Why-Oh-Why July?

[El Gordo]

What's going on here then...?

An experiment.

I've hit a bad patch, and am trying to kick my own backside -- never a very easy operation.

When I don't run, I don't write. Which is no good. I think one of the obstacles is opening up the HTML editor and doing all the fiddly things I have to do. It has to be admitted that it's not that big a deal really, but I use it as an excuse. I tuen it into an impediment. So I thought I'd post here instead -- at least for a while -- and can always transfer stuff to the 'front page' later. It's easier and quicker to get stuff down here.

Also, I've become increaingly conscious in recent months that most of the good stuff is written here on the forum in any case. Just look at Sweder's race reports and descriptions of his humdrum runs, or MLCM's latest epic, or pretty much anything else, and you'll have to agree.

So what's gone wrong?

As usual, my stupidity has turned an enforced break into something much worse. Last weekend I was in Manchester, enjoying too much Champagne and Timothy Taylor's Landlord, and barbecued animal. I returned without a weekend long run to log in my spreadsheet, and with extra corporeal ballast to lug around the mean streets of West Berkshire.

That was bad enough, but worse was a painful toe that gave me the excuse I needed to take a few days off. This was then compounded by a dose of man-flu that no one has been very sympathetic about. Huh!

Man, it's so comfortable in this swamp. It's warm and moist and green and comfy, and you meet interesting creatures here. They even have a bar with beer and wine and crisps and cheese....

But hang on, I'm sinking.... Help! I'm sinking I tell you...! Help!!! .......HELP!!!

gloop -- gloop -- glurrupp!

Most of us seem a bit down at the moment. Inertia oozes from these pages. Why? I don't know. What I do know is that I have to shake out of it, and fast. I recently updated my profile on the Runners World website, changing the answer to the question of how long I'd been running, from "1-5 years" to "5 to 10 years". This reinforced my suspicion that I'd been doing this for quite a while now. Long enough to have been here many times before. Long enough to know that every marathon campaign has the odd down week. As the well-known observation goes, don't judge on whether someone has problems, but on how they respond to them.

This is a problem I need to respond to. And I will.

I'm probably well enough to run now, but I won't. Not this evening, anyway. I'm still a bit bunged up but the cold is on its way out. The toe seems to have stopped shouting at me. I don't know if it was a hangover from the jolt it got when I went over in Bracknell Forest a few weeks ago, or if it was a recurrence of gout which has come and gone over the past 8 years or so. I hardly ever get it these days, and it's usually even more painful than it was a day or two ago, so I tend to favour the Bracknell option. A bit worrying. I can't afford to have this hanging around all summer, glowing on and off as the mood takes it.

But anyway, I need to get out for a couple of runs before the end of the weekend. Let's see how I feel tomorrow.

Please bear with me.

[Sweder]

It's not so bad down here you know - a little easier to get shot at, but hey, you seem to be doing a reasonable job of trying to shoot yourself in the foot I hope the toe's better now.

If you need something to help you focus how about this.
Lewes is due for several days of heavy rain. The trail to Blackcap is likely to be slick, muddy, studded with slippery flint and slimy tree-roots. It'll sap any strength you might accrue from those lazy legs and burn fresh lard like lambsflesh in a county brasier.

How's that for a boot up the jacksie?

[El Gordo]

It's not so bad down here you know - a little easier to get shot at, but hey, you seem to be doing a reasonable job of trying to shoot yourself in the foot I hope the toe's better now.

If you need something to help you focus how about this.
Lewes is due for several days of heavy rain. The trail to Blackcap is likely to be slick, muddy, studded with slippery flint and slimy tree-roots. It'll sap any strength you might accrue from those lazy legs and burn fresh lard like lambsflesh in a county brasier.

How's that for a boot up the jacksie?

Pretty good.

