January 2009

[Sweder]

I really didn't fancy it this morning. Heavy legs, like two bags of stolen lead, still suffering from yesterday's 5K Parkrun torture. Almeria's within touching distance - perhaps I could start a gentle taper; you know, like good ol' C.B. 'Sully' Sullenberger, the guy who this week redefined the 'gentle approach', landing an impossibly heavy, cumbersome aircraft on the Hudson river to save 153 lives. The miles are in the tank, there's little to be gained now; I might even avoid or prevent an injury by not going out. Minute-by-minute the defence mounted an impressive case. All the while my conscience waited, tapping its foot on the loud wooden floor of my slightly fuzzy cerebellum, an almost sad look on its face as it waited for me to do the right thing.

I'm getting on better with Gorgeous George now. It's taken the best part of a week but between us we can knock out a half-decent cup of Joe. The thought of reclining on a sofa with a plate of toast, coffee, juice and Gary Lineker was terrifically tempting. While these thoughts swirled about a frenzied maelstrom raged outside, rattling windows, shaking trees and scattering birds like black confetti at a Goth wedding.

Of course I went, eventually; dragged my weary carcass off to the marina to join the burgeoning ranks of duvet-deniers, conscience sated and back in its hole for another Sunday. Man, did I ever feel creaky. I flogged my old bones across the cliff tops, chatting with Stevio, Steepler and co, staying well ahead of Gillybean so as not to offer too much of a wind-break from - or cast a gargantuan shadow over - what was, again, an almost balmy opening three miles. There was more danger of sunstroke than wind damage. So far, so mild.

Stevio announced another assault on the Snake. I was all for joining him when a couple of lads came up to me. One tall, slender, Camelback mounted, face familiar; the other squat, powerfully built, frighteningly hirsute, MP3 'phones strapped to his ears, new to me; an interloper from, it turns out, The Smoke. Gideon was his name, like the hotel Bible I thought, though further conversation with him was restricted by his antisocial music delivery appendage.

'So, you're off up the Yellow Brick Road then?'
'Well, I was just thinking . . .'
'Great; we'd love to tag along, so long as it's not too quick.'
'No danger of that. Well, OK then . . .'

And so the deal was done. The three of us set off ahead of the pack, bounding gently towards the ugly climb out of Saltdean and on up the Tye. All the while I cursed myself for not speaking up. I wasn't looking for extra mileage; I think it was the lure of 'easy pace' that turned me away from Old Snakey. To be fair the pace was modest - a kilometre short of last week at 22:13 (we stopped at the end of the park, choosing to walk to the cars from there) in just about the same time. That doesn't account for the monstrous effort required to combat the brutal flogging we got from the rampant inshore wind. From the summit of a dreadfully boggy North Face to the end of the run - about twelve kilometres - we took a solid, full-frontal battering. Up the YBR's shelter-less, cruelly exposed hillside scar (I measured the tinted concrete at a shade over 1.5 kilometres long), across the windswept summit of the Big W and on, and on, and on. My legs wailed, sore muscles complaining bitterly, knees creaking, calves solidly silent, ankles pointing out they might turn horribly at any moment on any number of deadly, slippery obstacles scattered across the rain-soaked trails. Several times I told my companions they were welcome to zip off ahead if they felt so inclined but they politely deferred, observing that I seemed fine, intimating (so my grumbling subconscious assured me) that perhaps I should stop my woeful sobbing and get on with it. I cut a forlorn figure, hunched against the tempest; Quasimodo fleeing the baying Parisien hoards indeed. Esmarelda - The hills! The Hills!

So, on with it I got. Sore, heavy-legged and generally not terribly happy to be out there, but another one banked, a shade over 22 kilometres in 2 hours 10 minutes. I stood, head bowed, sweat dripping onto my mud-splattered trail shoes, looking at the flecks of filth decorating my sodden leggings. One more weekend and then it's Armada time; all set sail for the shores of Almeria.

I can't wait.