RunningCommentary

Henfield Nine Mile Fun Run

'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 . . .

Sympathy for the Devils

A poignant week for people of a certain age, for football fans and in particular followers of Manchester United. Wednesday sees the fiftieth anniversary of the Munich air crash that shook a nation and a sporting world. The 'Flowers of Manchester' lay decimated, broken bodies strewn across a frozen runway. News spread like a vile illness; players dead, United finished, the end of the Busby Babes.

Apocalypto: The Mince Pie 10

Funny that this race should feature the word 'mince' in the title. Around four miles in a portion of the three hundred starters were offering a fair impression of Larry Grayson teetering off to measure an inside leg as they negotiated slimy, treacherous terrain. Our Spartan forebears would've been less than impressed.

A Twist In The Tale

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.

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!

Hands Across The Oceans

How on Earth did they do it?

Those pioneers of engineering, the visionaries, the get-out-and-do-it merchants who took wild dreams and made them reality?

I can't imagine what effort of will it must have taken to carve a shipping lane through the corridor of the Americas, but here it was before me; the Panama Canal, a causeway for modern intercontinental transportation, playground of the steel leviathans of intermodular shipping.

Rainforest

Ladies and Gentlemen I have found true running heaven.

It lies a mere 1.5 miles from my hotel, a dull plod through rain-washed streets and a dangerous dash across several lanes of untended motorway. No need for i-pods here my friends; the forest calls you with its myriad of native tongues; whoops, screams, cackles, cries, tweets and twitters, the lazy splash of heavy raindrops onto giant leaves, the rustle of the canopy as its inhabitants join the 'rush hour' high above.

Panama Jack

Independence Day, Panama style.
Streets stuffed with marching bands, majorettes in gleaming white, row upon spotless row of naval ratings, brass and shoes perfectly polished to sparkle in the fierce morning sun. Air laden with humidity causes the ubiquitous palms to bow respectfully.

In the midst of all this a lone figure plods, i-pod strapped to his ears, G&T/ Mojito sweat flooding his vest and staining his shorts. His face is a violent red, his tread weary, impossibly heavy, a lumbering, stumbling wreck of a man. This man is an Englishman. He is trying to excise the spirit-deamons from his gin-soaked, sleep-deprived, travel-tortured soul.

There's A Hole In The Myzone Layer

Yes, there's a ragged hole in the Myzone layer.

As surely as a tear in stretched lycra, such a wound will, if left untended, expand inexorably into a gaping hole of lethargy and sloth. The Myzone Layer; the intangible level between uber-fitness and the inability to run. It's where many of we lesser mortals dwell, dreaming of one, scrambling to stay ahead of the other.

In this man-made season of the witch, when wee ghoulies and ghosties invade our suburban landscapes to demand sweets in exchange for non-violence, there's an all-too-familiar horror rearing it's ugly head; the Inescapable beastie of Fading Fitness. My hitherto prudently banked miles are unravelling as inexorably as a large ball of wool in the paws of the world's most mischievous kitten.

Swing Low: When Irish Eyes Are . . . Bloodshot

Only the fifth outing this month and it's the 18th already. How the dedicated have fallen.
Unlike Icarus I can't claim to have flown too high; my efforts have been modest of late, at least on the running front. In other areas my dedication and stamina have been tested to exhaustion.

Shimmering Surrey Stack aircraft trails converged on dawns' first blush, falling like slow-motion meteors towards the eastern horizon. I shivered at the front gate, my long-sleeved top and shorts combo reflecting my initial uncertainty over the conditions. As it turned out this was perhaps that most perfect of running mornings. Clear skies, save for the occasional high, vaporous smudge, a strong autumnal sun peeking over Lewes cliff adding a rich sparkle to the carpet of dew over the indolent hills. A beautiful, glistening gem of a morning.