I can't be doing with these steamy summer days (remember those?). The running classes need mud and rain, and a bone-rattling chill. Long wet grass and nettles are over-rated. But the rest of it sounds acceptable.

The toe feels good this morning. The nasal passages much clearer. I'll see how things shape up later. But things are already looking up.

[Nigel]

Great news, my man.

There's a lot to learn from Sweder's 'just get the f*** out there and run' (and then write 1,000 words about it inside the next half hour).

When a day or two without a main page entry disappears into a week or more, I kind of know what that means. So rather than saddling up on Sisyphus again, just get the ...

Meanwhile, I'm looking forward to Lewes. Wet slippery flints and chalk - now you're talking !

[El Gordo]

Great news, my man.

There's a lot to learn from Sweder's 'just get the f*** out there and run' (and then write 1,000 words about it inside the next half hour).

When a day or two without a main page entry disappears into a week or more, I kind of know what that means. So rather than saddling up on Sisyphus again, just get the ...

Meanwhile, I'm looking forward to Lewes. Wet slippery flints and chalk - now you're talking !

Great to hear you can make it, Nigel. One word of warning.... a Hammer mate of mine says that West Ham are also playing at Southend that same afternoon. So I guess we can assume that it won't be a first-team outing at the Dripping Pan, or whatever it's called.

I agree with the "just get out there" attitude. I hope I've always followed that idea. I moan from time to time, as we all do, but I've always known what the answer is. My situation this last week hasn't been so much demotivation as not being fit enough to get out. Trouble is with me, I tend to 'take advantage' of lay-offs and hit the cheeseboard and winerack, thus extending my sabbatical.

Right now it's absolutely torrential rain here. Could be a good time to.....

[Sweder]

One word of warning.... a Hammer mate of mine says that West Ham are also playing at Southend that same afternoon. So I guess we can assume that it won't be a first-team outing at the Dripping Pan, or whatever it's called.

I resent that assumption
Southend??? Oo Arr ya? Oo Arr ya?
Eggy best bring his top team to The Pan else they'll feel the same studmarks on their bottoms that QPR's bunch of ne'er-d-wells did last season.

Moyleman's going to make it along too.
Oh, and I haven't run since Wednesday
I feel like a very naughty boy . . . (and that doesn't mean I want one!!!)

[El Gordo]

Nope.

Hasn't happened yet. The pub intervened.

I was suckered into a very rare visit to that grotty boozer next door where they were hosting an outfit describing themselves as a "Jam tribute band". Had to be worth investigating, and it was.

I've got a soft spot for the Jam, even if I can't get on with the solo Weller. I remember seeing them performing on a stage by the side of the road on some Anti-Nazi League march I went on in 1980. I didn't get on with most of the rawer punk performers (though I came back to the Clash years later, and began to understand what they were all about), but some of the bands that came in with the punk movement, like the Jam and the Undertones, struck a chord with me. Some songs just capture the zeitgeist. "That's Entertainment" in 1981 was a wonderfully vivid evocation of the sour Thatcherite world we were drifting through. I was a student at the time. It seemed to sum up the bleakness of those awful post-Saturday night comedowns. It's a song that would hover round the fringes of my all-time top ten.

Anyway, so I went to the pub and had a few beers and listened to the band, who were pretty good. I wondered if any of them were alive in 1981.

I dusted down my Stratocaster a week or two back, and blasted out a few powerchords. I enjoyed it enough to buy some recording software and started to have some fun with da blues. Then I thought bugger it, and bought a bass guitar. It followed Sweder's mention of wanting a Rickenbacker bass. It got me thinking. I'd never even touched a bass but if I'm going to put a few tunes together, I need one. Not, alas, a Rickenbacker, whose price tag reflects its legendary status, but a humble Yamaha RBX374.

