March arrives heavy with the threat of snow.
I spent the last days of February in Margaritaville under cloudless Houstonian skies, temperatures in the mid 70's, feasting on Chimichangas and giant Jalapeno peppers stuffed with juicy Gulf Coast shrimp smothered in Chili con Queso. Touching down at LGW this morning the BA Captain assured us of a glorious day with the current temperature a spine-chilling 25.
It's a fitting way to start this month of madness, frivolous behaviour safely tucked away with my shaker and salt. Tough weeks lie ahead, and by way of acknowledgement and as a statement of intent I hit the hills an hour after getting home.
Hardly a lung-buster, 4.5 miles taking just under an hour. I felt a hint of positivity (or was that frostbite?) in the tips of my lightly chilled toes as I chugged across the sun drenched downs. Next up, a rugged 20 on Sunday, a run that will tell me exactly where Im at with regard to Paris.
Meanwhile Im laying off the beer & Mexican food for a bit :o
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A smooth, but feisty black lager, not unlike an Irish stout in many respects. Already, at just 10 days of age, a ripper of a beer, this looks destined for greatness as it will only get better over the next 6 - 12 months.
Not that it's likely to last last long of course...
But to the main, burning question: is this beer fittingly named? Well it certainly has legs and plenty of body ( ), as well as guts and works best in cold, miserable weather (hilly terrain optional). As can be seen from the pics, this brew is as black as Sweder's beloved Ace of Spades so it qualifies on that basis as well. Yeah, it's a good 'un
Fantastic stuff, Master Brewer!
I chipped a nail* trying to take that bottle from you this morning. Looks like I've got a matter of a few months at best to engineer a trip to the Antipodes if I want to do more than sniff empty Swederbrew bottles. Temptation beyond endurance . . .
Speaking of shin trouble (as MLCMan was in his diary today), an old friend has popped in for a (hopefully brief) visit. After FLM 2004 I picked up a most unpleasant infection in my left leg, identified as having entered via my chewed-up trotters. Antibiotics did the trick over a couple of weeks, though not before inflammation and soreness had put paid to any loping.
I’ve had some tenderness in the left foot/ ankle region this past week, and today the area between the top of the foot and the base of leg and around to my ankle bone on the outside (sorry for the ER techno-babble there) is swollen and red. This won’t stop me running (at the moment) but might just turn out to be the niggling ailment required to satisfy my recently confessed hypochondria.
Referring to MLCMan’s lament over short distances compared with others here training for big races, I think we’re all agreed his time is perfectly split between returning to full fitness and providing the world with exceptional ale. Perhaps the beautiful yet evil Rebecca could be persuaded to partake of the ‘brew.
After the next session on the rack, of course . . .
* [SIZE="2"]Oops! There goes my last shred of street cred [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
After a week in which I’d slogged a soggy 10K pb, over indulged with great dedication in the late night bars of Houston and squeezed myself into the smallest possible space to cross the Atlantic on Sardine Airways I faced an altogether more daunting long haul this morning.
I crept through the house like a thief in the night, desperate not to awaken the 10 young ladies crashed out in our living room following Phoebe’s slumber party. We’d driven them all to the Spectrum at Guildford where a blast was had by all and I reaffirmed my belief that man (or at least, this one) was not put on this Earth to ice-skate. The nudging and giggling had continued well past 2 am, and as I peered into the inky morning skies searching for a hint of sunrise I added lack of sleep to my pre-run worry sheet.
Toast smothered with peanut butter and honey and a large mug of coffee later I was feeling a little more chipper. The sun popped up from behind the golf course to reveal dry ground and almost cloudless skies. The prospect of a dry run made me smile as I crammed my newly discovered Hammer brand gels into my drinks belt; Espresso and Apple/Cinnamon flavours – Mmm. I looked in to bid the girls farewell, their excited chatter rising from the massed duvets and sleeping bags, a collection of twittering bird’s nests amongst the multicoloured polyester. The dogs had joined them, watching me leave the room with a mixture of envy and apology. They knew I was off for a run but were not about to refuse the offer of a mass pampering. Well, they weren’t invited anyway, so there.
