There's been so little running to report here lately I almost missed the arrival of a new month. This week I managed three similar sessions - hill sprints and warm-downs over a hilly three mile course.
As ever, work is the curse of the running classes. I admire Dan and Graham, who seem able to summons the energy - of, if you will, the will - to run despite debilitating days at the grindstone. The recent flurry of events - I'm at another airport now, heading for my third major event in four weeks - has exacted a toll I've been unable to fund without depleting my physical resources.
After Hamburg I have a three week window through which I can peer ever more fearfully towards Hobart. I will have to reinvest carefully in a body withered by walking 12 kilometres a day on rock hard floors amidst the fumes and chaos of an exhibition build. C'est la vie; t'was ever thus, in Swederville.
On, on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Nah, I'm not in your league mate (or MLCMM's). A soft office jockey whose annual airmiles are probably similar to your monthly tally. Keep hard at the hills, even if the distances are short. And all that walking is better than nothing - so long as you're staying off the wurst and lager . I'm sure you'll kick some serious Ash in that 3 week window.
I succumbed to The Drink a week or two back. Nothing terrible, but now I've been reunited with Weissbier I'll have to tread carefully. Back off it next week for a final lunge at flab control.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Back on it safely, thanks G. Whilst fitness lies smouldering in the embers of honest toil, I've managed to stave off the lard.
The temperature here has dropped significantly since I've been on the road. The lure of a fireside pint pulls like the centrifugal force on a politicians briefing, yet I remain braced for abstinence. Or is it Absinthe?
Everything ACHES. Curse those hard-hearted trade-show halls with their unyielding concrete floors. Rivulets of agony run up and down my sinews, nano-rats gnawing at my running confidence. They remind me of the folly of catch-up. I'm at least three long runs and a dozen mid-week blasts down. I've not covered 21k in one go since early summer. I will have to build in my usual fashion: haphazardly, lurching from session to session. Throw enough fitness mud at this old carcass and some of it usually sticks. Too much and I'll get sucked into the mire of injury and fatigue.
Modern life, eh?
'There's always next year' is ear-marked for my headstone.
On, on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Two hill sprint sessions this week, barely 35 minutes each outing. If you don't have much to invest, invest wisely.
I hammered up those inclines, puffing like a portly copper chasing a spritely lag.
More Lewes Marathon mapping this weekend. Sunday sees a morning run with Rob, possibly from Firle to Glynde via Alfriston. Around ten miles all told, not quite enough for P2P, but any more might be counter productive. There will be hills. Then, at 4 at Chez Sweder, a meeting of the brains trust to review OS maps in an effort to nail down the full route.
I had the idea of naming the race this week. The more I thought about it, the more I grinned broadly. It's brutal, unforgiving, relentless, yet, in its own way, full of local colour and a quirky charm that only those who know and love these hills might appreciate. I contacted Moylebird and she readily agreed.
Watch out for more details of The Moyleman
Track du jour: Sammy Hagar, This Planet's On Fire
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Getting back on the horse this Sunday proved a chastening affair. Teaming up with fellow Moyleman conspirator Rob, I set out to map that tricky section between Firle and Glynde. The first mile and a half was a straight slog up the face of Firle Bostal. At the summit my lungs felt like moth-eaten teabags, incapable of drawing in the oxygen my flagging muscles craved. Rob appeared similarly stressed, yet from that point on he seemed to draw energy from the turf.
We bounce along the ridge, chirruping away about our plans for the race. We passed the point where a few weeks back I'd gone off-piste. A mere 200 metres on lay the turn down to Bo Peep farm. I'd been so close. We passed Charleston Farmhouse, home to the Bloomsbury Set. I'm hoping Mr Read will craft a historical guide to the Moyleman circuit.
Following the trail beneath the downs, Rob gleefully leaping miniature lakes lurking in the pot-holes, we zig-zagged around an idyllic cottage before entering the Firle Estate. Firle House loomed to our left, splendid, in every way a stately home. By the time we returned to Glynde I felt all in. Mount Doom reared above us. How on Earth I would scale that after 22 miles of this next Spring? Ah well.