Apart from the final numeral, I don't know why it's called RBX374. (The 5 string version is RBX375.) I did think about buying the 5 string until I discovered that the extra string was likely to prove more confusing that I'd thought. The 4 strings of the usual bass are the same as the bottom 4 of a standard 6 string guitar (albeit an octave lower). I'd assumed that a 5 string bass would be the bottom 5 strings of a 6 string guitar. But no. The extra string is a low B, coming below the low E. It's easy enough to transfer your knowledge from the bottom four strings of a normal guitar, to a bass. But adding a new and unfamiliar string, would have fried my booze-shrivelled brain.

So. So this black beauty arrived last weekend, and I've been having a good old pluck this week. It's been quite easy to pick up because I used to play finger-style guitar, so the right hand plucking techniques feel pretty natural. I've been trying to recall the stuff I used to play years ago -- with mixed success. I wish I'd had all this recording gear back then.

I think it's one of the reasons my running has gone off the boil a little. I've got sorta diverted. I've been up in the back bedroom, chugging away on my four guitars, headphones clamped to the side of my head, like a serious teenager. It's been fun, but I have to reinvent myself as a runner yet again.

Tomorrow is Sunday. I have to get up early to meet up with my parents as they motor along the M4 at about 6:45 on their way to Ireland. If I'm up that early, I may as well make use of the time to go for a run. That's the plan.

Let's rock, then let's roll.

[Sweder]

I was about to write 'You bastard! I wait all my life for a bass guitar and you just go out and buy one' when I realised three things;

1) The reason I haven't (to date) done precisely that is because I'd have to admit that I can't play and so spend hours trying to learn

2) Not having one has been a 'useful bone of contention' between me and Mrs S.

3) Whatever the reason I don't have a bass (yet!) it's not your fault!

Do you have/ did you ever have those? Useful bones of contention? They're long-standing subjects about which you and a loved one can safely argue, both comfortable in the knowledge that the outcome is neither serious nor required. These topics give you an outlet for a bit of frieindly spousal banter with nothing so vital as the locaton of your next holiday or that inexplicable lap-dancing club receipt that fell out at the dry cleaners on the line.

Every year Mrs S asks me what I'd like for my birthday.
I always say - and its been 24 years now - that I'd like a bass guitar.
She laughs, buys me something else and so the running gag between us continues for another year.

Perhaps I'll go out and find myself that Rickenbacker.
There again, perhaps I won't

[SIZE="1"]NB: Rickenbacker is/ was the weapon of choice for Lemmy . . . and Bruce Foxton.[/SIZE]

[El Gordo]

A bass seems relatively easy to play, whatever your standard. The main difficulty is motivation. With a 6 string guitar you can get hold of some sheet music (and there's a mass of it on the web these days) and croak out a few favourite songs to your faltering accompaniment. A bass makes a lousy 'accompanier'. It's a backbone to other sounds, so if you don't have those other sounds, it would quickly get boring and demotivating. So ideally you need a band (or at least 1 other) to play with, or you can play along to recorded music. Not ideal. It makes a nice satisfying thumping sound though, and appeals to the kid inside me. It's like splashing through puddles or banging a drum.

On the marital front, yes I'm sure we all have examples of this (not all of them publishable, perhaps). We have this long-running discussion about going to dance classes. M loves to dance, but I can't stand it. "Come running with me"...."OK, if you come to Salsa classes with me..."

Anyway, I should be running.

Time to change...

[Sweder]

Got to thinking . . . fave bass players of all time?
Here's some of mine . . .

John Paul Jones (LZ and many others). Anyone who can keep up with Bonham is simply the best around.
Trevor Bolder (Spiders, Uriah Heep). Virtuoso performer; the best bass solo I've ever seen live.
John Entwhistle. My Generation anyone?
Jean Jacques Burnel (Stranglers). Raucous throbbing bass lines, outrageous sex-appeal, supreme macho posturing.
Stanley Clark (Return To Forever). Saw him play with Stewart Copeland & Deborah Holland in Animal Logic. Awesome.
Bruce Foxton. Essential to that fabulous Jam sound.
Steve Harris (Iron Maiden). Heartbeat of the band; incredible speed for a finger-plucker.

