March, Week 4: BST

[Sweder]

Summertime
And the living is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

One of these mornin's
You're gonna rise up singin'
Then you'll spread your wings
And take to the sky

Amen to that.

[Sweder]

Time of day: 09:10 (BST)
Route: Brighton Marina/ Telscombe Tye/ North Face/ Yellow Brick Road/ Big W/ Castle Hill/ the Snake/ Rottingdean/ Brighton Marina
Conditions: Cool/ Overcast/ light Easterly breeze
Duration: 3:35 hrs

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

It’s a cliché to quote Kipling at times like this, but justified none the less.
It wasn’t motivational need that steered me to reach for my tome of poetry this morning. I have all the motivation I can eat, looming large on the April horizon. Rather I felt unsettled, unsure and apprehensive. I sought solace in familiar verse.

The planned run today was only 2 miles further than last week – but what a two miles. I’m familiar with the Jog Shop Jog route, and the related legends and tales of horror that echo around Sussex running clubs. Late March is hardly August, the usual time for the annual race, but that same terrain lay in wait, daunting, laden with runners’ sweat and tears, the tattered remnants of dreams fluttering from the downland gorse.

Happily the whole mad clock thing caused me no trouble. I set my alarm and re-set the main clock in the kitchen on Saturday night to avoid that most embarrassing of faux pas, the old ‘I forgot to change the clocks’ chestnut. Against the advice of my sensible inner voice I joined Mrs S for a Chinese Takeaway on Saturday night, and felt obliged to boost the carbs in the pre-run hours. Banana and Maple Syrup sandwiches washed down with black coffee, followed closely by 2 rounds of toast with blackberry jam. That should do it.

Easter Sunday demanded some attention before I left, so I made tea for Mrs S, taking up a tray with the exquisite packet of chocolate smothered coffee beans purveyed from Middle Farm. Phoebe drifted along the corridor, the most wonderful bed-head bouncing crazily above her sleepy face.
‘Happy Easter Dad’ she sang, revealing a box of mini chocolate bars. How sweet, literally and as a gesture. Pressed for time I couldn’t bring myself to leave just then, and dashed to the car to retrieve our Easter gifts. Mrs S surfaced, I faffed about for another 15 minutes . . . and then it was 8:45.
Bloody hell!

‘Gotta fly! Bye Girlies!’
I grabbed my gear (gels, water, car keys, wallet . . . Vaseline!), flew across the front lawn and into my truck. I made the start point just as Sam and Tony, our (cycle) mounted escorts, performed the bird-like head movements from watch to left to watch to right that said ‘Right – we’re off.’

. . . continued . . .

[Sweder]

I glanced around. There was certainly an air of something special today. There were also some notable absentees, namely Nigel and Lawrence, the same two who had left me floundering on these very cliff tops not two days before. Hmmm.

Under slate-grey skies we ambled East. The contrast with Friday was stark: this was long haul, the sympathy shown by the Weather Gods via the cool, damp air and impenetrable grey blanket most welcome. I felt, above all, full. My ample breakfast sat amidships, not quite settled, and I pondered the wisdom of my pre-run feasting. It occurred to me if I could just keep everything in its place – and there was some doubt for a while – I would reap the benefits later, or, as the venacular has it, in the long run.

Onto the Downs and up the Tye. 4 miles in and I still felt like I was in warm-up mode. This is a useful trick I like to play on myself. If I’m still ‘in warm up’, I’m taking it easy, getting into a rhythm, not pushing, minimal effort. This self-delusion worked like a charm. 4½ miles in I felt relaxed, breakfast finally at rest, body energised. So energised in fact I ran up the North Face without pause. OK, the final few steps were pretty small, but technically I was still running. I considered my first gel, but dismissed this as obscene in view of my bloated condition.

On up the Yellow Brick Road, joined by a small breakaway band. Three lads, two girls, all evenly matched for pace. Claire and her friend (Blue Lycra – sorry!) are running Paris, so this would be their last (pre-taper) long run. Blue Lycra struggled as we left the rough track and hit the concrete. I found myself dropping back to keep her company up the windswept climb. Following early protests (she was 'fine', I should 'go on with the others') we chatted casually about runs past, charities and the building excitement of Paris. Before too long we reached the summit. The others waited for us, checking the route with Sam.

