December

[Sweder]

Nature colluded with the best and worst of man to create an ethereal stage for my lonely late-night plod. Backdrop painted by a persistent moon against high cloud, a picture-perfect negative canopy; soundtrack by Mr. David Gilmour with occasional support from the grizzly tarmac-and-rubber A27 symphonic orchestra. Having watched swollen grey skies dump heavy rain onto an already sodden Sussex all afternoon I’d been dreading my decision to hit the streets tonight. Yet, noisy homeward-rushing traffic aside - I endured at least one cloud of CO2-laden back-splash - this was a lovely night to be out. Warm, blustery and, perhaps most importantly, just at this moment, dry.

Normally I'd have tuned in to tonight's Carling Cup quarter finals to while away an hour's run, but as is well documented elsewhere in this parrish register there's a dreadful DAB black spot along this particular carriageway. There's no reasonable explanation for this. I half expect to encounter a headless horseman or an army of disenfranchised smugglers' ghosts along this passage, such is its' preclusive effect on all manner of radio and cellular frequencies.

I turned to my iPhone/ iPod for aural distraction, selecting the wonderful Live In Gdansk as my companion. In matters Floyd if forced to choose after the great Gilmour/ Walters rift I'd have to go with the virtuoso guitarist every time. Not perhaps the obvious choice; Walters is anarchic, an alluring, rebellious character, politically driven and by far the more demonstrably emotional artist. These laudable credentials are trumped in my view by Gilmour’s sublime technical and creative genius; there’s simply no rock musician like him. Interviewed by Alan Yentob for his excellent BBC series The Story of the Guitar Gilmour confessed to finding verbal communication far more troublesome than conjuring heavenly riffs on his 1969 Sunburst Stratocaster. He demonstrated this by wringing note-perfect, heart-meltingly beautiful sounds from the inanimate wood-metal instrument as he spoke, without so much as a glance away from the interviewer.

Blending his (and, happily, some of my) favourites from Pink Floyds' early catalogue with his more recent, gentler solo work Gilmour, playing as the title suggests live and in Gdansk, holds an enraptured sea of Poles in his thrall. Song after song fills the air, teasing senses and seducing ears of all ages. One old Floyd number, Time, has particular resonance for the runner, more so for those of us who wonder if our best years just might be behind us. It’s not a happy song; the lyrics are maudlin, fatalistic. Yet woven as they are within a rich tapestry of fabulous, intricate music they never fail to touch my heart and lift my mood, as they did once more tonight, carrying me home along that dark, lonely, rain-spattered road.

And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Every year is getting shorter
Never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to nought
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone
The song is over
Thought I'd something more to say

I ran, mindful once more of Glaconman’s recently-shared missive on style and posture, aiming to land on my mid-to-forward foot, or at least avoid my usual bone-jarring heel strikes, all the while holding a firm, upright stance. It was a struggle to keep this up for more than a few minutes, the conscious effort draining my limited, end-of-the-day resources. I followed a trail of recently-laid tarmac, the soft, yielding surface rather like a long, wide strip of liquorice, the closest thing available (in terms of texture underfoot) to my beloved downland turf. Reflected lights – white on the westward run, red on the eastward – exposed dark puddles of rainwater lurking silently in the shadows, waiting to drench the unwary, carelessly-placed foot.

Though mostly flat this eight kilometre out-and-back trail offers a tasty 1.5 kilometre finishing climb from the dual carriageway up to H.M. Prison Lewes. When I first took up running a few years ago I would train on this route, using the powerful strains of the Rocky theme to help haul me up this steadily increasing slope. Now, several years of hill-running behind me, I scampered easily to the summit, the memory of those early struggles bringing a rueful smile to my sweat-streaked face. The grin widened when I saw my finishing time – 47:57, virtually identical to my off-road, daytime plod yesterday.

So much for shortening my mid-week runs. I’ll rest tomorrow, hit the downs again on Friday - but not too hard – and maybe show my face at Saturday’s ParkRun. I won’t push things too much just yet.

There’s still plenty of time for that.