2007 Brighton 10K

Cold foulness wrapped its unkind arms around a shivering Sussex morning. Trees bobbed and weaved as if to dodge a beating from the savage wind. I peeked out from the warm embrace of my duvet just as Mrs S arrived with two steaming mugs of tea.
'It's not very nice out there' she beamed.

It had been a far more agreeable evening. Antonio of this parish had arrived in Lewes care of Southern Trains and the Devil's Avocado Express, hot-foot from Almería via Gatwick. After a brief tour of the town we visited with Mrs S and the canine clan before heading for the Lewes Arms and a restorative pint of Harvey's. Captain Tom joined us in the convivial public bar, supping ale and watching the Saturday night crowds ebb and flow. After seeing our visitor back to the station I stopped off at the Charky for a late-night feast. I heartily recommend this calorific pre-race schedule; a couple of pints of Harvey's, including the admirable Mother-in-Law, a tasty blend of Old and Bitter, followed up by a well-stuffed donner kebab. Delicious!

Having plucked up the courage to leave my toasty pit I pfaffed about, endlessly finding things to do that might postpone the inevitable. Mrs S positioned herself outside my office door, hands on hips in a perfect double-teapot, foot tapping; time to go. A knifing wind howled off the downs as we scrambled into the car. Prevarication aside I managed to forget my Garmin, leaving Mrs S to question the suitability of my pre-race preparation. She turfed me out kerbside at the Palace Pier, tooting the horn and waving as she accelerated away towards the cozy Brighton malls.

Hunched against the spiteful gale I scurried towards the start where I found Antonio. The DA was apparently circling the Brighton lanes in search of parking. We found Captain Tom safely ensconced in the Seagull Cafe, where, after telling us all about the huge cooked breakfast about to come his way, he offered to take our bags and outer garments just as the starter called runners to order. I marveled at the gathered athletes, many in shorts and singlets, as I shivered in my leggings. I'd intended talking them off, having put on my shorts beneath, but now I wouldn't be parted with them for all the piping hot tea in China.

Antonio headed for the 60 minute marker, his goal to break the hour for the distance. I wriggled through the thickening crowd to find my place somewhere between that and the 45 minute spot. Optimistic perhaps, but certainly wise as here be bodies and here be warmth. I glanced up to see a silver head working through the crowd along the observation gantry. I waved as the figure scanned the throng, finally making eye contact with the DA before an exchange of grins and thumbs up. Around me excited runners traded good wishes through colourless lips, feet shuffling, hands twitching to encourage blood-flow. After an insufferable wait the hooter sounded and those shuffling feet began to advance. A minute thirty later the chirping chip mats confirmed the start - we were truly off, running steadily en mass into the east. Frigate-grey clouds hung heavy overhead as gulls screeched and wheeled in the wind, their mournful cries whipped back over our heads in the direction of Shoreham. There's usually a prevalent wind in Brighton and today we would enjoy a helpful shove for the east-west leg. The bad news, as we all knew, was that the return, from the King Alfred Leisure centre to the finish line, would be an almighty head-first slog into what was rapidly becoming a maelstrom.

Having turned at Black Rock I increased my stride, taking full advantage of the wind-assisted section. A few hundred metres back towards the start I spied a familiar figure; tall, loping, impossibly gangly - Niguel. I hailed him to no avail, my yell joining the gull-calls on the ether-bound fast-track.

The next few kilometres came and went easily enough. I struggled to relax, to conserve energy for the struggle to come, whilst maintaining a competitive pace. Bereft of electronic aid I could only measure my progress by that of those around me but this was of little use. The early optimists were coming back to me, the Jonny-come-latelies flying past. I shrugged this off and settled for what felt like a steady yet determined rate, focused on breathing easily and trying not to let the inevitable snot-trail impede others. Warm blood worked it's magic, fingers flexing to help circulation in defiance of the icy air.

