A lovely day for a chilly, hilly lope along the cliff tops.
Our target: The Wire, an eight-mile, out-and-back course well known to the Jog Shop Joggers. Home of the good Good Friday friday run this is the perfect, simple way to get into winter marathon training. An eminently sensible choice; easy on the legs, gentle on the lungs, building slowly towards . . . well, who knows? With the decision deferred on my spring schedule December looks like a pressure-free time to enjoy running and construct a solid base.
Sound, sensible stuff.
Sunday mornings like this are made for running.
Winter sun shining weakly through a cloud-streaked Sussex sky, birds shivering on the naked branches of freshly-stripped trees, earth soggy from days of cruel rain matted with Autumn's abandoned coat of rotting leaves. Welcome to my November Sunday morning running world.
By eight fifty-five a gaggle of jog shop joggers had accumulated above Brighton Marina. Here was Lycra Tony, back in his runners after the Mother of uphill fitness struggles. Scotty, fresh from leading the assault on the streets of Amsterdam; Moyleman, the scalps of several mountainous monsters notched on his water belt; Sarah, conqueress of the Great Wall Marathon (more than once) looking lean and mean, a sub three-thirty London in her sights. Soft Al beamed a welcome, as did Cynthia and 'Brooks' Andy. A huddle of newbies, incredulity and apprehension writ large on their wide-eyed faces, peered out from behind gloved fingers at this collection of venerable veterans clad in shorts and short-sleeves.
A bitter wind whipped up off the seafront, barreling out of the west, the opposite to last week's B10K. We loped away at the gentlest of canters on the stroke of nine, nattering easily, catching up on recent glories and spring race plans. Moyleman declared his body not fit for purpose, having spent the year battering himself over a series of notoriously tough courses. He proceeded to set a tough pace over the early humps and hollows, giving the lie to his declaration of decrepitude. I huffed and puffed to keep up, Sarah cruising comfortably alongside. By the time we'd reached Saltdean, way ahead of the pack, I felt an outpouring of gratitude towards the council staff who maintain the amenities there. Last night's Highland Pasta, a Mrs S masterpiece from the Delia collection complete with incomparable zing, was making a determined bid for freedom. Moments later I was lighter in body and spirit. As I emerged from the gents Lycra Tony was announcing our options.
'There's a couple of folks doing the Snake (around 13 miles), some others doing the Residences (11-ish) and the rest of us will do The Wire (8). Who's doing what?'
'Wire for me' I declared in my best no-nonsense, that'll-do-for-me voice.
'What? Eh? Urh?' A chorus of disapproval.
'Well, yeah . . .'
'Come on Ash' - Scotty.
'Aww, go on, you know you want to!' - Cynthia.
Lycra Tony grinned like a Cheshire Cat.
'I'd like to . . .' - wavering - 'but I'm not going at HIS pace' jabbing a finger at Steve.
'We're not going mental, honest. We'll take it really easy . . . '
Mortified by the cruel desertion of the last vestige of my resolve I chugged up the steps to a vaudevillian cheer. I cracked a weak gag about having plenty of will power but no won't power as the gang of four - Andy, Sarah, Steve and your lardy correspondent - loped towards the monstrous climb out of Saltdean. Halfway up the bitterly steep hill it dawned on me that I was running with a woman who had placed first - that's first - in the Great Wall marathon - she struggled on the following attempt only managing second in her class - and two men who just last month completed sub 3:30 marathons. This, I concluded, was another fine mess I'd gotten myself into.
Turning left across the road on the crest of the hill we embraced the steady rise of Telscombe Tye. As if providing a well-known nautical warning the wind crashed in from our left, racing across the open downland and into the east. This was indeed a shot across our bows, for as we reached the summit and turned to the west the full force struck, full frontal. Easily comparable with last Sunday's squall the bone-chilling blow sought to slice through all garments, numbing flesh and shrinking . . . resolve. I hunched down, battling through long grass covering soft, uneven ground, grateful for the shelter afforded by the runners in front. It's at times like these one gives consideration to aerodynamics. How easily svelte Sarah sliced through the tempest, her cadence rock steady, breathing even and controlled. For the umpteenth time I vowed to ditch some of this cumbersome lard.
