Stomach development report: it's coming on nicely!
A week or so of late late nights downing all manner of ex-pat ale in Space City combined with lots of walking through hard concrete hallways and the occasional dalliance with fast food and TexMex has taken a heavy, flabby toll. Gone are the svelt flanks of the Paris Marathoner I used to greet in the shaving mirror; back is the lardy monster from whom I've been running these past few months.
Good to see my new friend LJS firing up a diary here.
There's nothing like new blood to get the juices flowing, and a fellow hillside loper is most welcome. Another 5 days (and nights) of bad living and I'll be back in my own hills, rummaging through spent pockets looking to pay the piper.
Guinness and treble chins all round!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
When I run well I can write well. At least, I write well in my head as I run along.
On the odd occasion I manage to extrapolate some of this stuff before the letters fade from my mental blackboard; regular visitors here have on occasion remarked kindly on a tale or two.
Alas, dear reader tonight is no such time.
For instead of poetic prose or rhythmic ramblings I bring you a dirge, the epitaph of a man who thought he was a runner only to find that he is, in fact, a tub of lard. The velocity with which I have fallen from the pinnacle of four short weeks ago when I conquered the City of Love in a tearful triumph under the eponymous Arch is hard to fathom. Here in the City of the Obese, the Land of the Free (Refill), Home of the Brave (Enough to Finish their All You Can Eat Chicken Fried Steak) I am committed to a horrible, inexorable slide into sloth.
How can this happen, you may ask?
Oh, it’s oh so easy my friends. Andy of this parish has oft spoken of the terrible consequences of ale guzzling within striking distance of food emporia. So, forewarned is for-armed, n’est pas? Sadly not; as if in some belated response to the magnificent David Byrne I have simply Stopped Making Sense. Take last night for example. A visit to the Stags Head Pub on 59 and South Shepherd, home last evening to the Offshore Engineer magazine OTC 2006 party. Free beer for as long as it lasts, aided and abetted by equally priceless Mexican nibbles. A small river of draught Belhaven carried me (in a taxi) out of said boozer and straight into the clutches of the Jack In The Box Drive Thru whereupon I invested in not one but two Sourdough Jacks. SDJs are unrivalled examples of the Houstonian capacity to force acres of cow flesh (liberally laced with strips of bacon and slabs of Monterrey Jack cheese) between two lightly toasted slices of delicious sourdough bread. So at 1am this morning there I was, slumped in the back of a yellow cab heading home with a belly full of Scottish Ale and a torrent of burger grease cascading down my well lubricated throat (not to mention across my chin and onto one of my finest stripy shirts).
And now? Why this self-flagellation, this self-depreciating public weep-fest?
I’ve just completed a six-mile assault on the local Bayou path, taking me to the very edge of Downtown and the delightful haven that is Hermann Park.
And, to cut to the chase, it was the stuff of nightmares.
Not only did I stop to walk no less than six times in the seventy minutes it took to drag myself around this makeshift circuit, I suffered the embarrassment of having a fleet of alien craft follow me around, silently sucking the last vestige of oxygen from my personal airspace. I feel like an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks, to collect a bill. I have gone irrevocably insane.
The horror . . . the horror . . .
I didn’t so much sweat as sprout liquid from every pore. The irony of my Marathon de Paris finisher’s shirt turning dark blue then translucent as I flogged my flabby carcass along the waters’ edge was not lost on me. One small consolation was that today, under much brighter conditions, I could identify the residents of the shallow creek; catfish and carp. The catfish, all bulbous heads and tail-wafting business, worked in lines of four or five, hoovering the silt from the Bayou bottom in search of food. The carp worked alone, trawling the edges, occasionally flicking the surface with their tail fins to send the catfish scampering off to more peaceful hunting grounds.
I slog/scraped my way towards the park as a fleet of sculpted runners passed in the opposite direction. Six-packs mingled with dry singlets, I-pods and MP3s standard issue, cadence at once strong and confident, perfect teeth shining beneath designer shades. As their light footfalls receded behind me dark shapes sheltering under the bridge shifted uneasily. This city of opulence and obscenity increasingly fails to hide its shady secrets. The tired, the poor, the huddled masses once called upon to journey to this great nation are now spurned by the wealthy, forced to scavenge like dogs along these giant urban gutters. Bright, shiny eyes peered out from weather-beaten, road-grimed faces. I moved a little quicker – but not much.
The contrast of this, the raw underbelly of Americas fourth largest conurbation, with the glorious beauty of BBs recent journeys into the Spanish mountains could not be greater. There are parallels, though. BB’s reports are filled with hope and wonder at the natural riches bestowed upon our plucky trail-blazer. There’s hope and wonder here, too; I hope I’ll get back to my apartment before I have a coronary, and I truly wonder if I will?
Another minute walk-break. I can’t believe this; I didn’t stop once in Paris. OK so I must expect hiccups after a few weeks off but this is ridiculous. I started again just as a tank-topped lovely flew by on a pushbike, her golden ponytail shining in the early evening sun as she powered her cycle along the warm asphalt towpath. The sun was of course a factor. Knocking on 7pm and we’re still easily in the high seventies. There seemed to be a little more 02 on offer and I started to find what felt like form, but it proved a false dawn and by the time I reached my exit point at Greenbriar I’d returned to a truculent, despairing waddle.
