Oktober

[Sweder]

09:00 start
20 miles, off-road, hilly

And so it came to pass that at 8.45 on a breezy, hazy Sunday morning I stood shivering with my fellow Sunday lopers, surrounded by interlopers and blackguards from all corners of the region. Seaford Striders, Sevenoaks Harriers, Brighton & Hove Athletics Club . . . they’d all sent envoys to compete in ‘our’ race. From the banter in the paddock I gleaned that some were old hands at the downland challenge, their countenance relaxed, voices low, storing energy for the trials ahead. Others keen, eyes gleaming, voices high and chatter quick, a little more green around the gills. A world of fun awaits the newbies.

Steve, Paul, Michael, Chris, Gary . . .the usual suspects, all looking horribly well and unpardonably fit. I studied this pack of lithe, hungry jackals, feeling empathy with trapped prey everywhere.

But lo! What vision of athletic prowess appeared before me? None other than Sir Roger of Paris, the self-styled pimpernel, not seen hide nor hair of for several months, large as life, bold as brass, resplendent in an orange vest worthy of a preservation order.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ I couldn’t stop the spreading grin.
‘I’ve found religion. Been going to Church every Sunday, so I’ve been running in the week. Hello chaps.’

That’s the thing about Rog, you’re never quite sure if he’s taking the piss. As it turned out he wasn’t this time. Still, he looked good and announced that, despite a maximum post Paris jaunt of eleven miles, he was looking forward to today’s test.

Called under starters orders, some hundred souls gathered in the lee of the overpass.
Jill arrived, red faced, breathless, looking for a safe place to stash her bike.
‘I popped into the Jog Shop yesterday to check out some new shoes’ she explained. ‘Sam asked me if I was running today. I said I’d not done a long run in three weeks but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
Herr Lambourne raised his stopwatch and sent us on our way. Starting within the Marina car park meant an instant climb up the zig-zag path to the cliff tops, some two hundred feet above. I was relieved to feel the wind in my face at the summit. An Easterly blast would make life a lot easier, pushing us up the Yellow Brick Road and guiding us home over the last, leg-burning miles.

A mile in and our number were well spread, forming a disorderly, colourful ribbon bobbing across the cliff tops. I ran with Chris and Rog, chatting easily about recent weeks, running, not running, travels, forthcoming events, life in general. We caught up with Jill just before the plunge into Rottingdean village and the sweeping right-hander onto the undercliff. This, as the name suggests, is a sea-level pathway in the shadow of the looming chalk edifice, covering the mile between Rottingdean and Saltdean.

At Saltdean we turned left into the sub-road tunnel and towards the Famous Residences. I felt fair to middling at this point, muscles warming easily, breathing relaxed, but the suggestion of an unusual and unwelcome tightness in my right calf and hamstring caused concern. I shuffled my water belt a few inches, wondering if I’d squashed a nerve, but the niggle persisted. I scrawled a mental note to keep sensors tuned in and plodded on. Chris had put his foot down, leaving Rog and I to rekindle the Spirit of The Champs Elysee. It was great to run together again. Despite an age since our last outing, when Rog (calf) and I (general lack of fitness) had struggled, taking ‘the walk of shame’ up the Snake, we were still perfectly well-matched for pace. We chattered on about our children’s exploits; how they drive you insane at times, make you feel ten feet tall at others. The climb out of the Residences put paid to that for a while, oxygen required to feed the engine room as the pavement turned to muddy farm track and the world tilted steadily upward.

I knew this would test the remnants of my lurghie. Half way to the summit I started ejecting lung-butter, the first couple of emissions dark green and most foul. Finally I ran out of ammo, relieved to have avoided convulsions. Into the cow fields and our first glimpse of Lewes and her guardian hills. The sun, ‘till now peering down on us through an opaque window of haze and mist, finally shimmered its way through, lighting the valleys with a soft yellow glow. Heaven should look so fabulous.