As we passed the Peace Statue, just beyond the derelict West Pier, I attempted to clear my over-worked nostrils. Streams of gunk fired off like tazer wires, headed straight for the back of the runner in front. Mercifully the wind whipped in, jerking the ejectum up and away before impact. Moments later a red and black hooped vest emerged from the line of leading runners streaming towards us; the shaved head and wide grin confirmed Moyleman in full stride. Shearers were exchanged but I confess my attempted smile was closer to a grimace. The quadruple marathoner looked in fine fettle, running easily, shoulders and arms relaxed, stride full and balanced. Two minutes and a hastily-grabbed water shot at the turn later I was face-on to the full force of the gale. The forecast had suggested rain and it was certainly in the air, lurking a few miles offshore, dark and horrible above the prancing white-capped waves. Mad Kite-surfers screamed along the shoreline, bodies bowed, dragged at breakneck speed under powerful wings, boards smashing through the white-tipped surging sea. I couldn't see their faces but I'm willing to bet they were grinning like fools as they careered across the foaming waves. I tucked my arms in, hunched down, neck fully retracted, and re-doubled my efforts.
Breathe I thought; shorten that stride.

Once more Niguel appeared in the on-rushing flow. This time he saw me and we managed to execute a high-five on the hoof. This gave me a boost and I passed a couple of strugglers, reaching the incline at the Meeting Point at optimum speed. Thirty seconds later I felt drained, puzzled at the sudden power loss. The 'strugglers' regained their ground. I could have panicked but held station, working hard to get my breathing right and not worry about anyone or anything else. Sure enough my pace settled and once again I closed the gap. Approaching the Palace Pier I got my head down, pumping my arms, gritting my teeth and upping the pace. I wouldn't go so far as to call it sprinting but it felt more or less flat out. I passed a few more runners in the final stretch and was in turn overtaken by a couple of lads with the hammer down, heads thrown back in fierce battle, the Liddle Twins burning for the line.

I crossed with the clock showing a few seconds short of fifty minutes, so somewhere between forty-eight and forty-nine chip time. Well outside my PB but I'm happy enough. Captain Tom waited patiently beyond the finishers' funnel still clutching my kit bag filled with lovely warm clothes. I realised how horribly numb my chest and stomach felt. The barrage of ice-cold bluster had chilled me to the core, and whilst my arms and legs were warm enough my considerable frontage was a slab of frozen lard. Antonio cruised in, logging what appears to be a rather impressive PB in something close to fifty-four minutes. Not bad for a man who hoped to break sixty! Niguel was close behind, happy to have finished well after a prolonged and unpleasant bout of ankle-knack. Mr Avocado greeted us, looking mighty smug at having escaped the conditions wrapped in a sturdy jacket and an old QPR scarf. We caught up with a few of the JSJ crew as we snaked through the milling crowd. I was primarily looking for Lycra Tony, a man who'd just returned to racing after years coming back from serious injury (picked up on the London to Brighton sixty mile slogfest).
'Why do you call him Lycra Tony?' asked the DA, just as I spotted the man himself emerging from behind the Jog Shop stall.
'Take a look' I offered, indicating a pair of slender legs wrapped in paisley patterned leggings featuring all the colours of the rainbow and a few more besides. Tony gleefully informed us he'd enjoyed a trouble-free run, coming home in a comfortable forty-six minutes. I spotted Remmy, looking impossibly unruffled, who upon seeing the question writ across my face peeled open his jacket Superman-style to reveal his race number. Rog-Air huddled with his Habbakuk Harriers, son Luke having completed his inaugural run in a creditable forty seven minutes. Excited chatter floated above sporadic applause as more runners raced to beat the hour. All around us runners stripped to don warm clothes, their post-race rehydration plans mingling with the steam rising from their backs.

Luncheon was taken on the upper deck of Alfrescos, our traditional post B10K eatery,  Mrs S, Pheebs, M and Moyleman joining the DA, Niguel, Antonio and I to complete a fine table. As we settled back to cold beer and warm soup the rain blew in, hammering at us through the greenhouse-style windows. Savage seas raged against the rusty bones of the disheveled pier, birds sliding silently across the view as if the world were gently tilting landward. I reminded Antonio of his desire to visit the Snake, offering to point out the entrance and, gent that I am, to wait for his return in the car. He declined.