Singing bassists worth a mention:
Geddy Lee (Rush)
Phil Lynott (Thin Lizzy)

[El Gordo]

Got to thinking . . . fave bass players of all time?
........
Singing bassists worth a mention:
Geddy Lee (Rush)
Phil Lynott (Thin Lizzy)

Surely the most celebrated of singing bassists was Paul McCartney? He was also one of the first to play with a pick rather than his fingers. He's highly regarded among the bass-playing fraternity from what I can see. Similarly, Harrison was a fine guitar player. Their instrumental talents got a bit submerged under the strength of the songs.

I don't have too many fave bass players, only because almost by definition they're in the background. Good bassists are like good defenders in football. They don't get much glory, and if they do their job well you tend not to notice them. But when they make mistakes, boy, you do notice!

The only other legendary one (to me) that you didn't mention is Jack Bruce.

Ah, just did a web search and came up with one bloke's view of the 100 best rock bass players (and interestingly, best bass lines at the bottome of the page):

http://philbrodieband.com/muso_solos_jaz...ssists.htm

Looks like you made a good call on Entwistle.

[Sweder]

Surely the most celebrated of singing bassists was Paul McCartney?

Sir Paul doesn't make my my favorites - I don't really care how celebrated he might be elsewhere. I won't argue Maccas standing in the music world but personally I struggle to forgive him the Frog chorus or indeed a good deal of Wings I liked his work on Taxman though

It's worth pointing out that Lemmy doesn't make it either, but that's because Lemmy doesn't really play bass - he kind of marmalises his axe so that it sounds like bass and rhythm combined.
Played through a meat-grinder

Footnote: that site is interesting.
I see three Led Zep tracks in the top 25 bass lines (two in the top twenty) yet JPJ rates outside the top 20 bass players. The Who have only one song and Cream two. Go figure :o

[El Gordo]

11.35 miles tucked away.

Yes, you heard that right.

The day started early. My body clock woke me at 5 a.m., anxious that I shouldn't miss my folks, who were passing through at about 7, on their way to Fishguard and Ireland. I'd hoped to fly out for a couple of days myself, but it's looking unlikely now. The old family house by the sea, mentioned a couple of times in these pages, is to be put up for sale. My old Uncle Paddy died last year, and the sister he lived with isn't sure she can keep the house up to scratch and look after the livestock at her age, so will probably head for a flat in the local village, a couple of miles away. I understand her decision, but it's a sad moment in the life our family, and the end of a lengthy era by the standards of most of us. We're not sure how long it's been in the family, but certainly my great-grandfather was brought up there.

I'd thought of flying out for a couple of days after next weekend's running-beer-football-beer-barbecue engagement chez Sweder, but in the first week or so of the school holidays, air fares are unreasonable. Or they seem unreasonable in these days of cheap flights. A few years ago, £200 return was probably the going rate. Now it seems £150 too much. But we'll see.

The folks came and went. The plan was to get off on my run straight away, and with the sun creeping up the sky, it was tempting. But not quite as tempting as going for a magical wander round the garden, checking on the burgeoning grapes, pears, apples and gooseberries, and to cast a paternal eye over the goldfish. They must have been asleep somewhere. I could only see two of them. We started with ten, which very quickly became nine. In fact I suspect I was short-changed at the garden centre. I was trying to count them as I queued at the check-out but the buggers wouldn't stay still, despite my threats. A day or two later I could count only eight in the pond, and recently this has dwindled to seven. Maybe we have a heron issue.