A chill westerly breeze greeted our group atop the Marina. Remy, Jill and Nigel were joined by Rodge, a chap I’d shared the full Jog Shop Jog course with last March, and his friend Sarah. My strategy today was to treat this as the first of three consecutive long runs, to start easily and finish well, building confidence for the weeks to come. I chatted easily with Nigel about the horrors of miles 4 to 9 in the Brighton Half as we covered that very section on the cliff top path to Saltdean. After a brief rest & stretch at the public conveniences Nigel zoomed off, leaving me to join Sarah for a sort of breathless ‘Down Your Way’ climb onto the Downs. Sarah has resided and worked in Beijing for the past 5 years, and is planning to take on the Great Wall Marathon this year.
‘I need some decent hill work to prepare for the steps’ she panted as we slogged up Telscombe Tye. The race starts on a fairly secluded section of the Wall, covers a lot of pretty barren, sparsely populated dusty terrain and rejoins the Wall for the finale which includes running up 900 fairly large steps.
‘You’ve come to right place’. Gazing out over the Downs, the Ouse Valley and the great plains of the Sussex Weald leading into Kent I felt this applied to all of us this morning. I’ve rambled on about the wondrous views on this run before, but it bears repeating. Our course today took in The North Face and Yellow Brick Road, the YBR being a 2 mile straight climb into the wind. There’s no super strategy for getting through this; it’s head down, focus on the ground in front and plod in a steadfast manner ‘til you reach the top. To be honest I’d whinge a great deal more about it, but given that we had neither bitter cold nor rain to contend with, today’s dance with Dorothy was a comparative pleasure. I stopped at several points to snap shots of my fellow runners and the landscapes beyond, losing ground to Rodge and Sarah in the process. I chugged alone across the tops of the Big W, looking down on the village of Kingston and across the valley to Lewes, the Downs and my Blackcap run, the Cap herself bathed in fabulous sunshine.
Passing the entrance to Death Valley I recalled how desperate I'd felt at this point a few short weeks ago, soaked, frozen, battered by the elements. No such problems today and I embraced the climb to Castle Hill with a grin. Rodge and Sarah passed the gate leading into the Nature Reserve and the sheltered descent.
‘Hey!!!’ I bellowed. ‘This way.’
They waved and turned to join me on the slippery slope through the gorse and thorn bushes. I slurped a gel (Apple/Cinnamon), at once revolted by the thickness of the goo and pleasantly surprised by the distinctive flavour.
Deep into Death Valley the wind dropped, allowing the sunshine to work its warming magic. I felt great; my ankle complained (as it did all morning) but otherwise all systems checked out OK. At the end of the valley the path cut through a small farm holding where Clare, another Sunday regular, joined us having cut through on a shorter circuit. We picked our way gingerly through the cattle-churned slurry and on to the foothills of the Snake. Rodge and I rejoined for the climb, again chatting easily as we ate up the sheep-strewn hills. Rodge lives in Woodingdean, the village nestled at the top of the climb, and runs up my beloved serpentine track 4 or 5 times every week.
‘I was out one evening last week when Chris (a lady who runs with our group occasionally) caught me half way up. We chatted and she told me she’d finished London in 2:54.’
I was impressed. Not the sort of chap to speculate on a lady’s age I can safely say Chris is unlikely to see 40 again.
‘She’s 51’ Rodge cut to the chase. ‘The record for her class is 2:51 and she reckons she’ll have that this year.’
I felt a surge of pride at the thought of ‘one of ours’ holding a FLM record. I hope she makes it with bells on.
We took the double-back from the Snake’s head, chugging down the track towards the reservoir and the road to Rottingdean. We ran easily, well-matched for pace; Rodge chatting away merrily, Sarah taking in the stunning sight of a shimmering English Channel, me just happy to be there. And happy to be feeling so darned comfortable. I know, I’d planned an ‘easy’ one, yet I didn’t expect it. With the hard-top plummet into Rottingdean in sight I felt great, energised and ready for a strong finish. It dawned on me we’d not been caught and passed by Sam on his trusty mountain bike, and I cautioned my companions.
