July

[Sweder]

Well, it was never going to be too good after yesterday and so it came to pass. A doleful carcass-haul along ten miles of the South Downs Way in suffocating heat/ humidity, loping out from Lewes to Ditchling and back.

Yesterday’s visit to London included a healthy lunch at the excellent Italian Kitchen in New Oxford Street (home to a most agreeable Tuscan-bred Chianti) followed by a visit to Fame – The Musical. This proved popular with my girls and I must confess to rather enjoying the female cast members cavorting around in rather fetching costumes.

We moved on for an indulgent supper at the Hard Rock Café (Phoebe's choice, much to my delight).
For once in my life the ownership of a small piece of plastic – the HRC All Access card, purchased in New Orleans back in 2001 – proved invaluable. On arrival we faced the mother of all lines to get in. I reached for my wallet.

‘Hi – All Access card?’
‘You’ll ‘ave to speak to Sebastian.’ I followed the direction indicated by the wafted hand, spying a flustered-looking fellow in reading glasses and liveried shirt. He looked hot, sweaty and thoroughly harassed.
‘Sebastian?’
‘Sorry sir, there’s a minimum two hour wait.’
The Queue, mostly tourists, predominantly of the amply-built North American variety, eyed me suspiciously flashed the purple and silver plastic at the maître d'. Sebastian, himself obviously no stranger to the fuller plate, let out a rather weary, here-we-go-again sigh.
‘Yes . . . well . . . hang on.’
He disappeared inside, returning with an oblong plastic object that he looked hell bent on inserting somewhere with great force. It turned out to be a rather clever little beeper that would go off when the next table became available. I thanked him profusely and, to the wide-eyed disbelief of the assembled septics, dragged my family to the bar, stuffing the gently flashing object into the waistband of my shorts. No sooner had I got my fingers wrapped around an ice cold lager (I know) than all hell broke loose in my pants.
‘We got a table!’
More furrowed brows and evil looks but we were on our way to the cool booths in the back and couldn’t have cared less.

Once seated I exchanged my apology of a beer for a Triple Platinum HRC Margarita (served in a souvenir glass). Several thousand calories and a few more alcoholic drinks later I staggered into the Hyde Park evening pondering the wisdom of downing vast quantities of deep-fried tortilla and red meat the night before a run.

It all came back to haunt me as I hauled flabby arse over the baking hills.
Hundreds of walkers and cyclists lined the route, taking part in the South Downs Way Challenge, a walk/ run/ cycle fest. The event is marshalled by the Gurkhas, one of the toughest, hardiest regiments known to man. A group of lithe, tanned fellows beamed at me as I chugged past their Blackcap post, each one in full battledress looking lean, mean and capable of yomping from here to the North Pole on nothing more than a Mars bar and a bottle of pop.

Even the hounds seemed lethargic. Last nights' deluge sweated out of the ground providing a clammy membrane for us to run through. I gasped for air, sucking on an Espresso Hammergel after five miles, gulping down regular mouthfuls of water and wondering what on Earth I thought I was doing out here. I took five at Ditchling Beacon, watching more Gurkhas pack their drinks station into unfeasibly large pack packs ready for the route march back to camp. Stuff 'em I thought unkindly.

Turning for home the full horror of what was going on hit me in the face with the force of a medium-to-stiff breeze; up to this point I'd enjoyed a tail-wind. Oh God!

There was nothing for it but to plunge onward and pray that the Hammergel did its stuff before I collapsed. It must have, as some time later I crested yet another hill to spy the Blackcap camp below me. Merciful heavens, I’m going to make it! The last couple of miles seemed to take forever, yet I got through them, finally lurching into my driveway looking like an ice sculpture recently landed in the Sahara.

An hour forty, actually not bad for what is arguably between ten and eleven hilly miles. I’ll map it on Sanoodi – which will no doubt tell me that my run was a nice flat eight! – and publish the results here. Sofa time!



[SIZE="1"]Run elevation[/SIZE]



[SIZE="1"]This map is interactive![/SIZE]