I drove back to Lewes, gutted to feel so shattered after a mere nine miles. By the time the town came into view I'd decided to add a few hills. I parked up at the golf course and took the trail back towards Glyndebourne, dropping down into the valley before dragging myself back up on a 2.7 mile loop. Now I was properly done in, but I felt I'd won a small victory by adding those last hard yards.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yesterday's cheeky lunchtime session yielded a new game, 'beat the clock'.
Pick a challenging (hilly, muddy) circuit and try to log more distance than time taken. In this case I banked 3.17 miles in 30.4 minutes (317/ 304). It is, of course, meaningless, other than to offer an incentive to run harder when you feel like letting up. It certainly worked. The minutes started to catch the miles as my legs tired. I was surprised at how much I wanted to keep ahead of the clock, pushing myself hard over the last few hundred yards.
I'm planning a leisurely half marathon this weekend, most likely the Moyleman Half route I mapped last month. It'll be good to get the P2P distance under my belt, albeit on a much easier track.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Morning lured me out with the promise of fabulous views and crisp, clean air.
Lewes lay in her misty veil, dew-jewels sparkling in the wintry sunshine, pale moon fading into a clear blue sky.
What a gyp. This was my worst run in ages. Heavy, slow, sweaty, uninspiring, uninspired. My get up and go packed up and went, leaving me to struggle to stay in second gear, never mind hit the hill sprints as I'd intended. I trudged around the circuit, head hung low as the hounds mocked me with their poweful games of tail-tag and nip-chase.
Those three miles lasted a lifetime. I wheezed home feeling desperate, eager for the release of work. It was that bad.
On, on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Ok, it's about following my unshapely arse for the best (worst) part of thirteen miles, but that aside it offers an alternative account of the first half of the course, as run by me/ cycled by him. The battle up Loose Bottom into a vicious headwind was a highlight.
I shall kick back, sip my beer, savour the delicious waft of Sunday Dinner drifting from the kitchen and let Le Chat Noir tell you all about it.
Postscript: my legs are in tatters. I have no idea how I'll get up that mountain next month, let alone tackle the second - and by far the toughest - part of the Moyleman. Stay tuned, sports fans (and sadists).
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
At last.
Today, under clear blue skies, with an honest, chill wind in my face and soft turf under my feet, I felt it. That elusive, all-too-rare-around-here-lately rush of running romance. The pure, unfettered joy of letting loose and hurtling across the downs.
Sunday took a lot out of me. I expected today to be a stiff-legged plod, a chance to run the internal monitor over various aches and pains. So it proved for a mile or so, slogging into a headwind. I left the earphones at home, opting for nature's soundtrack. Chirping birds, the occasional bleat from far-away sheep, the rustle of autumn's last leaves clinging on against the breeze. I reached Blackcap a little behind the clock; 2.52 miles in 27 minutes. I paused at the trig point, drinking in the view. The Moyleman stretched out before me, a parade of peaks shimmering in the sunshine. What a beast! And yet, somehow, today at least, doable.
Perhaps it was that pause, perhaps running with the breeze at my back. I fair flew over those last couple of miles, grinning like a loon, arms pumping, feet flying. I'd chosen my oldest, flimsiest offroad boots, worn down to little more than laced-up flip-flops. I felt every bump, every grass-clump, every stone. Fabulous.
5.01 in 49 minutes and loose change.
Track du jour (on return home) Lookin' Back, Dr. Feelgood (live from the 1977 BBC sessions)
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(29-10-2013, 10:19 AM)Sweder Wrote: I reached Blackcap a little behind the clock; 2.52 miles in 27 minutes. I paused at the trig point, drinking in the view. The Moyleman stretched out before me, a parade of peaks shimmering in the sunshine. What a beast!
Sadly Lord Kilminster has been forced to postpone the 2013 European Tour due to ill health.
Selfishly I'm pleased as I would have missed the London gig (and might make a re-scheduld 2014 event).
Off to Tokyo in the morning for Assault Japan.
See you on the other side ...
A swift konnichiwa from Narita where I'm waiting to board the fligt home.
Roctober lived up to its name this weekend. Larks a-plenty with the Metal freaks of Tokyo.
More soon. No running, a fair bit of Moshing* though
. I'm sure you'll kick some serious Ash in that 3 week window.
![[Image: Sound%20of%20Music%20Ace%20of%20Spades.jpg]](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/80315908/Sound%20of%20Music%20Ace%20of%20Spades.jpg)
