The portents were anything but good. Wild winds raged across Sussex in the early Sunday hours, flinging rain with such ferocity as to rattle our new double-glazing. The trees beyond our garden jibbered and twitched, gangly dancers gyrating to a madman's beat. I grabbed the pillow and turned over. Decision one made; I’ll give the 9am Marina group a miss. That leaves the Mince Pie 10 – kick off 11:00 – along the coast at Peacehaven. I was pretty sure I could enter on the day, but if for some reason the race was full I could just as easily burrow back under my wonderfully warm duvet.
Having fully risen to bid the girls farewell (Portsmouth: Street Comp) I broke fast with a bowl of Dorset muesli loaded with blueberries and freshly-diced banana doused in maple syrup and drowned in milk. Delicious, and for me an appropriate precursor for a tough off-roader. The drive to the Meridian Leisure Centre at Peacehaven, temporary HQ for the Mince Pie 10 c/o Seaford Striders, suggested we might be in for a proper drubbing. Filthy black clouds raced in off the ocean, driven by violent winds to unleash their cruel, cold cargo on the saturated fields below. By the time I’d parked, found registration, coughed up my tenner, pinned on my number, said ‘hello’ to Jeannette and Cam in the changing/ bag-drop area, tagged and dropped my bag and exchanged pleasantries with marshal-for-the-day Tom Roper the stage crew had re-set the scenery. Gone were the dark clouds and with them any suggestion of rain. The sky shimmered, pure, brilliant blue, the lone exception a bold, proud sun blazing away to cast shadows willy-nilly as if it were the height of summer. The temperature had risen a notch – from bloody cold to damned chilly – and a stiff, viscious breeze still dashed amongst the gathered runners; yet clearly we were in for an altogether kinder morning than I'd feared.
Just before eleven the starter announced a few changes to the course (involving a detour around some new water treatment earthworks) and revealed – to the amusement of the Seaford Striders amongst us who obviously knew the locale – that there were ‘several sections that might appear, ah, under water.’ Care was to be taken as no-one could be sure how deep some of these temporary pools might be. Other sections ‘might be slippery’, and the built-up areas on the course are 'not closed to public traffic so watch out for cars, dogs and horses.’ I captured some of this, plus the count-down and race start, in an AudioBoo. I’ll try and insert a link to it here.
My game-plan was simple. Treat the ‘race’ as a training run, take pictures and ‘tweet’ (post updates on Twitter) along the way. It occurred to me later that with my Running Commentary shirt on I was living up to the billing, literally offering a running commentary broadcast ‘live’ via Twitter. What fun. With this strategy of mass destraction in mind I set off at a leisurely pace through the drab backstreets of the town, a series of somewhat leaf-less avenues populated by weather-beaten bungalows and the occasional grubby local store. Despite the race distance being more than I’d managed in quite a while – since Bewl at least – I felt entirely comfortable about it all. The act of recording the race in some way relegated my standing (in my own mind) from ‘competitor’ to ‘observer’. This lifted any perceived weight of expectation, leaving me free to, well, run, observe and enjoy.
After a couple of miles and a few minor hills we joined the downs proper, trading the sure-footing of cracked pavements and old tarmac for uneven shingled tracks peppered with pot-holes which, as advertised, retained a generous amount of brackish water. The potholes joined forces to form miniature lakes here and there, stretching across the navigable width of the trail. Each runner must choose a course, either dancing dangerously around the precarious perimeter thus risking an ungainly slide into the filth or, as in the case of two of my immediate companions, plunge head-long into the pools like rustlers on the run, regardless of depth or temperature. I adopted the former strategy, mincing horribly around the mud-slicked edges, cursing the desertion of my usual gung-ho approach. Once I was past the man-traps I settled into an easy rhythm, meeting climbs with short, bouncing strides, opening my gait to take advantage of the occasional downhill stretch.
A most unfortunate development, thanks to a cold inherited from my son, was the constant need to evacuate my nostrils. I’m sorry if this upsets some people; I can assure you it’s no bed of roses when you’re slogging over miles of lung-strangling, strength-sapping hills. Every breath is sacred, every cubic centimetre of desperately drawn-in air vital to survival. Blocked passages are not required on voyage. Such was the volume of the viscous ejectum, and so efficient did I become in evicting it without breaking stride, that I came to resemble a maniacal bipedal crop sprayer. I can only apologise to any runners I may have offended/ inadvertently decorated, and to those hedgerow-dwellers consigned to an evening of frantic fur-cleaning.
Miles 4 and 5 took us over familiar terrain. Running east to west from Peacehaven we approached good old Telscombe Tye, albeit from an unfamiliar angle. It’s hard to convey how this – arriving at a well-trod, familiar path – helps; it just does. The ubiquitous rutted trails and anonymous mud-pools are suddenly old acquaintances, somehow less of a threat because they inhabit this section of our regular Sunday run. The hammered footprints I came to slip and slide into were probably laid by Stevio and Co not two hours before this very morning. We traversed the ridge atop the Tye, turning sharp left to drop down the long slope into Saltdean. This was another ‘path’ slathered in sloppy mud, slithering down the hillside like a part-set river of darkest chocolate. Grip was no longer a question of choice; one simply had to trust to luck, put your best foot forward and lean. Those of us of a larger disposition spent a good deal of time flapping our arms in an ugly attempt to retain a semblance of balance. The rest of us offered up a silent prayer, got our heads down and ran on.