‘Well done!’ beamed Claire to Blue Lycra.
‘Ash kept me going, I hardly noticed the climb’ she offered graciously.
‘I think she glazed over after a minute or two and when she came round we were here’ I offered. The others nodded sagely. I turned to Sam. He indicated the rock-strewn path along the ridge, his extended arm tracing the route until it suddenly swooped alarmingly down and to the right.
‘The Big W’ he growled. ‘Down to the trees, 90 degrees left, back up to the top. It’s too steep for the bike so I’ll see you at the top.’
Too steep for the bike? It’s too steep for a Mountain Goat. Nervous glances exchanged, we ambled forward. The drop was every bit as perilous as I’d feared, loose earth and flint creating a constant mini-avalanche. We slid/ jarred our way down, my spine e-mailing complaints at every impact. Conversation was useless at this juncture, so we slalomed to the bottom, silent, focused.

‘There he goes!’ The new chap, pointing accusingly at the silhouette of Sam On Bike, cruising along the Ridge. ‘Bloody Hell, we’ve got to get back up there!’
He wasn’t wrong. I surprised myself, maintaining a steady rocking gait all the way to the top. Breathing hard I stopped alongside our grinning mentor.
‘Good ‘ere, innit’ he beamed. I could have cheerfully shoved him down the chalk/ rock run, except I had no idea of the route from here. Time for a gel, I thought. My drug of choice today was a Pineapple Squeezy gel, quite palatable, washed down with a mouthful of agua.

‘ ’Alf way. Off we go!’ Sam barked.
‘Blimey’ I took the bait. '10 miles already?'
‘Nope, ‘alf way through the Double-Yoo’ he grinned.
You have got to be kidding me.
‘I thought the wiggly bits at the bottom through the trees were the W!’
‘Nope, that was technically a ‘V’’.
‘So it’s like a VW’ I ventured, trying to mask my disappointment.
‘If you like. Off you go!’. Another bone-shaking plummet into the valley, this time on rather more established footing. I looked up, and below me, directly in front of us, sat the village of Kingston. Kingston near Lewes. I’m less than 2 miles from home!
‘Put the kettle on, Love!’ I bellowed. Pointless, but it lifted my spirits.

A repeat of the previous manoeuvre; into the valley, sharp turn left and lung-busting climb up a rocky chalk path. This time my calves sent a telegram. I acceded to their demands, slowing to a brisk walk. I glanced behind and noticed my companions were pretty spread out. The new fella, gel-less and armed only with his own concoction of ‘honey water’, was right behind, looking good. Below him a gap of some 100 metres to the next pair, plodding gamely. I turned upwards, executing a vertical power-walk.

Sam may have sensed our mutinous mood at the last summit, as we were greeted this time by our other guardian, Tony.
‘Well done lads. Take a breather.’
Another generous swig of grog, but I wasn’t for hanging around.
‘Sorry Tone, I’ve got to keep moving. It’s too nippy up here to hang about’.
My companion nodded firmly. We took directions.
‘Carry on up the ridge ‘till you get to Castle Hill, hang a left and follow the trail all the way down, around the farm buildings and you’re at the foot of the Snake.’
I perked up. The Snake! An end in sight! I know the Snake, and she knows me. We’ll be right as rain from here on in. My new pal (we indulged in the time-honoured British tradition of saving the name exchanges until the end) knew the area well, and we set off with renewed vigour.

Castle Hill is a nature reserve nestled in the cleavage of the Downs. Home to a host of rare flowers, including Wild Orchids, the modest patch attracts a good number of human butterflies. We hailed twitchers and botanists as we careered down the path, grinning madly as we barely controlled our descent. Into lush fields and – shock horror! – some level running. Another gel at the foot of the Snake and we wasted no time scaling her slippery hide. I felt incredibly good, the knowledge that we had entered the (admittedly 6 mile long) end game. I reminded myself of the adage:
‘Remember: the light at the end of the tunnel could be an on-rushing train.’

Re-focused, relaxed, we flew up the Snake, pounding out a steady rhythm past the numerous sheep and occasional walkers, delivering ‘Shearers’ to human and bovine in equal measure.

At the summit we took a hair-pin left onto yet another steep drop, up a gentle hill and onto the road past the Rottingdean reservoir. I measured my feelings against those of last week. At this point I’d been feeling my knees, hips and back, worrying about my hamstrings and wishing I’d brought gels. Today I felt strong, running easily, aches and pains present but well behaved. I glanced at my running mate – he looked even more relaxed, maintaining impressive pace with apparent minimum effort.