‘Listen out for the hiss of Sam’s bike – he usually flies past on this section.’
‘Well done you three!’ that familiar bark from behind.
I turned to see the Red Peril, wraparounds wedged beneath the rim of his crash hat, hunched over the handlebars, hurtling towards us with alarming speed.
‘Right on cue!’ laughed Rodge.
Sam slowed to chat with us, asking us how we felt, reminding us that the last few miles were where the real work would be done today.
‘After the Windmill put your foot down.'
Yep, I was feeling pretty darned pleased with myself. Well paced for 16 windy, hilly miles, a short (yet vicious) hill to come and 2 and a half miles of reasonable slog home. It’s in the bag, another belter.
And there it was; the pride that comes before a fall.
Not so much a fall, more a mini-collapse, in the manner of the English middle-order in the nineties. I made the Windmill climb OK, walking the harshest section to avoid tiring wheel-spins in the thick mud. But at the top as I set off for St Dunstans something was missing. My Va Va Voom finish, absolutely positively guaranteed not half a mile back, was gone. Oh I plodded on with aplomb, to be sure. No problem, chugging into the headwind, trademark tilt forward and all. But as Rodge easily lengthened his stride I realised he’d be finishing on his own. I consoled myself in the knowledge that this is run number one of three, that I’d improve next week and again the week after. I remembered my triumphant blast down Wilson’s Avenue last year, when sparks shot from my heels as I hurtled seawards in a haze of endorphins. This will come soon enough; today was all about foundation, building a base for the run-in.
I reached the Marina a minute behind Rodge and two ahead of Sarah. Paul, having finished a good quarter of an hour earlier and looking horribly fresh, confirmed the distance at a shade over 19 miles. 3 hours 10 in all, good time and mileage banked over some challenging terrain. We’ll do it all again next Sunday and one more time the week after. Then it’s taper time.
An hour later I sprawled on the sofa, drained, ankle throbbing, a couple of Nurofen swimming through my system to blunt the edge of the aches and pains. Looking back on the last seven days I’m generally pretty happy with things. I realised today was the first weekend in three I’d not run a road race. No clock and very little concrete had conspired to give me a relaxed, comfortable run, the perfect antidote to a hectic lifestyle.
Here’s to more of that.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I managed to snap a few shots along the way today.
[SIZE="1"]Top row: Telscombe to North Face/ Sarah & the North Face/Rodge up North Face/YBR1&2
2nd row: Top of BIG W/ Drop at Castle Hill/ Road 2 Rottingdean/ End of the Day[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Wow, really enjoyed the report Sweder. Great stuff.
I know exactly what you mean about the "pride comes before a fall" while running. I do it in every race and every long run. Things change so quickly. Your turning point came at 16 miles. Mine came yesterday at about 13. Too many races perhaps.
Anyway, if you can keep steady from now on in, I'm sure you can build on yesterday to get youwhere you need to be in just under 5 weeks. Me too perhaps, but I'm finding it tough at the moment.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Stuff like this makes me yearn for the english countryside.
It also reminds me of runs across the cliffs in East Devon when I used to live there..looking forward to reading about the next long 'n.
It's Tuesday, so it must be Blackcap.
It may sound tedious, this unerring commitment to the three day week, but it's a plan, and that's more than I've had before and I'm sticking with it.
Large helpings of 'mizzle' shrouded the hills this morning. I loped off with the hounds, 5Live beaming a phone-in on the protocols of consent between drunken couples, a very tricky subject, via crystal clear DAB. I fancied an easy run with plenty of sweat and that's what I got. I wore a couple of layers including a sweatshirt, my age-old grey Nike with the broken neck zipper, the same top I used to coach the Kingston Kestrels in. Mrs S would joyfully cremate the ‘mangy old thing’ – I think she means the sweatshirt - given half a chance. To me it’s Linus’s blanket, ultimately comfortable, filled with happy memories. I smile every time I pull it on.