Then it was high time I buggered about for a couple of hours on t'Internet. Doing what? Doing nothing very much, as usual. Do I give up on my High Yield Portfolio and switch back into Emerging Markets Funds? Have QPR bought Ronaldinho yet? Anything going on at RunningCommentary? Runners World? What's the BBC saying? And the Guardian? And New York Times? Any bargains at Fine and Rare Wines these days? And so it goes on. Surfing is a good word. It suggests skimming the surface at speed, occasionally capsizing and getting immersed for a while.

At ten o'clock I could justify my inertia no longer. So I jumped from my swivel chair, strapped on my lycra underpants and shot through the back door in search of adventure.

As I set off, I was mindful of something Moyleman said in a recent entry about hoping the (unintended) rest would do him good. It was a more positive sentiment than my assumption that I wouldn't make it to the end of the street. Thinking about it now, this wasn't a rational fear. Most fears aren't, I suppose. I'd not run this week, and I managed only a couple last week, but the last one was a fairly satisfying seven miler, nine days ago. Not an ideal marathon training week, but I've had darker periods than this.

I chugged off up the street, realising I'd no idea where I was going. Or even how far I was aiming to run. A sensible approach after a lay-off and a cold might have been a short run to start with, but I'm getting anxious about a dearth of successful long runs in my training spreadsheet.

The recent torrential rain narrowed my options. A drive round my usual short route yesterday, showed half the lanes submerged. Decided to head for the Canal, but then proceed in an easterly direction towards September's holiday destination -- Tokyo.

Despite being flat, the first mile was pretty tough. I just didn't fancy it. All I could think of was to take it easy.

Two miles, three miles... of course, any distance run in one direction along the canal has to be doubled to take account of the return journey, so I have to judge it carefully. But I was feeling OK, so I pressed on.

This is a rather featureless stretch of towpath: overgrown and not well-defined. Worse, it passes under the M4, then for a mile or so fringes the motorway, so it's noisy and slightly stressful. Not as scenic and as calming as my more usual route in the other direction, where you are heading through open countryside as soon as you hit the path.

Into my fourth mile, and a dog-walker wearing wellies and a faintly sadistic smile tells me: "You'll get your feet wet up there!" I thanked him, but said I'd continue as far as I could.

Two hundred yards further, I swing round a bend and am confronted by a waterlogged path as far as the eye could see. Damn. Do I go on? Or turn back?

I know if I turn back I'll end up heading home and regretting it. So I tip-toed through the water as best I could, though I couldn't prevent it sloshing into my shoes. I got clear, and squelched on for another half mile or so before I hit another, even deeper stretch of water. No option but to carry on, I decided. My feet were already wet, and if I turned back I'd have to go through the previous long bit of flooded path. This time the water was up to my ankles.

And it got worse. I'd decided to turn off the canal at the next road -- but the next road didn't come until I had six miles on the watch. I could see the bridge, and the road, but I stopped a hundred yards away. Because I could also see the lagoon that separated us. Bugger it, here we go. This time, the water was up to just above my knees. I waded down to the bridge. By the time I was half way to my destination, I realised I'd drawn a small group of spectators on the bridge. Someone was taking a picture. Someone else pointed at me from a car.

The trouble wasn't over at the bridge. To reach the road, I had to get up a long ramp, at least fifty yards of which was also under water. But by now I didn't care. I was already drenched, so it made no difference.

I made it up to the road and squelched on up the main A33 into Reading. This isn't the most secluded or tranquil stretch of road in the area, so there was nothing for it but to crank up the iPod and carry on until I hit the cut-through to the A4 and headed home.

Apart from the wading interludes, I managed to run for 9.5 miles without a break. Then I stopped at a garage to buy a drink, and struggled a bit when I set off again. I could feel my right calf tightening, and the previously troublesome toe was making itself known, even though I wouldn't quite describe it as pain. I'm always paranoid about that calf. It's floored me a couple of times before. If it pops again, I can write off six weeks. No point in risking it, so I sort of walk-shuffled the final mile or two. But 11:35 is what it said on the watch when I got home, and that's what I'm taking.