The east-west ridge offered no respite. We took turns leading, heads bowed, elbows pumping, feet churning up the glue-pot trails. The hills rolled towards us like a giant grassy circus ball, seemingly without end. At last we started to descend, the perilous plummet of the ploughed farmers' field racing to meet us. I let off the handbrake and unleashed the dancing feet, flying at improbable speed down the flint and hole-strewn slope. Gravity took over as I tried to keep my feet moving in time to the ever-increasing beat of my heart. One step out of place old boy and you'll be in traction for weeks . . . Acceleration sucked tears from the corners of my half-shut eyes, salty trails streaming towards my frozen ears. My bare, frosted-pink arms waved wildly, useless aerilons in this Kamikaze dive. At last the ground levelled then rose steeply. My breakneck pace slowed, converted almost instantly into a horribly heavy carthorse plod. Steve chugged past, a big grin spreading across his wind-blasted face.
'That was great!'
A breather at the top gate. Andy was some way back but we elected to wait, grateful for the relative lack of wind and the opportunity to slurp on a gel and guzzle some water. A couple of hundred metres north along the stony snake-lair path I remembered to re-start my Garmin. I'd forgotten to start it earlier, at the off, missing the first few minutes out of Brighton. Oh well. The serpent waited, coiled, cold, patient, full of menace. A few weeks back I boasted at our easy passage through these valleys; not so today. Barbarous winds rattled around the hills, knifing into us from all angles as we fought up the wriggling trail. About a mile in I felt my resolve slipping, my chilled bones moaning like Boris Karloff in The Mummy. Steve pulled away, overtaking Sarah and climbing strongly. The gap to Sarah was twenty metres and growing. I focused on the ground ahead. This is the Snake. We know how to do this, we know what it takes. Head down, one foot in front of the other, keep it moving, keep it moving . . . I looked up. Still twenty metres. Well alrighty then.
I repeated my mantra for what seemed like half a day. Finally the path unwound to reveal the last, long, stony straight. I could see Scotty bouncing on his toes at the top, his red jacket in stark contrast against the grey-green sky and the green-grey downs. No matter how knackered I am at this point I always step on the gas. Today, despite breath that rasped from my lungs and throat with such ferocity I feared spontaneous combustion, was to be no exception. There wasn't a lot there, just enough to reel Sarah in by the time we reached the top gate, but I felt better for having found something. Sensing I was struggling as I stumbled through the gate Steve offered encouragement.
'You're going really well mate. We're going along at a fair old rate y'know.'
Yeah, and you said . . . I left it unspoken, smiling through gritted teeth at this man who looked like he'd been out for a Sunday stroll. We loped on easily enough, swapping dreams of weight-loss and confessing a mutual weakness for dark ale. There may be a link between these two subjects but I'm darned if I can work it out . . . Sarah remained respectfully silent during this (expanded) navel-gazing. Not wishing to exclude her I invited her to ponder the challenge of dragging fifteen stones of lard across these undulations.
She just smiled and shook her head.
Much to my intense relief we chose the Woodingdean/ East Brighton route - the straight run home. At long last the wind decided to give us a break, shoving us along the tinder track beside the racecourse. Andy, still some way back, later (over a bacon butty and coffee at Mac's) confided he'd had a shocker. I offered genuine commiseration; I've been there when the wheels fall off, on this very route, and it's a long slog home. He was grateful that we'd not waited for him and again I knew exactly what he meant. Falling behind you can deal with. Knowing your comrades are waiting for you - and freezing their tails off in the process - simply adds to your misery.
Reaching the last few hundred metres we ran alongside two football pitches. Fat men in their mid-to-late thirties wrestled for posession of a ball camoflaged in the slick mud, cries of instruction and derision ringing out in the cold Sunday air. Much of the language was inappropriate for the Lord's day. I offered up thanks for having seen the light in respect of this endeavour just as a particularly fierce challenge left one fellow clutching his groin as he rolled around, mewling in a quite horrible fashion.
The watch tells me we covered 18 kilometres in 1:46:25. I know this to be flawed (see aforementioned brain lapses) - the correct distance closer to 21 k's and the time knocking on 2 hours - but whichever stats you take it represents a fair effort. A weeks' work in Amsterdam beckons, but I'll be back in the hills soon enough. Let the winds blow and the heavens open; I'm feeling up to the challenge.
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