The sheep have returned (from who knows where), but the dogs feigned disinterest, sticking to the pathways and hedgerows, ears cocked, muscles primed for hot rabbit action. Four horsemen crested the hills to our left, heading slowly west and away from us. The breeze (it would be pushing it to call it a wind) swept up from the south-east, nudging me gently towards the Cap. This is my preferred setting, a nice gentle south-easterly. A little encouragement over the first few warm-up miles, just enough resistance on the homeward leg to make things interesting as I hit my straps.
Running strongly over the last mile I noticed my breathing – or rather, I didn't. Usually at this point I'm rasping like a n overworked woodsaw, but so far nothing. I was pretty sure I was still drawing breath, the clods of mud spraying off my Sauconys suggesting life in the oldest dog yet, but the breaths came shallow and easy and I took great heart from that.
Good intensive stretching and freshly brewed coffee topped off a cracking start to the day.
I’m looking forward to an early ten on Thursday. Or so the plan says
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Some people look pretty good in a cap; sporty, or at the very least, comfortable. I’m not one of those, my Linakeresque aural protuberances at odds with the streamlining effect of the hat. Yet I felt to refuse the offer of a free running cap from the good people at Luke’s Locker would have been rude. Under skies laden with pregnant clouds I donned the headwear, accepting that whilst I might look like a knob I was unlikely to encounter more than a few sheep and the occasional horse or hound, and they would hardly mind.
I also deployed SP’s Garmin one last time, simply to see if today’s’ run would yield similar data to my previous excursion. A rugged breeze out of the south west offered a little resistance on the early slopes. Overnight rain had left the track sticky but not dangerous, and I covered the first mile in a shade over 10 minutes. The Law of Sod dictated that we should meet far more people than usual, any number of groups walking dogs, a couple of cross-country cyclists, two pairs of runners (far too busy trying to suck in air to worry about my sartorial inelegance) and a collection of horse-folk in the first 2 miles alone.
The second mile, one I consider to be the toughest, passed in 9:59, the SatNav bleeping the news over the wonderful strains of the climax to Freebird (courtesy of you-know-who).
On the return leg, the cool draft now helping me off the Cap and into the easy rise and fall of the homeward hills, I picked up speed, wavering between 7:15 and 8:30 pace without any discernable change in effort. I belted up my usual Fartlek climb, 300 metres at 7:20 pace on the slope to the stables. Once again the last mile felt comfortable, breathing easy, and I wondered if I should perhaps have pushed past the Cap and turned this into a Ditchling 10. No, this was the right move. I’ll up one of the midweek sessions next week, so long as Sundays’ thrash doesn’t spring any unpleasant surprises.
Back home I noticed the Garmin readout offered 5.23 miles in 49:43.
Where’d the extra .23 come from? The same run was 5 miles dead last time I wore the watch. Who knows? Happily I’m not worried about it. I feel good, so far injury free and I’m starting to look forward to a run in the City of Love.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A week of sleep deprivation left me more than a little worried about today’s long run. The weather forecast added to my anxiety; sharp south-east winds would bring plummeting temperatures. Yellow lorries lumbered through the Saturday night streets spraying grit; expect the worst.
Leaving the warm comfort of my bed this morning was no mean feat. My spirits lifted slightly when a nervous peak under the bedroom blinds revealed a dry landscape. In truth I was far from ‘up for it’ this morning, and the news that the apocalypse had been postponed failed to cheer me up for long. Even my favourite pre-run breakfast had little effect, and I trudged wearily to the car laden with water-belt, phone-holder, various warm garments and SP’s Garmin, the condemned man driving himself to the gallows.
Our merry band was missing a corps of regulars, not to mention our trusty outriders. The Hastings Half, infamous for the brutal hill climb at the start, is strangely a hugely popular local event; most of those absent from role call were even now lining up a few miles to the east. I’d not considered running in the race as ‘March is the month for mileage’; nothing short of a tough nineteen miles would cut the mustard at this stage. Happily a small but perfectly formed band of adventurers agreed with me, and we set off smartly into stiffening easterly winds before rigour mortis got a foot-hold.