On to Rottingdean, through the village, past the Windmill (we walked the evil incline from the road to the hill-top), past St Dunstans, through the tunnel and onto the grassy cliff-top finish. Another comparison, this time with Friday. We’d completed over 18 miles, yet I felt more composed over this last mile than on the much shorter run two days ago. What a funny game this running malarkey is!

An unspoken understanding grew between us. We’d chatted, shared jokes and running anecdotes, not yet names. But it was understood between us that a kick for home was not on; we would finish together. And so it came to be. We passed the road sign at the top of the Marina steps, slowed in unison and turned to clasp hands in American Stylee.
Grinning, eyes shining, we took a breath.
'That was bloody brilliant!'
'Fantastic – what a run!'
'How far?'
'20 miles!'
'20 bloody hard miles!'
'Yep! But don’t it feel great!?'

And it did.
Rog (as in Roger) was his name, and a damned fine running companion he turned out to be. We exchanged e-mail addresses and he set off down the steps to the car park. He was off to his Sisters in Crawley for Easter Turkey lunch. I reckon he'll eat the whole Turkey.
And who could blame him?

One by one the runners came home, each delighted, each looking better than they had a right to after such a stern test. High fives all round as the last few, with Tony and Sam flying wingman, hit the final down slope. The icy fingers of that Easterly breeze brushed my damp, rapidly cooling skin. I checked the time, estimated my own from that, bade my farewells and left.

There’s another one next Sunday, same time, same course.
Reckon I’ll be there.

[El Gordo]

Wish I knew where you got your writing energy from, Sweder. Sounds like another good run on what is, traditionally, the last long-run weekend (3 weeks before the marathon).

You know what you're doing, but another 20 next week? Make sure you're not wearing yourself down mate. You might just want to consider cutting back next week to 15 or so. But see how you feel.

[Sweder]

Good advice Andy, and now the endorphins have scuttled back into the shadows, probably advice I'll heed. Sam always eggs you on to keep running as much as you like, but then he is the one with the gimp, so . . .

I was high as a kite when I got back in, which explains the excess verbosity. I find the exercise of writing up a run draws a line under that run, and I can move on/ think ahead/ get on with other things.

[Nigel]

I'm with Andy. Hal Higdon recommends 12 miles at 2 weeks out, and if that leaves you gagging for more, then perfect.

You've hit the form now, Sweder. You 'just' need to bring it home to 17th April.

So catch that keenness to run long and fast and take it to Marathon day. A few 'strides' and gentle hills are allowed, to take out some of the pent-up 'zing', but no more Annapurnas. Take the cable car from now on, and you'll be fine.

[Sweder]

Yes, it's an odd time. You finally get to feel almost like a runner, and you have to throttle back. I'd be happy to do my 26.2 this week sometime, although not today - a little bruised in the calf department this morning.

It's all good advice, and much appreciated.
I'll kick the cat and hit a hard 12 this Sunday.

[Nigel]

Actually, I always did 13, or nearly 14, at 2 weeks out, but don't tell anyone.

Maybe because I haven't got a cat.

[Sweder]

According to some of the weekend mud warriors extreme offroad running is 'worth' an additional 20% on distance. I have no idea how accurate or relevant this is, but I'm happy to take it as gospel if it means I can drop to 12 miles (equivalent to your 14) next Sunday

[El Gordo]

12 is a good figure. I knew that the Hal Higdon schedule called for 12 in the 'novice' / get-you-round plans, and assumed this was a bit more for the level above. If he has 12 there too, then stick with 12. The stuff I've read says that long runs in this final period don't have any training benefit that has time to kick in for the race. You're just maintaining fitness, sharpness and appetite. Coupled with this is the need to rest and store up reserves of energy, so the taper makes a lot of sense. The HH stuff I've read recommends 8 miles for the weekend before the race, with just a couple of 2 or 3 milers in the week of the race itself. Hard to do, but worth it.

[Nigel]

'Extreme off-road running' - I like the phrase if not the concept (too hilly by far for me, I fear). One ascent of the Downs per run just about kills me. The 'W' sounds like pure masochism, and you add it to the North Face, Annapurna and Snake. This is surely a run where you should add 200% to the pure mileage figure, just to allow for the weight of oxygen tanks required.

Meanwhile, here is my take on tapering, from around this time last year:
http://www.runningcommentary.co.uk/forum....php?t=371

[Sweder]

An excellent piece, Niguel, and, as usual, right on the spot as regards the feelings of madness that accompany taking your foot off the gas. Except, for me, it's been happening throughout March.

