Oktober

[Sweder]

[SIZE="3"]Brutal. Just. Doesn’t. Cover it.[/SIZE]
The fifth day of five on my recovery trail began like the end of the world and ended like the dénouement of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice without that bloody mouse.

Incredibly there were four of us huddled above the marina this morning. No sign of Stevio who, marathon safely banked last weekend, must’ve had the good sense to stay under the duvet. Lycra Tony was on hand for the official launch of the FLM 2009 Sunday morning group. Sonja too, a stalwart of recent years, and a young lady who’s name soared high over the cliffs as soon as it appeared on her quivering blue lips. She turned out to be quite the whippet and, as I told her at the three mile break, made me feel suitably old, fat and slow. It's a fair cop.

This was, for me, a mighty struggle. Legs locked down by lactic acid I hauled my wobbly frame over the harsh climbs of Saltdean and Rottingdean cliff-tops for eight cruel and unforgiving miles. The wind howled, dancing, swooping and jabbering around us, at us and through us from all angles, taunting, roaring, screaming and whispering like a thousand insanities. On cresting one climb on the outward lope I was met with the mother of all gusts. It must be what walking into the backdraft of a jet fighter must feel like – without the heat. It was almost comical, legs blown akimbo from all sides, one moment thrown forward with frightening speed, the next stopped in my tracks by an immovable wall of monstrous ferocity. My confidence, carefully gathered and stored over recent days like a squirrel's autumnal reserves, lay scattered across the hills like my modest ambition, eviscerated in Krueger-esque fashion by the whirling blades of the wicked wind.

Rain was less of a factor. Sure, the return was akin to running alongside a gritter lorry armed with a jetwash, but for the most part any falling precipitation was whisked away into the hills. For the briefest of moments I pitied those running the Lewes Downland 10. That rain would be falling hard and steady all morning on my beloved homeland slopes, tripping the unwary, flint traps slippery and lethal. No doubt we’ll hear from Gillybean and Simon in due course.

I lumbered home dead last, iron legs incapable of greater effort. The sea foamed and boiled a full quarter-mile from shore, tearing in to rage against the marina defences, Poseidon’s wrath in full flow. My feeble attempt at stretching abandoned all too soon I hobbled off to the sanctuary of my truck. Driving back along the coast road I felt the vehicle jibber and twitch in the teeth of the storm, the full scale of our folly dawning as the numbness receded, the first thaw of what looks to be a rather long and inclement winter.



Happy Halloween . . .