Seaford Half Marathon - 5th June 2005

[Sweder]

Following self-assessment and conclusion that current lethargy due in part to lack of running I decided to take in 5 easy miles this morning. A little pushed for time – I had a meeting scheduled in London that required a timely departure – I rounded up the hounds, stuffed my radio in one pocket, mobile in the other and set off onto the downs towards Black Cap.

At the foot of the 2 ½ mile ascent I paused to sort out the headphones, tune the radio and set the stopwatch feature on the ‘phone. At this point a maintenance vehicle from the local council appeared behind me and proceeded to meander slowly along the rough track, obviously destined for the water station located just behind the houses. Distracted I dropped the ‘phone into my shorts pocket (rather than zipping it into my water bottle belt) and set off after the dogs. The bouncing ‘phone in my left pocket offset the bouncing radio on the right, and I made steady progress across the sheep field towards the riding stables.

The morning was a beauty, strong sunshine in a clear blue sky, occasional high white clouds still distant. I’d planned on 5 miles, but a combination of time pressures and concern at my somewhat laboured breathing early in the run dictated I should cut this one short. I decided to turn before the final ascent to Black Cap, a repeat of my last pre-London run.

The maintenance truck pulled in as expected at the water station, and I chugged onwards. I shouldn’t have been surprised at my lack of pace – Ireland aside this was only my third outing since London; any remaining form would take some coaxing from hibernation. I passed the stables, the hounds detouring via local thickets in search of rabbits, and we reunited on the rutted horse tracks leading West across the South Downs Way. 200 yards into this section and I noticed a distinct imbalance in my stride pattern. An injury? No, everything seemed fine, if a little rusty. Ah – that’s it. Whilst my right thigh received the steady slap, slap of the bouncing radio, my left had lost it’s own responsive beat.

Damn! I’d lost my ‘phone. My first thought was I’d have no recorded time for the run. My second, brushing rudely past the first, was that I’d need to find it. And quick. I called the dogs to heel and turned for home, paying even more attention than usual to the rough terrain. Needles and haystacks sprung to mind – the long grass and dusty flint laden tracks seemed an ideal hiding place for my grey Nokia. Think – where could it have fallen? Well, just about anywhere. I wouldn’t have heard it land – Planet Rock had successfully drowned any chance of that.

I ran steadily, eyes fixed on the on-rushing ground. As they always do on the return leg the dogs joined in close formation. I had a vague notion that one of them might sniff the errant hardware out – and then reality took a grip. There was nothing whatsoever about my mobile that would appeal to my dogs, unless I was using it to order home-delivered minced beef.

We made good time back to the water station. I met a couple of fellow dog-walkers and imparted my news, each vowing to keep a look out. The workmen at the water station had seen nothing on the way up. I weighed my options. I could abandon the ‘phone and return this evening; however, there was always a chance that, if found, it could fall into the wrong hands, ie someone who might take advantage of his/ her good fortune and the lack of an international bar. No, I’d best mount a rescue op right away.

Jake, my teenage just-out-of-school-but still-in-the-midst-of-GCSE’s son, had arisen and was making toast as I burst though the back door, panting hard and dripping perspiration onto the kitchen floor tiles.

‘Got your ‘phone’ I huffed at him. He looked at me, his face a blend of alarm and disgust.
‘Been for a run Dad?’ name, Sybil Fawlty; Subject, the Bleedin’ Obvious. I elected to save the sarcastic remark – I needed his help.
‘I’ve dropped my ‘phone – need yours to find it’ I gasped.
‘K, hang on’. He moved with a pace that would have shamed a lethargic mollusc. I closed my eyes and bit my tongue.
‘Err . . ah, here you go – hang on, I’ve got a text message . . .’
My bulging eyes and virmillion countenance failed to convey my haste.
Finally he handed the ‘phone over and I belted into the back garden, grabbing my under-used Mountain Bike. I’d figured that although I wouldn’t manage much better than running pace back up the slopes, I’d be assured of a much quicker descent.

So there I was, puffing and panting back up onto the downs, left hand gripping the handlebars, right the ‘phone as my thumb frantically repeat-dialled. My best chance was to listen out for the ringtone as I pedalled along. Alarmingly a tinny version of my own voice crackled from the handset;
‘You have reached Ashley Head of EFI . . .’ bollocks! Answer phone . . . OK, keep re-dialling, shut off after eight rings, re-dial . . .

I repeated this any number of times, all the while scanning the left side of the path. I reasoned that, having fallen from my left pocket and certainly not having struck my leg on the way down there was a fair chance the small, grey, brick-shaped object would be lying in the grass on this side.

Up through the sheep field, past the stables, onto the rutted track. My legs pumped hard and I rued my lack of cycling experience in recent years. Then, finally, like the cry of a small creature in the thick grass, my ring-tone . . .
Yes! Found it. I checked the time – oh dear, I’ve got 15 minutes to get home, showered and into the car.

With both phones safely secured I hammered the bike back down the slopes towards Lewes. As the cheap Halfords frame shuddered on insufficiently inflated tyres I imagined losing control altogether and the resulting unpleasantness as I picked flint segments from bleeding wounds. I slowed up a tad, negotiating humps and hollows and finally a couple of fairly hairy left hand bends. Finally home.
‘Found it then?’ Jake called as I crashed through the front door, sweat pouring into my eyes. ‘Yeah – thanks!’ I hurled Jake’s phone back at him as he lay sprawled in a fashion unique to teenage lads on the sofa.
‘What you watching?’ I coughed.
‘Thing about the Tate – should help with my studies’ he yawned in reply.

10 minutes later I was out the door again, suit jacket tails flying behind me, briefcase bouncing off the door frame, car keys poised.
‘Take it easy’ from the sofa.
Yeah, right.

3 ½ miles off-road running, 3 ½ miles off-road cycling.
Heart rate off the scale. Time? All out of that.
Welcome back to training.