The game was up two miles in.
Having developed a fine strategy last year – hanging back to let the pack stream off then picking off stragglers on a rampage through the field – we modified our approach. Sadly the preamble was twenty minutes too short, leaving Moyleman and I rapidly cooling at the back of a small towns’ worth of excited runners still waiting for the gun.
We'd loped out to the Marina drop at about 9:15, a 1.8 mile trot to loosen legs, warm blood and exchange banter. Despite the biting cold (I swear it was below freezing when I left the house) we both opted for shorts and vests, not wanting to return to the cars for a quick change and risk a repeat of last year when we not only missed the start but arrived after they'd taken up the chip mats. However, our gentle pace (10:30 miling) still brought us along Madeira Drive way too early. This race plan needs a little more seasoning I fear.
I felt a little heavy and stiff-legged, putting this down to having run well on Friday and indulged with SP that evening, our foray into the hostelries of Seaford yielding any number of fine ales and ending with a rather tasty kebab from the Charky. I will, it appears, never learn.
Somewhere at the other end of the planet the starter announced the off. The back end of the throng fidgeted nervously but nobody moved. I popped into one of the now deserted Portaloos and emerged to see nothing had changed. We discussed tactics.
‘Funny how we’re all desperate to get going even though we know it’ll be a crush up ahead.’
‘Yeah . . .what d’you reckon? Hang back for ten minutes?’
The exchange continued. I pronounced on the wisdom of waiting until everyone had gone. Why should we fall into the anxiety trap? There’s no reason why one shouldn’t let the pack shuffle off, hang around for a while, sip water and take in the scenery. We’d have a clear run through the tight, winding street section before picking off the slowbies on the seafront.
Practicing what one preaches is never easy. We strolled, apparently nonchalant, towards the startline, chatting easily until the last runners crossed the mats. Human nature kicked in, our reasoned logic crushed amongst an ocean of discarded plastic beakers.
‘I’m offski’ MM announced, teeth chattering behind blue lips. ‘Coming?’
Of course. And, as predicted, two miles of horrendous shoulder-charging, pavement-hopping madness ensued. By the time we’d run a Pamplonaesque mile and a half I was exhausted. Elbows flew, shufflers drifted, lampposts loomed out of the heaving masses, stationary bike wheels lunged from doorways. It was, quite simply, insane. Finally out of the rat-run and onto the seafront I took stock. My breathing was high and tight, heart-rate off the charts, race plan in sweaty tatters. The early pace was lodged above 8:30; a PB effort demanded at least a couple of miles at 7:30 pace just to get back on track. Screw that; I’d be dead, or at least blow up in an ugly wheezing heap way before the finish. No, take the medicine Sweder, shoulder arms; sit back, relax, enjoy the Law of Diminishing Bottoms, or Sweder’s Law as I like to call it.
When you approach a race from the rear (as we had last year, eating up the field like demonic Pacmen on our massive mileage-fuelled march to Cape Town) you experience this phenomenon. The bottoms - that‘s the lycra-clad derrieres bobbing in front of you - start out wide and wobbly, often walking. As you progress they become smaller, tighter and livelier, gradually shrinking in size until you find your place amongst your kinfolk. At my optimum canter I’m surrounded by a mixed bag; some fit larger bottoms, some extremely trim, and all rumps in between. The real racers, still way ahead at this stage, suffer from that baffling disease,
Noassatall. Some might venture this to be the observation of a morally bankrupt soul; well, you’d be right. Hardly
news, is it?
So there I was, watching the red and black hooped vest of Moyleman disappear in the near-distance, chugging along until my breathing and heart-rate returned to something approaching normal. A glance at the Garmin – I cursed the bloody thing; slave-driver! – informed me my ‘resting’ rate was somewhere close to 8:15 pace; wholly acceptable at this point.
By half way I was running comfortably. In order to test the effectiveness of my recent Glucosamine regime I’d elected not to take any Ibuprofen. So far my knees – prone to swelling horribly during road races – held out. Otherwise I’d recovered fully from my early palpitations, taking in the scenery as we cruised the promenade. The English Channel glistened, pond-calm, off our starboard bow. Gulls swooped and weaved, searching for small, unguarded children struggling to hold onto food. Beyond the Marina a flotilla bobbed in the breeze, colourful sails illuminated by the strong winter sun. I’ll bet those sailors were bloomin’ frozen out there! For all the clear skies and unfettered sunshine the temperature remained stoically low, as if too tired to raise itself on this lazy Sunday morning. Not a problem for me, my personal steam generator working up a nice sheen under my damp black vest; I much prefer running in the cold. I must take on a cold weather marathon some time; I reckon I’d love it
The course meandered along the prom, taking the low road at the Peace Statue to hug the shoreline. Day trippers dawdled along the edges of the path, strangely bemused by the endless stream of sweaty bodies chuntering past. As ever a number of kamikaze runner-dodgers tried their luck, darting out as if on impulse to cut across the stream. One day one of these fools will take me out and then we’ll see true Wrath! But they didn’t and I kept up a steady 8-minute beat all the way to the Palace Pier. Up the ramp, into the coned-off road and on up the hill above Madeira Drive I started overhauling strugglers. These are the PB-triers, the ones who set off earnestly banking swift early miles only to find the gentle gradient of the hill sapping their energy, eroding their will. You could see it etched on screwed-up, salt-stained faces; the dawning knowledge that, this year at least, that record run would have to wait. As it would for me, but then I’d accepted that early enough as to enjoy my day.
At the bottom of the plunge back to sea level I spied the Great Moyle, focused ahead, running well. He acknowledged the cry from Soft Al and Lou-Lou, perched high up on the main street, with a cheery wave.
This part of the race causes the most controversy. Apparently a half can only claim full half status (er, doesn’t make sense! Oh well . . .) if it limits its off-road excursions to a bare minimum. Last year the organisers found a way to do that, by taking us back up tothe main road at Black Rock, along to the Marina slipway and back along the undercliff. This avoids the sometimes treacherous yet beautifully hilly off road section back from Rottingdean, but also robs the circuit of several hundred yards. To make up the shortfall the adventurous souls added a Disney queue-style zigzag section on Madeira Drive, taking runners west towards the finish, turning them cruelly within site of the line to slingshot them back away up the road and onto the final three mile section. Everyone – I mean, EVERYONE – hates this. Brighton is rumoured to be cooking up a full marathon course. Well, they’re going to have to do a good deal better than bloody zigzags when it comes to the old 26.2.
Twenty minutes later I was home at last. I stopped my watch at 1:46, though I later received a baffling text from Sussex Beacon congratulating me on my 1:54 effort, surely a gun time. C’est la vie. I caught up with El Moyle, Gary and Scotty (both turned in a good one thirty-something effort), downed a banana and took off towards Mac’s where a full fry-up sat with my name on it. We spied Rog-Air and his Habbikuk Warriors. Rog had cruised to a 1:39 PB, great preparation for his sub-4 assault in Paris, The old boy's in great shape and I'm hoping to join him for one of his dawn raids into the hills before too long. The walk to Mac's took us passed the zigzag and along the finishing straight where one or two hardy folk plodded steadfastly on. We applauded heartily.
All things considered I’m happy with my effort. I’ve come to accept that PBs are unlikely after a training week that includes three full Blackcap runs, consecutive curries and a night on the tiles with the Mighty Plodder 36 hours before the gun. A recipe for disaster perhaps, but a whole lot of fun all the same