Despite a half-decent run in tough conditions my opinion of 10ks remains one of unfettered disdain.
I'm definitely a bear built for long-distance chugging, not a short-range dash merchant.
Roll on Almería and the comfort of a lusty half.
And here's to a bit of sunshine.

Comments

[ANTONIO L.R.]

Congratulations, Sw. I had a very good time with you,your wife, son and daughter, pets, Captain Tom and his wife, AndyRC,M, Nigel, Moyleman,etc. The race was fantastic in spite of the cold and weather. The meal was also great.

Thank you very much for your hospitality. Many greetings to your family and friends.

Saludos desde Almería

PS. I´ve survived a night at Stansted airport. There were a lot of people waiting for their flight last night.

[Moyleman]

Great account, thats why I won't post one with us in the same race.

Roll on Almeria!

[Rockhammer]

Official times - Antonio and Rockhammer 53:59. Sweder 48:34. Moyleman 43:24.

Final result: Spain win on away goals.

[Sweder]

Cheers Moyley, though I much prefer your reporting style to my own. It's like our running - yours move with greater pace and efficiency.

Hola! Anlu, good to hear you're back in the bosom of your family.
I'm looking forward to seeing some of your photos.
Saludos desde Lewes.

Rockhammer - you sure that's not penalties?

[Rockhammer]

Excellent picture, Sweder. The loneliness of the long distance runner, encapsulated.

Late news from the back of the field concerns the hotly-contested photo finish for 1637th place. And I'll be launching an appeal to the organisers shortly.

[sweder]

That's a cracking photo, Rockhammer; I'd purchase that if I were you, provided Antbliss can increase the scope to show the margin of advantage a little clearer. Interesting to note that unlike that other great British sprint-finisher Lindford Christie you elected to secure your lunchbox in an external carrier . . .

[Rockhammer]

Yeah, usually I tuck it in my sock. But that's not reliable in the wind, as this photo shows.

Meanwhile the Rockhammer report is up, and in the usual place.

[SP]

Nice to see Sweder doing an impression of Mucca...

[Devil's Avocado]

Outstanding account, Sweder.

Aye, it was a great day to be a spectator. As I confessed to the Swede afterwards, I spent virtually all the race queuing for a meal in BurgerKing that I was never going to buy, let alone eat. I just needed somewhere to shelter, and triumphantly reached the front of the long queue just as it was time to return to the finishing line to clap the comrades home.

Perfect timing -- on the subject of which, Antonio was the day's star performer, exceeding his target by an astonishing 6 minutes.

Sweder's account of the conditions is not exaggerated. This was one of the foulest days for running I've seen. That said, it's arguably better to be a runner than a by-stander on days like this.

Talking of appalling race conditions, there was much chat about Almeria 2008. According to Antonio, the town's Tourism Supremo, Almeria suffers only one terrible weeekend of weather each year, and this is the one they reserve for the medio maraton. We've certainly had our unfair share of freezing, squally rain. It must be time for better luck on that front.

We seem set for a bumper attendance this time, with at least ten in the party.

Organising a round of drinks in Molly Malone's could be a bit nightmarish. But we'll just have to rise to that challenge, eh boys?

Andy

[sweder]

Moyleman's sign up, plus one (non-runner).
I'd dearly love to see SP out there - his organisational skills in a packed bar cannot be over-estimated.

[Linda]

When's the next one? You've sold it to me though I hate windy races too. This years Arkendale 10K was spoilt by the winds.

[sweder]

Greetings Linda. I was surprised to get a notification that you'd visited as this site has been dormant for a few months. We're all over at www.runningcommentary.net these days - click on 'forum' and you'll find a number of topical threads and training diaries. It'd be great to 'see' you there.

The next Brighton 10k will be this November.
We've got some cracking local races down here including the Three Forts Half, the Seaford Half, the Firle 20k, the Jog Shop Jog, a hilly 20 miler. They're all off-road and nicely hilly. Come on down.

[sweder]

PS: I see you're affiliated with the Leeds HPTT group; excellent!
I recently signed up for the Hove Park TT group. I'm marshalling tomorrow which, as one who prefers a long slow log to a breathless eyes-out dash, will be a pleasure.

Cheers