March 2012

[Sweder]

She had a snake for a pet
And an amulet
And she was breeding a dwarf
But she wasn't done yet

Camerillo Brillo, Frank Zappa

Don't worry, the title is literal, not metaphorical.
Looking ahead, something I fail to do with alarming regularity, I realised yesterday that I would not be able to run on Sunday, the day set aside for my long runs. There's a logic in that based on raceday usually falling on a Sunday. Some part of my over-active hypothalamus tells me that long runs in midweek are just wrong. Faced with the unavoidable loss of the weekend I immediately re-scheduled my Thursday, setting myself achievable tasks to allow me to get out (on what was a lovely sunny day here) sometime around 3pm. That would give me a good 150 minutes of daylight in which to knock out a reasonably long run.

Ah, the best laid plans ... when I finally tossed down my quill the Enemy had reached 3:45. Somewhat flustered I grabbed my gear, including laden waterbottle, energy shot, a chewy Soreen bar (testing these) and my DAB radio. With the sun still beaming and a barely discernible zephyr offering nought but encouragement I opted for shorts and singlet. I had no clear route in mind, just an idea that I'd set off through Lewes, cross the A27 and start running up the Big W. After that it would depend on how I felt.

Well, I felt pretty good. I guess my sloth-inspired mini-taper had infused my legs with a little more bounce. That, coupled with lush downland, a fresh breeze and a collection of most agreeable danced tunes from Planet Rock set me off in high spirits. Even the ugly moon-rock bear trap of the W couldn't dampen my mood. I was greeted at the top by a motley crew of Exmoor ponies. I'd seen some last year up near BlackCap, all Justin Bieber fringes, soft brown eyes and aloof indifference to all apart from the rugged flora beneath their steadily munching muzzles.

I took off westward, chasing the softly sinking sun across the shadows. I'd thought about dropping down at the cattle grid to pick up the Snake but a combination of gamboling new-born lambs and heaps of fine classic rock distracted me. When I next paid attention I'd reached Castle Hill Nature Reserve, having just covered mile 10 of the Jog Shop 20. That gave me an idea; perhaps I should run a section of the course? So I did. Down into Death Valley, along and up Old Snakey, past Moyleman's Rest, back down behind the Snake to the reservoir and along the tarmac road into Rottingdean. I felt pretty darned good, moving at a decent clip most of the way, singing along with any number of fine songs from the likes of Metallica, ACDC, Frank Zappa and Rush.



It was as I hammered down that hard-top road into Rottingdean that I first noticed a distinctly purple tinge to the backdrop. The clouds beyond Brighton had formed into a Venetian Blind, the reddening sun playing peek-a-boo as it slid towards the ocean. Rather quickly. Ah. As I said I'd not mapped this out at all. If I turned around right now and took the most direct route home I had a good hour's running ahead of me. This would a tad close ... I upped the pace, running down into Rottingdean , trying to think of the best (shortest) route home. A turning on my left looked familiar. Chris and I had run this on our Double Snake training run before Cape Town. If I remembered correctly this would take me up to the top of the YBR where I could pick up the W and drop down into Kingston Village ... I took decisive action, chugging up the steadily rising trail. More familiar landmarks passed and I relaxed, safe in the certain knowledge that I was on the right track. I glanced over my left shoulder. The clouds glowered back at me, moody and purple, like a disapproving bruise spreading across the darkening sky.



This track was rather like rail fares announced by Yazz; the only way was up, baby. I could make out the reservoir off to my left so I knew I was headed in the right direction. As the light leaked out of the sky I hit a hard-top road, a sure sign I was near the YBR. I squinted ahead, the last vestige of a reflection revealing the wet surfaces of lurking rain-filled potholes. A twisted ankle – or worse – at this juncture would be disastrous. I’d give no thought to distance and refused to look now. My initial thoughts had been I’d cover around 15 miles but, as warmth ineviably followed daylight I couldn‘t give a toss. Getting home in one piece before the blood froze in my veins was all that mattered.

That ‘barely discernible zephyr’ had risen to a rather conspicuous breeze verging on a rudely obtrusive wind. It was not warm. Far below and away in the distance lay Lewes, all winking lights and grey on black shadows. All I had to do now was navigate down a steep, slippery concrete track. In the dark. I took my time, especially over the yawning cattle grid, trying to remember if there were any wire fences along this route. There weren’t, but it had been a while. Finally, with legs tightening and core temperature close to that of a frozen fish finger I hit the Rodmell road. My trials weren’t quite over. This is a country lane in the true sense, devoid of pavement or street lamps. I ran on the right, heading into traffic, hopping up onto the soggy verge at the first sign of headlights.

At long last I reached home. The trouble with living on top of a hill is, well, apart from the Blackcap run every outing ends with a steep climb. This one hurt. My legs were shattered, both from the quicker-than-expected hill climbs and the intrusive cold.

16.84 miles in 2:48 (run time).
The Soreen bar was a big hit, though perhaps too chewy to make a genuinely useful race companion. Once again my Ginger and Lemongrass Cordial infusion added a spark to my in-flight refreshment. I’m sure the energy shot played a part but as so often with these it's difficult to pinpoint quite when that kicked in. Some valuable lessons learned then, most importantly about route planning and time management. I’m off to play with Minisubs and ROVs for the weekend. Pip pip!