'Fun Run'. There's an oxymoron for you.
Had this race started at Oh Nine Hundred I'd have missed it completely. The 10:30 kick-off gave me time to collect my thoughts, struggle out of bed, splash some cold water on my fur-covered face and study the bloodshot, more-droopy-than-usual eyes squinting back at me out of the bathroom mirror. The horror, the horror . . .
The previous evening saw the inaugural Mayfield Golfing Society Dinner & 'Dance'.
'Dance' because, as it turned out, and in spite of the womenfolk making great efforts in the gladrags department, there was no dancing to be found. Instead it evolved into a Harvey's/ Dinner/ Chilean Merlot/ Lots More Harvey's evening. I regret to say I was well on the way to Three Sheets city, holding forth loudly, so I'm reliably informed by a scornful Mrs S, on a wide variety of subjects. I was not alone. The Tipster (of Waterford Debauchery fame) joined in, gleefully ordering up fresh pints even as I pulled on my jacket to leave.
All this I had cause to regret as I gazed out across a sunlit yet ominously frosty Lewes. I drove off to Henfield to meet up with Gary Christie and Moyleman of this parish. They seemed concerned at my dishevelled state, Gary particularly worried at the amount of dried mud caked on my runners.
'You'll have to take it easy' he opined, studying my decrepit footwear. 'Those things must weigh a flippin' ton.'
Tactically I blew it from the off. When under the weather or at least assured of a modest performance it is advisable to start near the back of the pack. The Henfield stewards saw fit to march us for what seemed like several miles across soaked fields to the start, Moyleman suggesting we might be walking the first four miles before running the rest of the Henfield half route. By the time we'd been called to order and set on our way I'd become so disoriented I'd failed to notice our station near the front. The first few miles saw a procession of able-bodied runners cruise past my increasingly sweaty corpulence, no doubt wondering what on Earth this cadaverous foulness was doing on the trail.
The psychological effect of seeing half the field stream past, on top of already feeling like death warmed up, was hard to bear. I got my head down and stuck to my task, trying to regulate my ragged, rasping breath and control the evil pounding in my frontal lobes. At mile four I managed to look up, taken aback by the stunning views out across the Sussex lowlands. Flooded, frozen fields glittered in the sunshine as they thawed. The mighty mound of Ditchling Beacon loomed out of the horizon like a misty purple leviathan breaking surface on a shimmering sea. By now our snaking human chain pounded the banks of the river Adur. A perfect pair of Swans slid serenely across the mirror-flat surface, watching us with heads on one side, a blend of curiosity and bafflement on their regal faces.
I slogged along the riverbank, clambering clumsily over styles, searching desperately for the Five Mile marker. It just wouldn't come. I felt like part of an elaborate movie shot, when the camera dollies back whilst zooming in, 'stretching' the background. The climb back to the road seemed to get further away as fatigue took a hold. Back on the trail I spied a fellow struggler just ahead; it was 'Owen Hargreaves' - that is, the fellow who'd skated past me some thirty minutes earlier, long hair flopping, white football shirt dry and clean. I reeled him in, happy to have an achievable target at long last. I pulled alongside and saw the despair in his eyes as this wreck of a man slowly, noisily, passed him. This tiny victory filled me with hope. Even the sight of a small wiry lady flying past, her MP3 player no doubt feeding her an up-tempo rhythm as her sharp elbows pumped furiously, propelling her pink vest and black three-quarter Lycra’d legs with impressive energy, failed to dampen my enthusiasm. Instead I fell in behind, lengthening my stride, for the first time today really eating up the yards. I kept pace with her for a few hundred yards, past the Six Mile marker - hey! Must’ve missed the five . . . until she stepped on the gas once more and left me for dead.
I didn't care; we'd entered the home stretch. I hadn't collapsed or broken down on the roadside as I’d feared. I chugged on, through leafy lanes, thanking the wonderful marshals as I passed each one with a smile (grimace?), thumbs up and a friendly grunt. I still felt like a human sludgecicle but I was going to get through this race.
At last we left the trail, a sharp right-hand turn on to the impossibly churned-up field and back to the grounds of the Leisure Centre. I got my head down and flailed for the line, glancing at the clock as I crossed to note 1:18:53 - or 78 minutes which sounds so much quicker. Pink i-Pod lady was downing a drink past the finish line. I waddled up to her, my own face fearfully puce-pink, dripping sweat, fat-rolled shirt soaked through, to pat her gently on her elegant shoulder.
'You ran a beautifully-timed race' I grinned. She looked delighted, muttering something about this being her first attempt at the distance, apparently unperturbed by the vision of ugliness before her.
Thanks go to the wonderful people of Henfield Joggers for another well organised, perfectly marshalled riverside race. I'll be back for the half later in the year; for now it's off to the shower, a brief respite on the couch before rattlin' them pots 'n' pans for the family Sunday roast
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