock of hunched pensioners, no doubt including some veterans, heading for a memorial service in Rottingdean. We owe much to our forfathers, including a responsibility to act wisely for future generations, to hold safe the liberties their blood and toil bought us and to honour their courage in our deeds as well as our words.
The following video was originally published in connection with activities in Iraq. It is reposted here with kind permission, and does not necessarily reflect the views of the author or of Running Commentary.
In the wee small hours; a brief missive from the road.
A good friend once told me it's not the things you do in life you live you regret, it's the the things you don't do. On that principal I undertook this tour and all that comes with it, which at face value to the common by-stander must seem somewhat at odds with regular life.
Suffice to say in the past 24 hours I have seen more joi de vivre, as viewed through the most warped lense imaginable, than many do in a lifetime. Happily I'm in no fit state to share more detail. I'll offer these snapshots from a maniacal opening 24 hours of what promises to be a reckless abandonment of normal, civilised behaviour. I'd share more, but I've just been handed, without fare or commitment to reciprocity, a packet of Quavers.
LtoR: The Damned in soundcheck as I manfully struggle to rig Girlschool drum kit; The girls in full flight; Cap'n Sensible crashes into New Rose
Needs must.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The Damned, good heavens. I remember their appearance, with the Adverts, at Kent University in '77, I think in June. I was the Student Union Secretary at the time. We came under some pressure from uni authorities and the burghers of Canterbury to cancel, this being at the height of anti-punk hysteria.
We were unmoved, and it was one of the most exciting gigs I have ever seen.
Mr Scabies upset the deputy Social Secretary, though. She came out of the dressing room outraged, saying he had offered to perform a sex act on her.
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(12-11-2009, 10:25 AM)tomroper Wrote: The Damned, good heavens. I remember their appearance, with the Adverts, at Kent University in '77, I think in June. I was the Student Union Secretary at the time. We came under some pressure from uni authorities and the burghers of Canterbury to cancel, this being at the height of anti-punk hysteria.
We were unmoved, and it was one of the most exciting gigs I have ever seen.
Mr Scabies upset the deputy Social Secretary, though. She came out of the dressing room outraged, saying he had offered to perform a sex act on her.
That would have been when Scabies was going through his green teeth phase, yeah?
He had teeth? Always enjoyed the anecdote John Peel used to tell that among his correspondence was a thank you letter from Rat Scabies' mum for 'helping Christopher with his career'
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What next? Naked fell-running?
