Well, there goes July, and with it the first tranch of 'lard loss'. Hardly an Earth-shattering success, with a whole 4 lbs of lard shifted in total. This month started a little cooler which may help entice those of us ducking the heat to drag our weary bones out onto the pavements/ hills/ tow-paths we once frequented.
Here's to rain and cool breezes.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
No time like the present to start gearing up.
I took to my homeland hills this morning, grateful for the strong, cool breeze sweeping off the downs and the high cloud cover. By far the coolest run I've had in this country for a month, and most enjoyable it was too.
I checked my fitness levels via the usual yardstick - see how far I could run up Wicker Man Hill without stopping for a dry heave or two. Praise the Lord if'n I didn't get all the way to that lonely ol’ landmark without a pause. OK, a bit of shuffle when the going got tough, but hey - it's progress.
The fields south of Blackcap were littered with sheep and cattle, and, mob-handed as I was with my hounds, I took the direct, steep route to the Cap, again running without respite. A brief stop at the summit to fill the lungs and we set off to the east, that stiffening breeze now handily placed at our backs. I fair flew down the slope and was half way back up WMH before I felt the need to step on the gas. My pace remained strong to the top, easing only on the flat and gradual descent.
Home in a sniff under 50 minutes. The time though is less important; I felt good at the finish, stronger than I have in many weeks. It bodes well for August when my goal will be to take every opportunity to spin these old legs, especially on the long Sunday runs.
That's right folks.
Except the scoreline doesn't tell the tale, not nearly.
This was, in football parleance, a two- nil HAMMERING.
Stan Bowles, Terry Venables, Gerry Francis, Andy Lynham . . . your boys . . . well, they didn't show up, really.
I showed up, with 42 goal-less minutes of the first half gone forever.
Delayed at work till some ungodly hour I abandoned my truck in the Rook's car park and raced to the wall of the ground. I managed to scale a pile of sand bags (the ground is undergoing extensive renovation at this time) and peer over said wall just in time to witness the events of the 43rd minute.
Off trudged some fellow in a blue and white hoopy shirt as another chap in a black and red stripy shirt lined up what must have been a penalty.
Whump! Roar!!!
As the Mighty Coleman would have said: Won Nil!
At half time I gained access (for a fiver) to the West Stand - the only end or side of the ground actually open to supporters. Rangers fans mixed with Rooks fans, plastic beakers brimming with cheap lager changed hands at an alarming rate, fed to the amiable throng by a human chain from the bar. I queued up for coffee and chips, overhearing a number of conversations suggesting that the penalty was a soft one, the dismissal even more so. I surmised that Lewes had ridden a tsunami of luck in the first 45 and settled down with my bag of cholesterol doused in vinegar and salt for what would no doubt be a one-way siege ending in glorious failure.
I was right on both counts - I just had the teams transposed.
Lewes played with verve, vigour and authority, pinging long-range passes to feet, passing and moving with deft skill and alarming pace. The visitors lumbered woefully about, looking like a collection of journeymen thrown together at the last minute . . . which, er, I'm told is pretty much what QPR are these days.
Six minutes into the second half a succession of corners in favour of the home side led to goal number two, crashed into the top corner by the diminutive Rooks number 17. The London day-trippers watched in numbed silence, the Rooks fans equally quiet, partly out of respect for the grieving but mostly from shock. I could barely believe my eyes as the half wore on; Rangers were lucky to survive two further close calls before the hour, one a lethal free kick from the edge of the Dee that caressed the axis of upright and crossbar before stinging the hands of a young spectator behind the goal.
'Come on, give us one for the trip 'ome!' bellowed a hoop-clad supporter, more in sorrow than in anger. It was never on the cards. Rangers did venture across the half way line a few times late on, but aimless balls lumped in the general direction of the Lewes area were never going to trouble a team coming off the back of a 4 - 2 drubbing of neighbours Worthing.
As full time approached I overheard a large northern man in a white tracksuit talking to a marshal. He wanted to know who the Lewes number four was. The steward enquired as to who was asking.
'I'm a scout for Leeds United'
To be honest I couldn't think why you'd make such a claim unless it were true.
'Came here to watch a player' he muttered, 'but you've some team 'ere.'
That we have, good sir.
Now bog off oop north and leave our players alone.