I'm pleased with this, even if it was a rather squalid sort of a run. I didn't get the big endorphin hit I might have expected but I'm not complaining. It was the miles that were important.

Track du jour? There were some great candidates today but the one that popped up as I emerged from one of the liquid sections was James Taylor's lovely rendition of The Water Is Wide, a wistful English folk song from the 16th century. When I hear it, I can't help visualising a distant view of a runner on a long straight road, silhouetted against the sea. Today it had a funnier resonance, but it's still a great song that also reminds me of Ireland, and of the tranquility of the modest family home in the wilds of County Mayo, sandwiched betweeen a lake and the sea, and surrounded by mountains.



Music and running, eh? What dreams a man may have.

[Sweder]

Fabulous adventure! I'd have worried slightly about the standing underfoot in those flooded areas but you survived - good on you. Don't let that calf fester; get thee to a physician - better still an applicator of medieval torture. I highly recommend Chinese Cups

[El Gordo]

Dateline: Yesterday, A Sun-Flooded England. A sinewy, early-morning lope to report. Highly agreeable stuff. Four miles of sub-10:30 miles: decent for me at that time in the morning, when my calfs are cold and brittle, like a pack of bread sticks fresh from the freezer.

I was in training for more than my marathon. A couple of hours later I would be somewhat gingerly climbing aboard the first day of one of these team-building thingummies at work. I'll suspend comment till after the second and final day, as long as I have sufficient dignity intact. I've managed to cling onto most of it, but it's been a struggle at times.

Wish me luck.

Geronimo!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

[SIZE="1"][/SIZE]

I was in training for more than my marathon. A couple of hours later I would be somewhat gingerly climbing aboard the first day of one of these team-building thingummies at work. I'll suspend comment till after the second and final day, as long as I have sufficient dignity intact. I've managed to cling onto most of it, but it's been a struggle at times.

Oh God, perhaps that explains why your particular firm's brand of widgets* have gone to the dogs.

Team-building. Huh! What they need is to get their employees running.

Seriously!

-----------------------------------------------------
* [SIZE="1"]edited by Andy. Sorry, but I'm sure you'll understand[/SIZE].

[Antonio247]

I was in training for more than my marathon. A couple of hours later I would be somewhat gingerly climbing aboard the first day of one of these team-building thingummies at work. I'll suspend comment till after the second and final day, as long as I have sufficient dignity intact. I've managed to cling onto most of it, but it's been a struggle at times.

Wish me luck.

Geronimo![/quote]

Best of luck, Andy, although I don´t know what all of it is about. I expect you succeed.

I saw on TV the big flood in England. It must have been really tough. Good luck with the heavy rain as well !

Greetings from Almería

Antonio

[El Gordo]

I'm not going to dwell too long on my team-building experience, except to say that most of the bonding took place in the restaurant last night rather than over two days in the classroom.

I call it a "classroom" but it was actually a function room at a golf club. I'm not a big golf fan, as people will know, but there was a point this morning when, staring through the window, I noticed a chap preparing to tee off. Just at that moment, one of my colleagues was gushing to the drink-ravaged assembly: "I see my job as.... as spreading the love around..."

Man, I realised at that precise moment just how fascinating a golf swing can be.

It's all a terrible dilemma, this sort of caper. I'm actually quite keen on the idea of team-building days, if the time is used wisely. People sometimes mistakenly think I'm not a team player, because I like to just get on with my job once I know what I'm supposed to be doing. But I know all about not sweating the small stuff, and pursuing excellence, and managing everything in one minute, and not worrying about who moved my cheese, and all that. I've devoured these lessons, and more -- many, many more.

I even believe most of it. I was a card-carrying Tom Peters acolyte for a long time. I'm not as cynical as I must seem to my colleagues. I'm probably just resentful that I don't rule the world. I'm rarely endowed with genuine responsibility, which pisses me off. The power dealers hear that I'm pissed off, so decide that I can't be trusted with anything. It becomes a circle of mutual disappointment and exasperation. That seems to be how it works.

