SP was, as ever, a star man.
Happily there were no bicycles involved, the only vehicles used being the golf buggies (officially required when playing the Woosnham course at Dale Hill). Former Captain Tom did a marvelous impression of a man having the colour drained out of him as last call approached, but there again he's spent several hours on the double Jamesons by then.
For me it was Guinness all the way, a straw poll suggests anything between 14 and 18 pints of the stuff. I have to say the last tasted only marginally less wonderful than the first. And yes, Glaconman, I am a truly Plastic Paddy, and proud of it. By the way, I did indulge in some Old Ireland exploration as mentioned in your recent post in MLCMan's diary. Take a peek at the Madness of Macroom, I'm sure it'll bring back good memories of a wonderful country.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Gels, gels, gels. It’s a poser, a conundrum.
I’ve ‘found’ these wonderful gels, Hammer Brand, purchased on my recent trip to Texas. They work like a charm, taste pretty good and are amongst the least oyster-like as they slide down. So, what’s the problem?
Well, to loosely paraphrase Leo Sayer, they make me feel like heaving.
Not during a run, but in the hours afterwards. What to do? I decided to give them another go today and see if they could pass the ‘post hang-over’ test.
My pre-emptive whining this morning proved unfounded.
The wind did indeed howl for all its worth, but it emanated from the north east and so would prove to be only occasionally hurtful. Our hillside team today included a number of those absent last week. The talk was of Hastings and the bitter cold endured by all as we chugged out of our starting huddle, Sam and Lycra Tony back in their familiar, cycle-mounted shotgun roles.
I hooked up with Rodge for the outward three mile warm-up. Rodge and I seem to run well together, one of us always ready to take up the pace when the other flags. Determined to start slowly I set off in the lead group and immediately offered pearls of wisdom. This section was one of a handful into the teeth of the gale, and it would, I reasoned, help us start at the required steady pace. It did, bringing us into Saltdean in a modest 29 minutes. As expected my system had used the exercise to clean house, Guinness residue pouring from every available aperture to leave me sticky and steaming like a racehorse, albeit one that may have seen one too many nosebags.
We slogged steadily up the climb onto the Downs proper, the biting wind battering my right side but offering little or no resistance. Rodge and I chatted easily about logistics for Paris; train times, hotels and essentially re-hydration. I checked our pace on SP’s Garmin. Before he aided me in the pouring of copious amounts of black nectar down my neck on Friday, the stout fellow had helped me to download Garmin software to enable analysis and comparison of my run stats. (Spoiler alert: stats to be included in this report!). As someone who struggles to operate a sun-dial I was a tad daunted at the prospect but under Andy’s careful tutelage I’d grasped the basics. The watch told me I was comfortably slower than last week, which helped me relax and enjoy the stunning sight of a sun-drenched Lewes and Kingston Village spread before us as we bounded towards the North Face.
I made no conscious decision to run the Face today, but even as we careered down the steep slope to the bottom of the climb Dark Forces laid their plans. You need to get this over with as quickly as possible, the cruel disembodied voice in my left ear whispered spitefully. You could get half way up and get stuck. They’d find your rotting corpse clutching your gels and water-bottle and wonder how such a lardy lump could think he’d make it up there in the first place.
Rodge chimed in above the whispering Sprite.
‘Right – no chatter ‘till we get to the top!’
This needed quick feet. I shortened my stride, stepping from divot to foot-hold, hopping and bounding like a puffing black Billy goat.
Keep going keep going keep going keep going keep going . . . yes! Made it!
Brilliant, a triumph of lard over matter. Up yours, Doubt. Suck on that, Disbelief.
Rodge puffed along behind me, grinning like a fool.
‘Wow, you in a hurry?’
I took the warm glow of satisfaction, now a small radiant ball of heat and light, and tucked it safely between my pumping lungs, just beneath my heart, safe and snug to be taken out and savoured in a quiet moment. I felt good.
A pause for a short slurp and onto the Yellow Brick Road. Again the wind failed to slow us down and we covered the climb easily. Past the tops of the Big W and onto the climb to Castle Hill the breeze finally gave in, shoving us gently up the sheep-strewn slopes. Another glance at the Garmin showed the mile pace bobbing around 10 minutes, impressive for this rate of climb. This continued for the next 30 minutes or so. I’ll try and publish a stat post later (don’t hold your breath, stat fans).
The Snake came and went. Another face-on hammering from the wind as we started the climb, but soon enough the winding route turned us into the flow of the icy blast, the chill negated by the fabulous sunshine and our easy running. As always on this route the final couple of miles proved tough, but again our pace remained strong, somewhere between 8 and 9 minute (mile) pace. This was more than I had hoped for in the first cold, bleary-eyed hour of the day.
19.23 miles in 3:09:25, 7 minutes quicker than last week.
The essential, carefully planned slow start, advice on such to be found on most running web sites and training guides, thoroughly vindicated in the long run. Newbies take note! Once again my legs tightened horribly on the drive home, and I spent a good 20 minutes under the blast of a red-hot shower, watching the aches and pains swirl around the plughole until all that remained was the dull glow of a job well done.
And the nausea?
Well, yes, it was still there an hour after the run. The only real problem is it keeps me from stoking up on lovely carb’s in that crucial first post-plod hour. I’ll have to give this some thought before Paris. I’m due back on the slopes next week, but it may well be for a shortened run as the bliss that is the taper begins.