In the grand scheme of things the result means little. No doubt Rangers fielded a number of new signings yet to find their feet along with a few talented youth team players. It comes as no consolation to their supporters to know that they played like strangers and were undone by simple speed and commitment by a team dwelling several layers below them in the football firmament.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Looks like August is your month, Sweder. I scoured the local sports reports, but could find not one mention of your team's amazing victory - doubtless it was there somewhere, as we like a good underdog-makes-good story, but it seems to have been buried beneath concerned articles about the state of your national cricket team... those Ashes seem to be up for grabs again. Maybe the Lewes XI could make an appearance?
How do you pronounce that BTW? Is it "Luh-Vess" or "Leh-Vesh"? Please don't tell me it's "Loos"...?
It's 'Loo-Wiss' . . . home of the Mighty Rooks.
[COLOR="purple"]To be honest it really does mean rock all in the wider scheme of all things football.
That won't stop the good people of Loo-Wiss, home to a castle and 32 pubs, making merry.[/COLOR]
I doubt he'll lose much sleepover a pre-season friendly, MLCman.
I fear it's his struggle with the streets that weighs more heavily.
He's in need of some good old fashioned hillside lopin'
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Weary legs hauled me up cooler climbs this evening.
With an early start for work tomorrow and dance lessons* Thursday evening I elected to bank a crafty one tonight. The return home was quick enough, another round trip of something close to 55 minutes. It's way off the pace really but as I keep telling myself, pace is irrelevent at this juncture; getting out there is the whole battle this month.
More of the same (hopefully) on Friday evening.
[SIZE="1"]* Hmm, yes, the dance lessons. A story for another time, methinks.
Suffice to say Thursday evenings are no longer my own . . . [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
You have me intrigued on the dance lessons, what sort of dance lessons? Salsa, ball room???? I am glad to see I am not the only one with pace issues, although the time trial last night did a lot to make me feel better on that score.
Yet another visit to Blackcap this week, the third in four days.
Decided to 'push it' a little to see if I could break 50 minutes. This is timed to the last millisecond using the advanced apparatus of the kitchen clock - look before you leave, look when you arrive back heaving and sweating.
I worked hard on the outbound couple of miles, pushing on the few downslopes where normally I'd recover. A thirty second rest to count down my heartbeat at the Cap and I was off again, arms pumping, sucking in slightly humid air on the journey home. With no discernable breeze tonight the two halves felt evenly matched for effort and speed.
Home in a shade over 46 minutes, at least a three and a half minute improvement on my previous two runs this week. Oddly though I seem to be paying a horrible and unexpected price. My body aches, I feel cold (when the ambiant temperature clearly is not) and I've stiffened up severely within a couple of hours.
Hmm. Back to easy loping for a bit, methinks.
Hoping for something along the lines of a gentle twelve on Sunday to round off one of my better running weeks this year.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Turns out I got bitten by some vile alien creature during last night's lope.
My face swelled up and I have a nasty collection of something orrible on the right side of my face. Not sure if this accounts for the wiped out reaction to the run or not . . .
. . . rest assured when the unsightly bulge errupts into a swarm of baby spiders the cameras will be there . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:My brother always says, "The only blokes who dance are either black, over 50 or gay".
Well, the mirror shows increased swelling this morning - to the point where I'm about to cancel my long run - but no discernable colour-change; despite my heavily greying sideburns I remain comfortably sub-50 . . .
. . . er, d'yawanna dance big boy???
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Following Friday's run I've had a bit of a 'mare.
The 'slight swelling' on the right side of my face has developed into a full-blown Phantom on the Opera, half-man, half-Puffafish deal overnight.
To run or not to run?
Apart from the bizarre facial inflation I felt OK. Would a long-ish run exacerbate, alleviate or have no affect on my swollen chops? Only one way to find out . . .
A small but intrepid band assembled above the Marina at 09:00.
A few gentle comments about my appearance as Harvey Dent* and we were away, loping easily into the east along the cliff tops. A kind and gentle breeze cooled our early efforts as the sun crawled into a hazy, partly cloudy sky. I felt good over the opening three miles; the very slight stiffness in my right leg eased as the miles brushed by. I'd told Chris that I might 'limit my run to the the Wire' - an 8 mile straight out and back loop along the cliff tops - a decision I'd take before the turn inland at Telscombe. When the time came I felt good so I carried on. However, half way up Telscombe Tye I struggled with the modest pace, battling on manfully for a quarter mile until announcing my retirement.