I ran a big wine shop in the Fulham Road once. I inherited a young guy called Steve, from Ladbroke Grove. A pretty stroppy character. Always late, not very co-operative. The area manager wanted to sack him, as he was "more trouble than he's worth". I wasn't keen to do that as he was married with a baby. We talked about it. I remember reading something that Winston Churchill said, that "the way to deal with a rebel is to give him responsibility". So after a rather fractious discussion with the area manager, we decided to make him a key-holder and sort of assistant manager. He responded brilliantly, and his behaviour changed overnight. It was deeply heartening. I've never forgotten it.

It's a while since someone took that sort of chance with me, but I've become sanguine about the whole cycle. I'm realistic. I get paid OK, and to stay sane and satisfied I've learnt to shine the light of my ambitions away from work, pointing it instead through the wire fence into my personal life. Plodding marathons, and writing about the experience, is just one great way to start feeling stimulated -- and occasionally even fulfilled. Someone asked me the other day about the plan for the book. It's still there. I open the file 2 or 3 times a week, usually early in the morning, and write another few paragraphs. Perhaps I'll never reach that particular finishing line, but the race itself is a thrill. Trying to keep the non-work self topped up with creative diversions seems to do the trick.

Let's talk about running, because I've had two excellent jaunts in the last two days. I've already mentioned yesterday's early morning bounce through the sun. It left me buzzing and keen all day.

This evening's was good too. Later than usual (8:30), but there are advantages with this. It's cleansing to run through the first fringes of twilight; to feel the wild unwinding of the day; the untightening of the tensions. To run at this time, in the cool of the pre-night, is to set yourself free. It feels like a privilege.

I was out there for a shade under an hour. Sixty minutes is a great length for a brisk, non-stop midweek run. Those 30 or 40 minute outings are sometimes unavoidable, particularly before work, but if the escape can be stretched to an hour, so much the better. The extra 20 minutes are where the detail is hiding. This is where the real work is done. I managed about 5.5 miles, including a couple of stiff upward slopes. I daren't call them hills in the presence of the teeth-glinting, Sussex masochists.

Track du jour? Corny, but Ron Goodwin's The Trap -- better known as the theme tune of the BBC's coverage of the London Marathon. It popped up just as I was entering the final half mile, and beginning to feel a little fatigue. It's a corny tune, and a corny arrangement, but it jangles something inside, and it gave me the little spurt I needed to get home feeling strong and confident again.

It seems we're getting back in the groove.

[El Gordo]

The morning after the day before and I'm feeling strangely human. Surprisingly normal. Slightly woolly headed, but nothing severe. It seems to be mixing drinks that causes those next-day difficulties. Yesterday it was just beer-beer-beer, and this simple strategy has paid off.

We arrived at Sweder's around 10:30. Our first time in Lewes, but the trip down the A23 from the known world was pretty painless. It puzzles me that so many people get anxious and disorientated about having to find a place they've not been to before. I'd put the address into Google maps, saw immediately the best route, made a one-line note on the back of an envelope, and didn't give it a further thought. 'Other people' would have spent half the previous evening poring over maps, writing up and printing directions, and fretting about alterntive strategies in case of roadworks.

Tentatively, we crept in through the open front door, and wandered round for a while. Gulp. This was like one of those movies where the music starts to get louder and more threatening, just before the corpses come into view. But hang on, here's Sweder, looking rather surprised to see us. Nice lived-in house, with dogs and kids popping up here and there, and reassuring evidence of food and drink. Moyleman of this parish was aready there, and shortly after, Nigel materialised. We said farewell to the womenfolk and set off on the run.

This was the legendary trek up to Blackcap, Sweder's much-described regular lope with the dogs. For me, it was a tough run. Nigel struggled a bit too, but coped. For Sweder and Chris it seemed little more than a casual jog.