[SIZE="2"]Garmin 'runmap' from today's run[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
That's what I love about reading this diary. After re-living Sweder's exploits, i never have the slightest need to run any hills myself. I'd be much too knackered anyway after all that vicarious altitude gain.
That's a very impressive time for 19 miles. It sounds like you're peaking at just the right time.
It must have taken you ages to trace out on the map that near perfect outline of Snoopy before you ran it, though ...
Oh, the scales are tipping firmly towards the taper already
In the small yet perfectly formed village of Ferney Voltaire, in the shadow of the mighty Jura mountains and fomer home to the celebrated Parisian playwrite in his final years. I'm here visiting the FDI, one of my oldest and dearest customers, a guest of their congress manager. I felt sure my surroundings would inspire a nice gentle plod through the foothills this morning. Sadly Guinness and a (superb) curry intervened last evening. At 05:30 today I sat on the couch in my customers' appartment, puffy eyes glued to Sky TV watching the magnificent Flintoff steer England to their first test victory in Mumbai for 21 years. All the while the brightening skies beckoned, my Addistars glaring at me from the buffed wooden floor to no avail.
What can I say? Sometimes life is like this; running has to take a back seat.
Back to the hills later in the week.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Man, this really is tapering on a serious scale.
Following the laziness in Ferney Voltaire I returned home to spend the next 48 hours strapped to the porcelain, the victim of a persistent and most unpleasant bug. Upshot: no outings this week, and none in prospect unless I take a leisurely 10 or 12 on Sunday before flying to Rotterdam. The good news is feeling this lousy Ive been getting to bed at 9 pm the last few days I actually slept a whole 8 hours last night which in itself must be a good thing.
Part of the fun of training is fitting life in around the running.
Up 'til now I've been pretty good at putting just about everything else on the back burner; running has been King, and it's paid off. Now some of that selective prevarication has (quite literally) bitten me in the arse. Cest la vie. Im in pretty good shape for Paris (now only 2 weeks away) and the wisdom is Ill drop little to no form before the day.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Ah, yes . . . err . . . that old chestnut.
Actually, I have broken the news, and it's gone down suprisingly well to be honest. The girls can't come - at least not for the race itself as Phoebe has a dance comp that day - but we may still make it a half weekend in Paris with me staying on for the run on the Sunday.
Mrs S says I've been much more chilled out this year and 'that's obviously because you haven't had the stress of training for a marathon.' You will deduce from this remark that I have not revealed exactly when the opportunity to run Paris came about :o I'm currently parked in the corner of the hotel bar in the Best Western PAX (accompanied by Grace Jones performing Slave to the Rythmn via the carefully secreted hotel speakers), one of Rotterdam's finest temporary residences. The wifi revolution has reached the lobby but has yet to make it to the rooms. I packed my new runners - they have just the Houston 10K under their belt so far, and I'm planning to run Paris in them - on the offchance I might slip the occasional 3 mile roadplod in during my few days here. Happily the rain is constant, so I'll feel right at home.
I nipped out for a gentle ten this afternoon before braving the VLM Puddlejumper from London City Airport, running with the hounds over the mist-shrouded shoulders of the downs to Ditchling and back. I've wanted to verify this particular distance for some time - early sorties were estimated, based on time spent running, at 8 miles, but the signpost at the turn suggested Lewes to be a full 5 miles hence. SP's Garmin announced the round trip at 10.3 miles, news which brought a self-satisfied grin to my rain-plastered chops.
Huge puddles of muddy filth lay in wait on the downland paths. Willow embraced each and every one like a long-lost friend; I took a more circumspect approach, taking great delight in skipping and hopping between them, my feet moving with a dexterity I'd not credited them with before. Quick feet - the second time in a week I've used that thought to negotiate downland obstacles. It seems to work for me, the mind-movie of a boxers' boots dancing and dazzling his opponent helping to generate the reponse in my own great plates. Running on the grass verge and soft mud was akin to loping across shagpile carpet, more than making up for the limited visibility and relentless dousing. Having spent the best part of last week with a bathroom strapped to my backside I was grateful to my battered body for providing a comfortable outing. This was always going to be the first of two Step-back Sundays, though I had rather hoped to join the Sunday Downlanders for a 12 mile Snake run today. I fear my delicate constitution would not have enjoyed what would almost certainly have been a competitive hammer up the Serpent's spine with El Rodge; far better to go for a lonely lope in the misty mountains where any unexpected calls of an urgent nature could be taken in relative privacy.
I took a couple of phonecam shots to be uploaded later - that is, when I've unpacked the 'phone to laptop lead.
For now I'm off to yet another new bed for some zeds before an un-naturally early assault on the Ahoy Centre, home this week to STOCEXPO, the international exhibition and conference for movers and handlers of aggregates and bulk cargo.
Oh no, there goes my will to live . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Had my laptop nicked from the show office on Tuesday.
It's a dabolical liberty and has put a real dampner on what was turning out to be an unexpectedly pleasurable visit to one of Europe's busiest ports.
No running to mention, not even to catch the morning Metro out to the Ahoy centre. Planning a Sunday jaunt with the Regulars, 12 miles or so, and that may well be it until Paris on the 9th.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
