March On, March On

[Sweder]

I bade farewell to March with a swift eight-miler.
Rog and Moyleman joined me at Woodingdean for our last blast on British soil before our journey to the shadow of Table Mountain. We chose Rog’s mid-week eight route, a testing series of hills and trails. In the last two miles the Serpent did her best to slow us down, her scales slippery after the overnight deluge, the wind howling down her spine trying to push us back. Through her foothills I felt the mass of stored energy seeping into my legs. I pushed the pace, my companions responding with long, easy strides. The slithery one screamed as we rounded her coils; I laughed and spat in her unblinking eye. We three Spartans, charging up one last hill to glory and breakfast.

My aches and pains are fading fast. Early soreness in my right leg soon faded; a couple of twinges, most likely caused by a lack of running, came to nought. By the time my full English had hit my stomach I’d've quite happily gone round again. Moyleman and Rog both looked strong, ready for the challenge. We chatted over coffee about next weekend, indulging in a little macho posturing about possible times, race-wear selection and hydration strategies. Bottom line: we’re all pretty nervous, very excited and can’t wait for the start line.

Heaven help our poor families over this next week.