At the foot of the slope a series of mud-splattered concrete switch-backs led through several iron farm gates and onto a deeply pitted concrete road. Here, just past the telegraph pole-mounted ‘5 Mile’ sign huddled our one and only water stop, sheltered from the strongest gusts by the srrounding hills and outbuildings. A collection of volunteers, children mostly, gleefully proffered plastic cups. I took one, gratefully gulping down the cool water in indecent haste. For one desperate moment I thought I’d directed the fluid down the wrong pipe; happily some horse-trading around the oesophagus got things back on track and I avoided an unsightly and potentially traumatising collapse in front of the children and an extremely bored-looking St Johns Ambulance crew.
Just past the tail-end of this cluster of excited youngsters stood a lad of around 8 years of age. His straw-blonde hair covered his eyes as he shyly thrust forward a plastic bucket.
‘Jelly babies?’ he asked. They were, the good ones too, dusted in a light coating of – what? Flour? No … icing sugar? Who knows? I slowed, juggling my iPhone whilst removing a glove, and reached out for them. Carefully.
‘Hmm, a red one ... and a black one I think; they’re the best.’
The boy made immediate, purposeful eye contact, his bottom lip betraying a hint of a quiver. Oh tough luck, I thought. If you liked the red and/ or black ones that much you should have taken them out first. Get over it; a lot worse awaits you, unwary youth!
I held his gaze even as I crammed the delicious sweets into my mouth before plunging on, no doubt leaving him cursing his lack of foresight.
I detected an extra spring in my step as we reached the pavement proper. I may have shaved a layer of innocence of that boy’s childhood but I doubt it’ll come up on Judgement day. I’m fairly certain the prosecution has enough on me already to rock up to court in full golfing regalia confidently sporting a tee-time for the early afternoon. They won’t need to rely on evidence of this small, merciless act to seal the deal.
The rest of the race bobbled by. All the while I jogged along, relaxed, embracing the hills – there were a couple of corkers just after Jelly Baby Gulch, real calf-stingers climbing up through the Saltdean residences to leave a number of runners fighting for breath. Back onto the downs at mile 7, running back towards the farm at the top of the Tye. Fields of hard white stubble, shorn a few short weeks ago to leave row upon row of stark memorials, a natural miniature of the cemeteries at Omaha Beach, stretching off to our right. We rejoined the regular JSJ Sunday path, pounding our earlier footmarks into those of the early morning group, refining the sludge, before cresting the ridge to turn right on the long easy drop to the finish. I paused here to snap an all-too familiar scene, one I’ve posted here many times, usually featuring Moyleman or Stevio or Paul the Goat. The rolling waves of grassland leading off to Rodmell and Kingston Village; beyond them the unseen serpent of the river Ouse, and further still the chalk-white escarpment of the Lewes cliff. I’ll never tire of that sight. I can’t envisage a time when it comes into view and fails to take my breath away.
With a mile to go, now back on the tarmac’d road and running easily down a series of winding suburban descents, I could taste the finish. Despite the usual close-to-the-end feeling, when some perverted corner of my mind screams 'Give it up! You're knackered! Just take a wee walk-break ... I plodded on, hailing Marshal Tom once more as I passed his lonely road-side station.
‘I’ve posted a few things on Twitter’ I rasped.
‘Seen a few; catch up with the others later.’
A few hundred yards from the Leisure Centre, along the series of tall wire fences demarking the water treatment works, an official cameraman crouched to snap returning runners on their last-gasp dash for a line as yet cruelly hidden behind a number of last-minute twists and turns.
‘Hey Sweder, enjoying the AudioBoos’ he grinned. I do hope his lens captured my gormless look of slack-jawed incredulity. Apart from the iPhone, black against my black glove in the hand furthest from him, how the devil could he know I was Sweder? Nothing on my vest; I’d registered under Running Commentary; perhaps it’s someone I know … oh well. No matter. Time to get this thing done …
And so I finished, hunting down and passing a ‘lady of similar age’ around the last few turns, smiling apologetically at what seemed at the time like a pointlessly competitive act given my approach to the rest of the race. What can I say? It’s a hard habit to break, grabbing an extra place or two, no matter how far down the line you finish. A van crammed with speakers – the starter’s PA as it turned out – broadcast the strains of the ‘London Marathon music’. Ron Goodwin’s theme from The Trap. Originally scored for an Oliver Reed movie – the hard-drinking thespian played a rugged Canadian woodsman canoeing along a vast stretch of river – this stirring tune tugs at the heart-strings of anyone fortunate enough to have had a relationship with that great race.
1:35:51, decent enough all things considered. This was my third run in as many days, a solid return to regular running. I just need to keep this up through Christmas and I might be ready for Almeria at the end of January. Might.
Later, dogs walked, garden swept and winter detritus secured, I hit the shower. I do love a seriously hot shower, especially after a long, cold, muddy run. My Mizunos were unrecognisable, sporting several layers of dry or drying filth. My socks were soaked – so much for tarting about to avoid a dunking in the early miles. As it turned out my shower timing left a lot to be desired. In our house everything kicks in around 4pm – central heating, hot water, all that stuff. Right in the middle of a most tawdry affair with a delicious cloud of steam my hot water ran out. I was to say the least most unhappy. Lacking a human ear in the house I proceeded to explain to a very worried-looking cocker spaniel how it was jolly unfair that I, the bread-winner, am the only sap in the house not to regularly enjoy the full benefits of our modern abode. Faced with a red-faced, naked-save-for-a-towel, steadily-dripping Sweder Willow turned tail and hid under a chair. A fair response I suppose.
Finally, scrubbed clean, powdered, dried and smelling like a gigolo’s fresh jockstrap, I wrapped myself in my dressing gown and headed for the sofa armed with a bottle of Old Speckled Hen, ready to enjoy the dubious delights of Everton v Spurs on the box.
Gallery L to R: Cam & Jen; Swedercam - first few furlongs; Holy roads; Damp under foot; Muddy hell; onto the downs; Pot holes ahoy; Stubble; Medallion man; Pies!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