It makes sense. I never run on grass, and a hill is a special occasion. It was never going to be easy, but that's the very reason I'm glad I did it. It seems pointless to avoid hill running. If your objective is to reduce the challenge and the difficulty, then the logical step is to make it even easier by staying at home. An even better reason for including hills in a balanced running diet is the aesthetics. The views up there are stunning, though I had to keep remembering to look. It seemed more natural to gaze at my feet as I fought to make that next step up the slope.

Sweder reminded me that for most of the year, conditions underfoot were nowhere near as friendly as they were today. Regular rain reduced the path to a muddy slick. I didn't like to imagine it.

We weren't alone. Early on, we passed a large group of horses and riders, much to the delight of Ash's three dogs. Beyond that, we passed a steady trickle of beaming walkers.

Two and a half painful miles later, I joined the others at the trig point atop Black Cap. In various stages of repose, they'd evidently been there for some time...

Superb views through the hills to Brighton and Newhaven, and down to Lewes. I could see why the lad enthuses so much about his patch of heaven with its performing clouds.

The return half was easier on the legs, and on the spirit. At last, there seemed to be some space in my head for thought. I was thinking that most runners seem to have a sort of default run, and this one is Sweder's. To do someone else's run is to learn something about them. It's a bit like meeting their family for the first time. Something falls into place. I could envisage the chap vanishing into the early-morning mist with his gleeful dogs in pursuit, and I suddenly understood a little more.

It wasn't a long outing, but pretty intense in places. I didn't find the upward leg easy, but I'm glad I did it. As I often say, it's not the doing but the having-done that I enjoy, and this was certainly true for this run. How good to see the steep stretch of track that starts the route, come back into view.

Work done, it was time to shower and relax in front of Sweder's impressive 42-incher for some brief entertainment. The cricket was just getting under way. Is disappointment more palatable in high definition? I suspect so. A short while later we were supping the first of several pints in the first of several pubs. Mainly Harvey's, the excellent local ale.

Oh god. Having a few glasses of beer in the pub, with some mates, on the way to the match. On a sunny afternoon. After a run. Does it get much better than this? I doubt it.

It was good to experience the famous, if enigmatically-monikered, Dripping Pan at first hand.

Just what is a dripping pan? According to my Google search, it is "a pan for catching drippings". What a relief to learn the truth.

OK, so it actually says "a pan for catching drippings under roasting meat", which, under a warm East Sussex sun, was actually quite an appropriate name.

For the record, the match was somewhat uneventful in the first half, but started to struggle out of its easy chair in the second, and even threatened to become exciting here and there. Two well-executed goals saw the Rooks defeat the cream of East London, despite the victors finishing with 10 men. Nigel, a Hammers fan, seemed crestfallen but unsurprised, while the other three of us chortled, enjoying his discomfiture in the way that football fans do.

Back to the pub for a few swifties before returning to Ranch Sweder to meet up with Rog and his charming daughter, Ruby, and to feast on the fruits of Sweder's barbecue. We lost track of exactly whose sausages we were wolfing down, but they were all superb. A couple more pints of Harvey's and the day was complete.

At around ten o'clock, with Nigel and Chris and Rog safely out of the way, it seemed like a good opportunity to suggest to the Swede that we should crack open the bottle of Champagne I'd brought. Shockingly, he wasn't up to it. In retrospect, almost certainly a good thing. It meant that M and I got home at a reasonable time (before midnight), and that today I can think straight.

A splendid day out, stuffed with pleasure from start to finish. One of those occasions that makes you think: this really should be an annual event.

A public thank you to the great man, his long-suffering wife, and to Nigel and Chris for a memorable day. And to M for ferrying home this grinning, gurgling humanoid. Very nice to meet Rog and Ruby too.

Flickr Pictures here: Lewes 2007 - Sweder's BBQ