6 miles in I came to realise I’d conspired to all but scupper any chance of a decent run. I’d just finished a breathless conversation with a chap I’d not met before. He’d overheard me waffling on about my favourite running topic, the Two Oceans marathon, and offered some advice. He’d run the race in 2003 and 2004, the latter with five mates. All but one of their number had blown up following a ludicrous attempt to actually race the 35 miles. I shared my plan for a run/ walk strategy and he nodded sagely. After a moments’ silence as we traversed the gate onto the pre-North Face fields, a questioned popped into my head.
‘So, what’s your best time for the regular marathon then?’
A pause for thought.
‘Well, I’ve only actually run a 26 mile race once – London, it was. Pushed a bit too hard and blew up after 20 miles. Came home in 2:55 in the end.’
Cold as I was already I’d swear the temperature dropped again, at least along my spine. I was so out of my league here it wasn’t even funny. I took stock. 6 miles in, I’m running on or about 8 minute 30 pace at the start of a very tough 3 hour slog, trying to keep pace with a sub-3 hour marathon runner. Get a grip!
I eased off, my companion bouncing ahead to catch Paul and Paddy, our two resident hill-eaters, on the North Face. I took my own sweet time to climb the rutted path, aware that the group behind was reeling me in.
Jo, our lone female companion today and someone I’d enjoyed running with last year, barely paused for breath at the top.
‘You lot can whiz off if you like – I’m taking it easy for a bit’.
She set off along the track behind Breaky Bottom Farm towards the Yellow Brick Road. I joined her.
‘I’m up for some of that. I’ve had a bit of a manic start today and I need to chill out.’
We chugged along, letting the eager beavers squeeze past in the narrow lane. Down into and across the sticky ploughed field to join the concrete path for the two mile ascent, we exchanged views on the change in conditions from last week.
‘It’s great to run up here without that bloody headwind.’
‘It’s never great, this bloody section. But you’re right; it is nice to be able to run upright.’
Our banter continued for the next 20 minutes, the Yellow Brick Road disappearing steadily under our plodding feet.
‘Blimey, we’re there! That seemed to take no time.’
‘You’re right, and I feel a damned sight better already’.
I really did. Two miles of sensible pace had me right back on track.
We chatted easily now, across the tips of the Big W, on the climb to Castle Hill, down through the nature reserve, through Death Valley and into the foothills of the Snake and the start of mile twelve.
As we entered the Serpents’ Lair the subject turned to football. Jo, like many right-thinking people of a certain age, is a die-hard Man United fan. Coming from Hartlepool she can get away with it (at least, down here in Sussex; she at least sounds like she’s from Oop Narth). Jo’s Dad was a referee in the (old) First Division, and her youthful years were filled with visits to football grounds and gatherings of footballers and officials. Her Dad trained with the Hartlepool first team, then under the watchful eye of their young manager, one Brian Clough. Training was followed by a few pints and a tab or two; how times have changed.
‘Not many people recognised Dad in those days. It was when the Ref was just 'the bloke in the middle with the whistle', not a celebrity, not a legend in his own flippin' lunchtime.’ How true.
We paused to sip water and catch our breath for the long climb from the foothills onto the Snake proper.
‘3-2-1 – and, we’re off!’ Jo’s re-start mantra proved infectious.
We ran easily, climbing up the gently winding track, sheep grazing lazily all around, ignoring the chattering bipeds.
‘So, remember where you were for the 5-1 over Germany?’
Of course I did. In the same bar I was for the 4-1 hammering of Holland in Euro ’96, as it happens.
‘What about the 2-1 over Bayern Munich?’
Ah, yes, the moment I almost crushed my then eleven-year-old son after leaping around the living room in a sort of crouching, hopping, Basil Fawlty-style fit.
‘I was there, in the Camp Nou.’
I looked across at Jo. I must’ve looked a sight, eyes wide, jaw slack. She laughed.
