December

[Sweder]

Well, that'll learn me, and let this be a lesson to you too, Constant Reader.
When Ladyrunner sends you an innocent invitation via text for a 'nice easy eight miler' do stop and think before you respond. I leapt at the chance, seeing this as a perfect opportunity to revive the 'down your way' concept and to whittle away some seasonal flab.

Our Infamous Five were well-met in the early gloom at Chez Jools; our beaming host, resplendant in top value Aldi jacket and armed with a camera; Bullet Tom in yellow windcheater, Jeannette, our lady in red, and Heather in full Johnny Cash mode. Oh and me of course. As if it were possible even rounder (in the company of such venerable whippets) wrapped in my technical undergarments with a top-coat of shimmering silver-grey FLM Reject jacket. With the temperature gauge hovering around two degrees Celcius and bitter ice-rain hurtling in from near-dark skies we set sail on Julie's constitutional. The pace was, as promised, gentle. Of course it had to be; the best part of the first three klicks took us on a 250 metre climb onto the downs via a series of mud-slick flint trails. It reminded me of the Steyning Stinger, an epic 26.2 mile outing I enjoyed with my old mucker Moyleman back in ‘07. Fitting that, as each of my companions today have their own fond memories of Chris. This for me, along with ever-more elusive fitness, is the treasure hidden deep within these muddy hills; the swapping of stories, the telling of tales, the sharing of warm memories on cold dark winter days, sipping hot coffee, tired but happy in our snug kitchens or steamy cafés, remembering a much-loved friend.

Before all that soft nonsense there was hard work to be done. In fact a good deal more than Tom or I thought we’d signed up for. As the hills came to meet us, shrouded in cloud and bearing endless slippery gifts, my inner radar suggested we’d do well to get home again inside of the stated eight miles. There was no point worrying about that now; it took all my limited mental capacity to find safe passage through the quagmire. Ladyrunner loves hills. She eats them with a relish enjoyed by many Sussex runners, gobbling up their stony ascents, giggling helplessly as another foothold gives way to send her sliding into another lurking brackish puddle. I dug in and hung on, chasing those long legs for mile after mile. Despite his protestations I could hear Tom chirruping away, suggesting he was finding this a lot easier than I. It was tough but to be entirely honest I was loving every cold, damp, slippery minute of it.

Reaching our peak at Ditchling Beacon, one of the highest points in Sussex and third highest on the South Downs Way, we took a sharp left to run west along a relatively flat section towards Clayton. Another sharp left took us down past Pycombe Golf course, the sodden greens and deserted fairways understandably bereft of colourful sweaters. Since we’d entered the low-lying cloud clinging to the Beacon the rain had all but stopped, replaced by a pervasive mizzle that hung in the air like indolent fog, waiting to wrap interlopers in its lazy embrace. With ten kilometres gone I was still on Ladyrunner’s shoulder and feeling strong. Heather bade us farewell, taking the southwest trail towards home to take up baby-sitting duties. A thousand paces later we took yet another left turn, Tom emitting a weary groan from somewhere deep inside. Before us a steep climb stretched up through some farm buildings and into the mist once more; a full grass-mud kilometre rising to meet the Ditchling road.
‘Right – we’ll re-group at the top’.

Unbeknown to me this was Ladyrunner's coded signal for an eyeballs-out dash for the summit. Well, sod that. My legs were burning and my lungs were working double-time just to keep me chugging along at this modest, barely-moving pace. Tom, LR and Jeanette fair flew up the hill in close formation. In no time they were so far ahead I couldn’t tell who was in front. By the time I pulled up to the gate at the top, puffing and blowing like an old steam engine, it was clear from the beam on LR’s face she’d spanked them both.

The jog across Ditchling Road and through the sheltered woodland trail was mercifully downhill. Within a minute I'd recovered my composure and overcome my momentary embarrassment at lagging so far behind. I’d reached the edge of my fitness envelope and seen in unforgiving high definition just how much work there is to be done in preparation for Almeria. That said I was at least out there, challenging myself in very good company. It's hard to beat onesself up too much; after all it's a marathon (or a half at least), not a sprint. At the end of the drop back into Hollingbury I charged up a long set of steps, bouncing with arms aloft a la Rocky. I felt great; warm, mud-splattered, with a little something left in the legs. Finally it was back to Ladyrunner’s kitchen for that (delicious) coffee to swap tales of running with the Mighty Moyleman. I do miss him, but I’m so grateful for the joy he brought to our running fraternity and the trail of grins any conversation about him inevitably brings. He would have loved it out there today.

15.57 kilometres in 1:38. For the record Jools that's a couple of sprints shy of ten miles in old money. Just in case you were wondering
Thanks for dragging me over a wonderful course; I loved every foot-soaking, bone-chilling minute of that.

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Below: Sportstrack overview and elevation map