First there was the hamstring. That cost me at least one 16 miler.
Then, Hong Kong: Two sixes don't make a twelve, at least not in running terms and certainly not on consecutive days with vast amounts of beer swallowing in between. So that's another long run blown.

It's only been the last two weekends of this month that I can claim to have adhered to part of any sort of planned schedule. In effect, March has been one long, loopy taper. This may explain my apparent prowess this past weekend when, and I'm trying to maintain at least a modicum of modesty here, I nailed the hideous Jog Shop Jog. I don't think Hal (either Higdon or his homicidal namesake in 2001) could have foreseen such an unruly approach to a race. If I was an airliner on final approach the tower would be screaming 'abort!' at this point.

Yet I remain strangely calm. My midweek training has been equally sporadic, with no more than three (and often less) runs of 5 miles in any one week this month. It's dangrous to surmise that we have the capacity to defy all learned wisdom and pull a lifetime best out of chaos, but I must say the whispers in the trees hold not warning but encouragement.

Only time will tell. I'm fairly sure I'll take the short(er) road this Sunday.
But frankly, I won't know for sure 'till I get there.
This is fun.

[El Gordo]

A good article on tapering:

http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,50...-6,00.html

[Sweder]

I was really enjoying this article until . . .

6. Avoid running extremely hilly courses, hill repetitions, or speed workouts. This kind of training leads to muscle-tissue damage, which you need to minimize throughout your taper.

Obviously written by an Unbeliever.

[Sweder]

Time of day: 12:30 hours
Location/ route: Lewes to Black Cap & Return
Distance: 5 miles
Duration: 42:31 (23:31)
Conditions: Misty, Moody, Muddy underfoot
Companions: Three Hounds
Soundtrack: Planet Rock (Aerosmith, ZZ Top, Status Quo, The Doors)

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.
It’s been three days since my last . . . extremely hilly offroad run.

The Nanobots had all but finished repairs to muscle and sinew following Sundays’ 20, and it was about time. The perceived wisdom is that one should avoid hills and rough terrain in the last couple of weeks, but I couldn’t resist. The weather was bleak, the massive shoulders of the local hill-guardians shrouded in mist, a light drizzle persisted down. Perfect!

The run proved uneventful except for
a) Tess (white Whippet) rolling is some unworldly bright green sheep deposits, giving her the appearance of having gone mouldy, and
b) a PB for the route by some margin (around 2 minutes). Most unexpected, most welcome.

Happy days.
I guess that’s enough rude gesticulation at the running Gods –
I’ll stick the pavements from now on, although they won’t be flat.

[Sweder]

How ironic. After all the warnings from well-meaning RC colleagues and my blatant disregard for same, the day after setting a 2 minute PB for my local 5 mile hill-slog, my Marathon dreams may be up in smoke thanks to . . .

. . . badminton. A bit of light cross-training, 2 hours gentle tippy-tappy with a regular bunch of old duffers. A couple of light-weight games, then a men's four. A very competitive men's four. As the rallies gradually increased in tempo and commitment I started leaping about, dipping low to scoop up impossible returns, stretching wildly to reach dead-cert passing shots . . .

. . . and then it happened.
I'm actually too upset to talk about it, but suffcie to say it's bloody serious and I have no idea if I can recover this time. How would Birthday Boy Will put it? 'How pride doth come before a fall', I suspect. In light of the sombre news tonight from Rome, Zimbabwe and Newcastle there are more pressing issues for the World to worry about. To all you fine people out there looking forward to your impending Marathon - as Hill Street Blues used to have it - be careful out there.

Woe is me

[Nigel]

Gosh, sounds very nasty, Sweder, and what a time for this to happen. Typical !

Never fear, though, since it may not be too bad. Recovery from injuries at this stage can be surprisingly fast. If you can put your feet up for a few hours, I've a funny feeling things may be looking better later on tomorrow.

[El Gordo]

All's well that ends well.

I've been in touch with the marathon organisers and they've agreed to transfer your entry to me this year.

[Sweder]

I think you're an uncaring lot. This is a personal tragedy for me.
I've run every significant run this year (apart from Almeria) in these shorts; to rip the arse out of them at this critical stage is just too much to bear.

I was hoping the taper madness would leave me be, at least for a few days . . .

[suzieq]

I sure hope it isn't anything real serious. This would be so disappointing after training for this long. Keep us informed as to what the outcome is and I'll be praying hard that it doesn't keep you from the marathon.

Suzie