Chris and Ade both counselled a rest and then offered to slow the pace to allow me to at least keep going until the next natural short-cut, off to the Famous Residences. Ade was running that route anyway and would accompany me back to the Marina. I was touched by this comradeship. Running is a solitary pursuit. OK, we run in groups, make friends, chat easily about this and that . . . yet we each have our own goals, and where a runner has a target in mind they are usually fairly singular in their pursuit.
We loped on and sure enough I did feel better at a more leisurely 'speed'. The temperature rose with the sun, clouds occasionally parting to allow the full force of the rays to burn our backs. I made good use of the numerous gates and styles, taking on fluids and resting at each point. At the turn off point we bid farewell to Ade. Chris was happy to maintain a gentle speed to the finish (hes nursing a sore ankle) so we head for the heart of the downs and my old friend The Snake.
The old serpent lay in wait, winding inexorably up her two-mile path. The trail was rock hard and peppered with alarmingly large holes leading to badger-dwellings; one or two looked wide enough to walk into; they were certainly not to be messed with and we afforded them a wide berth. Onto the Snake proper we were hailed by a descending runner. It was Kadir, our companion from Paris, grinning like a loon, waving water bottles in the air, accompanied by a slightly bemused woman.
Hey boys!!! Nosh nosh, keep going! Have some water!
Kadirs chirpy disposition can lead one to dark, murderous thoughts at times.
Our mentor was marshalling a Womens race the Trailblazer. This starts from the top of the Snake, heads off into Death Valley and loops around to finish on a brutal dash up the Serpent. Chris pushed on, apparently in danger of stalling at my appallingly slow gait. I loped on up the winding track, determined to get as far as possible without a break. Once more my heart-rate rose and I started to suffer. This confirmed to me that the bite suffered on Friday was something a little more serious and Id have to seek medical attention first thing Monday. I completed the climb, stopping once to take on fluid at the three-quarter mark.
Chris waited at the top of the Snake, fully recovered by the time I chugged in. We spotted the Trailblazer starters tent and loped across to take advantage of cool water re-fills. Cam, Chriss sister, and Clare, one of our winter Sunday regulars, were warming up. Our timing proved impeccable, with only five minutes to go before the start. We happily testified (to anyone prepared to listen) to the heat in the sheltered valleys on the 5.8 mile circuit. A group of boyfriends, husbands, children and friends gathered for the off, signalled via (Jog Shop) Alexs air-horn.
Chris reckoned that if we took the direct route home, around 2.5 miles from this point straight across the racecourse, wed have time to grab a cuppa in the café and be back for the finish. The last couple of miles were steady Eddie for me, Chris bounding ahead down the scorched, tatty rough and into a vast camp site. I followed some way behind, noting a sort of parade square set amidst around two hundred tents. A young chap was busily clearing up plastic bottles as I heaved my weary bones past.
Whats all this in aid of then?
Eh?
Whats with the big camp site?
Oh, its a gay campsite we're here for PRIDE
PRIDE is a large gathering of the Lesbian, Gay and Trangendered community, featuring parades, gigs, theatre productions and a fair amount of clubbing and ingestion of recreational enhancers. As it was wed stumbled (literally in my case) across the overnight accommodation for some of the attendees. I was at this precise moment the only straight in the village.
Something around twelve miles in two hours twenty or so miles banked, probably unwisely.
Its off to the Quacks first thing Monday to get the verdict on my bloated fizzog.
[SIZE="1"]* Two-Face from Batman[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I second Dr MLCM's diagnosis - I didn't recognise you with that disfiguring growth on your face. The bite is pretty nasty as well .
Interesting that you stumbled on the Pride camp, and also resisted the temptation to make any puns on the word "camp". There is actually a race called the London Pride 10K, which from the title I imagined would be sponsored by Chiswick's finest, and would consist of hung-over rugby players plodding along the Thames towpath and downing pints at the drink stations. How wrong I was.
As for the swelling . . . hmm, less certainty there it seems.
Doc number one suggested a return of cellulitis, a bacterial infection that I suffered post FLM 2005, but in my leg. The symptoms are similar but I'm not convinced. Started an aggressive course of antibiotics yesterday but no improvement this morning so I'm off for a second opinion in a bit.
My son is waiting eagerly for the baby spiders to hatch out . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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