March On

[Sweder]

The Jog Shop Jog in a blizzard.
Not my idea of a typical Easter Sunday; twenty miles of unforgiving climbs in the foulest conditions. Despite the forecasts I opted for a sleeveless top. These running jackets are all well and good but I need no excuse to sweat like Ashley Cole strapped to a polygraph. Still, as with many things in life viewed through the clear lense of hindsight a slight broiling would have been a wise choice measured against the skin-stripping ferocity of an evil nor-westerly wind.

I was late for the start, a combination of late-night cricket-watching and early-morning F1 catch-up. The cricket was incredible. As inept as England’s batsmen obviously were against a makeshift Kiwi attack the Black Caps contrived to display even less diligence. If the Aussies can be bothered watching they’ll be laughing into their Tooheys. The main pack was half a click away but I decided not to chase. With big mileage lined up a slow start is essential so I ploughed a lone, steady furrow along the cliff tops, catching the pelaton at Saltdean and taking a good-natured ribbing for my tardy arrival. I was disturbed to learn that during the Hastings Half last weekend one of our newbies, Jo, a lovely quiet lad new to running, had collapsed during the race. Turns out he has a dicky ticker and may need a pacemaker. I’m sure he’s devastated – he had New York in his sights this year – but as many of us know only too well it could have been worse. Good luck Jo, hope you make a full recovery in record time.

Sometimes the gods look down upon the mortals and they smile, tilting their heads to one side in curious sympathy as we struggle against the odds. After two heavy blasts of snow, the second across and into our faces as we hauled frozen flesh up the Yellow Brick Road, I was counting the miles to go and they were still well into double figures. The Big W followed, a cruel punishment dating back to the time of the Inquisition where poor tortured souls were made to run down an impossibly steep, slipery slope and back up the other side, only to do it again until they wept for mercy. Today the biting gale roared off the top, rushing down the slopes as we clambered up the rough flint trail, lashing our numb ears and screwed-up faces with brutal force. Half way up the second ascent – the last upstroke of the W – I was surprised to find Stevio walking alongside me.
‘Calf’s tightened up’ he grimaced. ‘Have to see how it goes up Castle Hill.’
We trotted up the last hundred metres, working warm blood into chilled limbs.
Twenty minutes later the turn into Castle Hill Nature Reserve loomed and Steve confirmed his decision.
‘I’m going to plod straight on. I want to do the mileage but with three weeks to go it’s not worth risking a bad injury.’
I heartily concurred, swiftly volunteering to head back with him. Well, you can’t leave a chap out on these hills alone. What if he turned an ankle? I took the unkind glares from the others and bore them without shame. After all I, having no impending race and therefore no urgent need for huge mileage, was the logical choice.

Farewells made we chugged on up the slope towards Woodingdean, chatting easily about how we runners rarely seem able to go into a big race one hundred percent fit. I assured Steve he’d made the right choice. Personal bottling out preferences aside I have experience of leaving a grumbling calf untreated and can attest to the resulting agonies.

We finished up coming down out of the hills through East Brighton Park, blissfully avoiding the thrashfest of running east to west along the cliffs into a viscious headwind. Fifteen and a half miles, many of them amongst the toughest I’ve run for a while, in two hours forty. Not what Steve was looking for but as I pointed out if he can get his calf treated he’ll look on this as a useful outing all the same.

Back home I resumed my disgraceful affair with the shower, lingering far too long under the steaming water, or at least until my arms started to thaw. A few hours on the sofa with Golf and Footie before rustling up the Easter Sunday roast lie ahead. I will enjoy them.

[SIZE="1"]Check out the elevation map below: shows the 'W' nicely[/SIZE]