The sunrise revealed a dull, overcast Sussex morning.
Neither cold nor wet, yet somehow uninspiring. The call of the duvet was loud and insistent.
Another impressive turn-out at the marina - close to 40 runners hopping on the spot to generate warmth waiting for the off. Nigel was back after a week off, and Remy following a clandestine weekend with some bint in Bristol; a triathlete and by all accounts both fit and desirable.
I reckoned on being well-rested (having missed Thursday's run) and decided to go with the flow today. We were 'doing the gallops' - not some bizarre running style, but actually the Snake route with an added couple of miles to St Dunstans and a grueling mile slog back along the cliff tops.
I ran with Nigel, chatting happily about all manner of nonsense for the first three miles. At Saltdean we once again paused only for a brief stretch, leaving the main group behind. A new chap, Paul, took off with us (Remy stayed behind to keep an old friend company). Paul has an interesting running style - very upright, a high kicking action on the back lift. Nigel and I exchanged looks, but the unorthodox gait proved deceptive; Paul's an accomplished runner with a healthy junior record and runs 6 miles on a regular basis. Today we'd cover more than double that, and chugging up Telscombe Tye he shared his concerns over the distance.
As conversation turned to vocation Paul revealed himself to be in 'Big DJ Management' - that is, he schedules work for some of the spinners of today's platters-that-matter, people like Norman 'Fatboy' Cooke and his ilk. Moving easily across the ridge towards the Snake I conducted a systems check. A little tightness in the groin and, unusually for me, the calves, but apart from the unpleasant bi-products of last weeks' cold I felt OK. Paul was obviously very comfortable.
'Beep-beep'.
Paul has a Garmin! (actually, Timex equivalent). Excellent, a chance for me to note mileage at some of the key points on the run. Into the prelude to the long, winding climb to Woodingdean - 'beep-beep'.
'8 miles' announced Paul. OK, that's just before the start of the Snake proper. Excellent. We chatted about the climb before us, and I cautioned Paul about the succession of 'false summits' that appear along the way. He seemed happy, still comfortable.
3/4s of the way up - 'beep-beep'.
'9 miles'. So, my guess that the main part of this section was a mile and a half was pretty accurate - closer to 2 from the first, badger hole-infested mud-slide section.
'Is that the top?' asked Paul, a slight note of concern creeping into his voice.
'Nope, but not far now' I grinned.
400 metres from the real summit I felt like kicking. I rarely indulge in
Fartlek on a long run, but I could feel myself pulling away from my companions and kept my foot down.
'Go on lads' puffed Nigel. I glanced right - there was Paul, grinning, matching my pace easily. This lad is very fit! We sprinted the last 200, reaching the gate at the top of the climb together. Great clouds of steam poured from our mouths and nostrils, mingling with the tendrils rising from our backs.
'That was great!' Nigel arrived, another Great Old Engine pulling into the station, more puffing and clouds of steam.
We surveyed the hillside and spotted a few of our group ascending the last climb. The chasing pack was going well, and we pushed on. 2 miles later, on the gallops to the east of East Brighton Golf Course, we started the long descent to sea level. An unexpected horror awaited us. A strong wind sweeping up from the seafront, channeled into the valley, gathering force, whipped away any relief the downhill section may have offered. My calves issued a formal complaint, followed by both groins and hamstrings. Hmm, this is going to hurt.
On to St Dunstans, our triumvirate spread over 400 metres with Paul bouncing joyfully to the fore. Through the tunnel and onto the cliff tops, blessed relief as the hefty breeze nudged my left shoulder, and into the last mile and a half. Texans have a wonderful turn of phrase, and one sprang to mind as I dragged my weary bones over the grass toward home;
'Man, my ass is draggin''.
Finally home, warm handshakes and dumb grins all round.
Paul's watch reported 14.8 miles in a shade under 2 hours 20. A tough run, but all the more satisfying for that. I'm planning a 'step back' run next weekend - no more than 12, possibly as short as 8 - an effort to charge the batteries for Almería.