‘Really. My mate Andy and I, we got tickets off a tout. We thought ‘sod it – let’s just go.'
Of course we were gutted, devastated. We’d made all that effort to get there and we’d blown it. The bloody Germans were winning, spoiling our fun – and they deserved it!’
‘You must’ve been pretty pissed off – all that build up and the boys didn’t turn up – at least not for the first 85 minutes.’
‘Yeah, but you know what I remember most? The noise. That ground must be the loudest in the world, and when we equalised this sort of raw animal sound came out of each of us. It wasn’t a shout, or a scream – just something from deep inside us that filled the stadium. And then we got the winner, and it came again, even louder. It was just amazing!’
I appreciate, dear reader, that unless you have a pathological love of United (or hatred of Bayern) this all seems like a gratuitous and spurious re-living of a favourite sporting moment; and of course it is. But for me, to hear the story from an eye-witness, to have the emotion, the spine-tingling disbelief conveyed 12 miles into this blood-freezing run, well, it warmed the cockles of my fragile, aching bones.
Our conversation carried us to the top of the Downs, along the double-back and into the teeth of the wind, south-eastwards towards the pumping station and Rottingdean. The frozen blast cut our banter short and I focused on some head down solid plodding. My mind drifted back to this very spot last Sunday. I remembered how easy I’d felt only to have that goodness drained by the Windmill climb, leaving me pale and weak for the two mile homeward stretch. Determined to keep something back I walked the hill from early on, Jo happy enough to do the same, taking a few moments for another swig of water at the top.
‘I bloody hate this last bit. I just feel like I want to pack it in.’
‘Funny, I often think the same thing myself. I had a real stinker here last week. You know what? We need to learn to love this part, embrace it, welcome it!’
I sounded slightly hysterical; Jo’s raised eyebrows and slightly nervous grin testament to my imbalanced view.
‘Well, whatever you say – anyway, 3-2-1 –‘
‘And . . . you’re back in the run!’ Our laughter seemed to do the trick, lifting our spirits and a little of the debilitating lactic acid out of our legs.
I felt pretty good over that last two miles – probably as good as I’d felt at any time during the previous seventeen and certainly better than I did at mile six.
‘Beep-beep, beep-beep’ the Garmin chirruped the arrival of the last mile.
‘One to go.’
OK, so could I chug out another 7 or so now? Yep, I reckon I could. It wouldn’t be pretty but it’s in there, somewhere deep down in the gristle and cartilage; I could dig more miles out if I had to. I stopped the watch at 19.01 miles/ 3:16:48 (including four minutes stop over at mile three).
Rodge and Paul were waiting at the top of the Marina steps, stretching and chatting as Jo and I rolled in. I chuckled to myself at the subtle changes in behaviour; now that we were no longer running conversation had become at once formal and a little awkward. After all, none of us really know each other; all we have in common is a passion for self-abuse across mud-strewn hills on Sunday mornings. As I trotted off to my car, already day-dreaming of the healing power of the heater, I marvelled at the speed of my aerobic recovery. Sadly my legs took a different path, stiffening badly on the drive home, although a couple of Nurofen and a fabulous hot shower took care of them.
I’m left pondering my strategy for the next few weeks.
Certainly one more tough long run, maybe even with a couple of seafront miles bolted on to the end to take me over twenty. Maybe even two more, with a twelve and an eight to taper. I guess I’ll see how I feel; it’s how I’ve judged all my runs so far. The real challenge is going to be not only telling Mrs S that we’re off to Paris next month but also slipping in the part about me nipping off for a Sunday plod on the ninth.
A far tougher prospect, I fear.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I don't know whether to be inspired or horrified by your running. I've seen photos from our Antarctic bases that don't look as cold and miserable as your running photos!
But 19 muddy miles in 3 and a bit ... bloody good effort. Paris should be a doddle... if Mrs S lets you do it, that is
Exhausting - and that's just reading about it. Can't imagine what it would be like to actually run the thing.
