June

[Sweder]

At last a miserable overcast race day: yippee!
Sipping my third (and last) half pint of exemplary Harvey's Best at a friends' birthday party last night, I was alone in welcoming wet gifts from the heavens. Partygoers huddled under a dodgy-looking tarpaulin, slung over the back porch earlier in the day, when the sun had beat down and clouds lurked over distant hills.

I'd volunteered as designated driver to ensure solidarity with my pre-race plans. The three half-pints, staged across the evening between food and the drivers' curse, orange juice and lemonade, tasted sublime, all the more so for the rationing.

This morning I crawled out of bed, head a good deal clearer than it might have been. A big bowl of porridge laced with bananas and drowned in maple syrup improved my mood as I gazed out at the mizzle. Perfect conditions for the Seaford Half.

At race HQ I met James Turner and his mum. I'd coached James for a few seasons when he played for Kingston Kestrels. He'd been a good player, reliable, hard in the tackle, good left peg, calm on the ball. I'd heard from his Dad, a chap I played 5-a-side with for a couple of years, that he'd taken to running. This was to be his first race proper. I offered the best advice I could - take it easy for the early miles - and wished him well. His mum asked him what time she should assemble the family at the finish. Looking at this powerful young man and recalling his abilities on the football field I suggested any time from 10:30 (1 hour 30 into the race) would be a good idea. James stared at the floor and whispered that 10:45 would be fine.

Moyleman, Chris and Helen were already at the Seaford Rugby Club car park. We laced up our runners and joined the gathering flock at the start. This race starts and end with some serious climbs, so I spent the twenty minutes waiting for the gun telling myself to take it EASY for the first four miles. We set off, the crunch-crunch of running shoes on pebble-strewn concrete mimicking the clap-clap-clap of an impatient tennis crowd. The usual anxieties rose to the surface as we reached the hills. I bit down on my resolve as streams of adrenaline-fuelled runners clambered through the long grass beside our slow-moving trail. I'd been here before, burning much-needed energy in the clamour to gain a few places. Now, settling into a run-shuffle as we queued to cross the styles, I marvelled at such madness. Within a mile or so there would be acres of space in which to run freely.

One feature of the early miles is the false summit at mile 3. Runners are duped into thinking the much talked-about early hills have ended. Just around the next bend the true horror of mile 3 to 4 is revealed, a long, steady climb that rises like a mighty green wave above the multi-coloured, boardless surfers. MM and I chugged manfully up the slope, passing walkers/ strugglers. Runners are rather like horses. Thoroughbreds tearing off at the gun, never to be seen again; sleek workhorses, the sort that look good enough to draw State carriages; common, honest workers, not quite as fancy as their fitter, better turned-out cousins but still capable of pulling a decent load; and then there's my lot, the carthorses, heads down, hauling impossibly heavy loads up never-ending hills. I laughed at the analogy, happy in my place amongst the drays. They do, after all, get to haul the ale.

After mile 4 the course takes it's boot off your chest. A long downhill sweep towards the picturesque village of Alfriston, where marshals steer the runners through the narrow winding streets. A lady clad from head to toe in hi-vis clobber called to us as we approached up a narrow side road.
'Careful - there's a bus coming!'
'Is it going to Seaford?' I asked as we launched into and across the high street.
A zig and a zag and we were on the riverside trail, a mud-slicked slip-fest to test our footing. Fortune favoured the foolhardy here. If you were prepared to dance with the prospect of sliding into the cool, fast-flowing water there was a semblance of a path to be found along the riverbank, where waist-high nettles offered to sting us onward. Swans dabbled on the water, the occasional blue-rinsed dog-walker grudgingly giving way to the endless ribbon of mud-flecked gaspers. Beyond, a perfect country scene, stock-still in the breathless air, heavy with the threat of deluge over the valley. Trees and shrubs lined our route, the occasional chimney or rooftop poking through, adding to the rich vista.

Eight miles in and we were halfway between Alfriston and the Golden Galleon, a landmark notable for veterans of the race as the place where the climbing starts again. I felt pretty good here, working hard to slow my breathing, pace steady at around 8:30 minute miles. Styles came and went offering opportunities to slip or catch an ankle. Mud pools frequently threatened to send me sliding into the river, a great green/ grey slug siding into the drink like the villainous creature in a Korean monster movie. I kept my nerve and my footing, reaching the road crossing and the pub in good shape. I snaffled a wine gum, part of today’s' experiment with eating on the run, in readiness for the approaching hills.

Sure enough at Mile 11 we took a sharp right-hander to begin the long haul up to the top of the seventh sister. I know this climb well, this being my fourth consecutive visit to the race. Knowing the punishing climb to come I took a walk break, gulping down some light Ribena mix and catching my breath. A few hardy souls chugged by, possibly (blissfully) unaware of the challenge ahead. A left hand turn and the half-mile concrete road stretched before us leading up to the back of Seaford Head. I tucked in my chins and struck for the summit, breathing controlled, stride shortened.

SP had threatened to set up camp at the top of this climb but I didn't see him. Instead I made up a few places, using my affinity with hill work to good advantage. Across the cliff tops I chased down a few more runners, enjoying the views across the English Channel and then down across the two miles of gently arching beach bisecting ocean and town below. The drop to sea-level was a precarious affair, all thick slippery grass and muddy trails flecked with rocks of flint and chalk. I'd half-turned an ankle in the fifth mile and the joint complained bitterly at the slalom-like efforts to descend. Glancing at the Garmin I knew I was painfully close to two hours - a PB was all but assured - and I tried to keep my pace below eight minute miling. The lactic acid rose in my legs to strangle my sub-2 dream as we hit the concrete run-in. The last mile goes on forever, the promenade lined with clapping, smiling folk. You get that odd cinematic sensation at times like this - the camera dollies back whilst zooming in on the horizon, stretching out the road ahead.

A hundred and fifty yards from the finish the two hours flipped up on the watch. Oh well, there's always next year. Just then a young chap (we'd exchanged sympathies at the top of the last big hill) breezed past, smiling horribly as he ran down this old grey battler. As he did so I caught sight of my wife and daughter waving frantically from the finish, Phoebe's cries of 'go on Dad' ringing clear from the general hubbub. It was all I needed. Even as the impudent youth started to reach for his medal, proffered just beyond the line by an NPS Lions official, I found a yard from somewhere, lit the afterburners and scampered past him to snatch the purple ribbon. Well, sometimes you just HAVE to, y'know?
Watch time 2:00:48. Life can be cruel.

After nearly spilling my guts on the prom, I grabbed a banana and a cup of water before shuffling off to find the family for a sweaty hug. With the promise of a beer ringing in my ears I made for the ocean to dip weary legs into icy sea. The water was bone-chillingly cold, but I forced myself to stay in for five minutes, staggering back to dry land only when my legs threatened to buckle.

On the way to the car I met James and his family. He'd come home in an impressive 1:35. That's some debut over a demanding course; I expect to be hearing more about this young man before long. Half an hour later I'd joined Moyleman, Helen and Chris (sporting a similarly impressive time) at the Beachcomber for traditional rehydration. I opted for Harveys, looking to right the ‘wrongs’ of last night. Did a pint ever taste better? I doubt it.