Well done on doing it though. I had a busy weekend and managed to miss my long run completely. Terrible. Just a cursory 4 or 5 miles on Sunday morning, and that was it.
Back in Germany today, determined to fit in a really good couple of runs, leading up to a final 20 miler next weeekend. It's got to be a good 'un.
Sounds like you're very well prepared indeed -- apart from that domestic technicality. You've done really well.
[SIZE="1"]Bastard.[/SIZE]
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Hmmm . . . he looks a little younger and a good deal beefier . . .
but if that's my pint he's going for I'll kick his arse.
Of course the footer is most appropriate
This Friday will be a true test of will power . . .
. . . as in will I manage to stop at 10 pints of Guinness, or will SP, my St Patrick’s' Day golf/ drink partner, persuade me to go the extra mile . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:. . . as in will I manage to stop at 10 pints of Guinness, or will SP, my St Patricks' Day golf/ drink partner, persuade me to go the extra mile . . .
Ah yes to be sure, St.Patricks Day ... I've already started stocking my beer fridge especially.
A routine five-mile rollercoaster across the downs early this morning.
Routine that is but for the ankle brace, deployed following the recent drop in temperature.
In 1996 I took part in a spectacular road traffic accident in the States that shortened my rented Ford Mustang – just 18 miles on the clock when I picked it up at IAH - by three feet and broke a small bone in my left ankle. The fracture never truly healed, leaving a hairline fault in the Lateral Malleolus, the lower tip of the Fibula. This reacts in cold conditions, causing a disturbing ‘click’, an occasional reminder of a lucky escape.
The injury has played no part in my brief running history and I had no real concerns that it would today. The ankle strap (available from all good high street chemists) reduces pressure on the ankle and gives me added confidence to tackle the bumpy terrain. Anything that makes you feel better about a run before hand is almost certainly worth a spin.
A comfortable lope in a shade under 50 minutes, eclectic soundtrack courtesy of Planet Rock.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Needs must when the Devil drives, or so I'm told.
Thursday starts very early and continues into the hours of darkness; Friday is fully booked, so it was a case of run today or be damned, so I ran. Interesting experiment this; my first back-to-back midweek run in ages. As might be expected there was a little extra effort required on the homeward leg, otherwise all fairly standard fare. The ankle still clicks, but there's no additional swelling and I'm planning a day without Nurofen to flush out any lurking residual gremlins.
50 minutes, 5 hilly ones in the bank.
Nothing now 'till Sunday, unless I feel compelled to rise early on Saturday.
Ha ha ha! Like that's gonna happen!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Having contested the March Madness Jugs at Dale Hill Golf Club on Friday I took off into the wilds of Mayfield Village, another heroic adventure with the mighty SP in the land of Guinness and honey. My early tee time meant that my own festivities commenced at 2.30 pm offering 9 uninterrupted hours of drinking; I quite literally filled my boots on what was an exceptional evening, lashings of good cheer and bonhomie all round. I woke, as one does after such an escapade, fully dressed, sprawled over a most comfortable leather sofa in the smoking room of The Middle House hotel, suitably creased, ruffled and in no small measure hung over.
24 hours later I'm huddled in my modest home office as an apocalyptic maelstrom lashes the house, reflecting on the wisdom of the St Patrick's Day Massacre. 19 unforgiving miles lie in wait, eager to greet any runner who might be a shade below par with no end of pain and misery.
Best get out there then . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
), as well as guts and works best in cold, miserable weather (hilly terrain optional). As can be seen from the pics, this brew is as black as Sweder's beloved 
![[Image: sweder_in_glass.jpg]](http://www.sandarac.com.au/misc/sweder_in_glass.jpg)
![[Image: sweder_brew_bottled.jpg]](http://www.sandarac.com.au/misc/sweder_brew_bottled.jpg)
[/SIZE]
![[Image: rds.jpg]](http://www.sandarac.com.au/misc/rds.jpg)
![[Image: beer_fridge.jpg]](http://www.sandarac.com.au/misc/beer_fridge.jpg)