I muttered a hasty Faustian pact under my breath to make it back to the digs without further respite, huffing and puffing like Thomas the Tank Engine hauling a small house up Ben Nevis. Speaking of that particular peak I reckon all this reading Feet In The Clouds is adding to my feelings of self-loathing and corpulence. Tales of hard men flying over fells and dales with ankle-fitted wings have left me feeling further adrift than ever. I could write my own guide to self-destruction. Feet In The clouds? Head Up His Arse, more like. Glaconman generously doffed his shiny pate at my mastery of the yin and yang of running hard and living life to the full. Sorry to relate the scales have tipped my friend; it’s all gone a bit Jade Goody.
The challenges I’ve mentally prepared for later in the year – Seaford Half, the Jog Shop Jog, maybe even the New York Marathon – all seem much larger, darker milestones now.
Cape Town may as well be on another planet.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Mate, you don't know how much better that post made me feel.
I'm at least 10 pounds heavier than I was on Zurich morning, and still have a shoulder ache that's driving me mad. Not been out for a run at all yet. Too scared...
If I managed 6 miles in 70 minutes, I wouldn't feel too bad. It was always going to be painful. The next one will be too. The one after that? Now then, as they say in Yorkshire. That's where you'll sense a difference. Seaford will suddenly move from hazy-dream-sequence-with-soaring-harp-sounds to gritty, razor-sharp focus with Ace Of Spades booming through your headphones.
Trust me....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Glad to read you again. No need for self-flaggelation, you deserve the odd pie or two. And its all the ale and chips that make your battles against adversity all the more epic .
Thanks fellas, I feel better this morning.
So much so that I just rustled up a wee breakie of steak n eggs with toast and spicy cowboy beans . . . yeehah!
You're right of course, Andy. I'll repeat the process if not tonight then tomorrow morning - there's a lot of ring rust to scrape off, for sure.
BB, I've snatched brief glimpses of your recent reports but its enough to make me want to get on a plane and see it for myself, albeit at a slightly more modest pace that your good self. Great stuff.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A possible running commentary outing for the future? It's an accessible sort of "ultra" (it's possible to do it within the 16 hour time limit without breaking out into a run at all!) and the actual event is always organized for the first Saturday of June. There's a shorter alternative of 44 km too so you could even encourage the missus to put her name down (or vice versa) . I'm describing it in detail just in case anybody fancies doing it one year.... You never know...
I would certainly be up for it, especially as there's opportunities to stroll and have your breath taken away by more than simple exhaustion.
Despite having a hard time marrying up a growing enthusiasm for mountainous running with a rapidly expanding girth I can see this happening. I doubt I'll pursuade Mrs S to do much more than sip the local berry juice and wave a flag, but as you say you never know . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Excellent writing, Sweder. Your lyrical capacity is on a real high - and, let's hope for all our sakes, soaring independent of your currently rising girth.
I liked your images of shadowy movements lurking and bright eyes shining from the dark beneath bridges - very much a Wild Wood scene from 'The Wind in the Willows'.
As for the Double Sour Dough Jack Despair - I think that running does this. In your pre-running days you might never have noticed you'd done it (or had the appetite, for that matter ...)
Well, it's a start.
Err, another start, I suppose. An energetic prelude to nine and a half hours with a triple seven strapped to my ample haunches I set off on a repeat of last weeks' bayou-side sweat-fest.
In a curious case of life imitating televisual art I suffered an alarm clock malfunction. The night before I'd wallowed in my cheap and none-too-clean motel bed watching a Seinfeld marathon. Seinfeld is one of those slick, well-written American sit-coms you either love or loathe; on this occasion it was easy eye-candy for the weary traveller, and most welcome. The episode in question concerned an African visitor named John-Paul. JP was to run in the New York Marathon and was set to stay with Elaine (friend of Jerry - that's Jerry Seinfeld . . . oh, if you haven't seen the show you'll have hit 'back' on your browser by now anyway) the night before. The 'running' gag was that JP had missed the Marathon in the Barcelona Olympics due to a problem with an alarm clock, and Jerry became paranoid that Elaine’s poor sense of time would lead to disaster. Hilarious farcical events conspired; Kramer, an industrial strength hot-tub pump . . . you had to be there.
Anyway, so I woke up on Monday morning having set the bedside alarm for seven (I wanted to avoid the heat and humidity that arrive in this city after nine am). The alarm clock displayed 6:45 but the harsh sunlight pushing through the edges of the curtains told a different story. Sure enough some sort of power outage in the night had reset the clock. That or I’m an incompetent berk who can’t set a simple alarm clock . . . whatever; it was 8:55. Bugger.
Another slog-sweat ensued, retracing the heavy steps of my previous expedition along the Bayou to Hermann Park. This time despite the rapidly rising temperature I felt a good deal better. I actually ran for rather a long time (around forty minutes or so) before taking my first walk/ shade break. The sun, grinning madly as it scurried towards its zenith, eager to burn my portly shadow into the Houston cityscape, did its worst; yet on I plodded, resolute, in no small measure buoyed by my (slightly) improved performance.
I managed a full circuit of the municipal golf course in the Park before heading for home. I reckon this added up to somewhere close to six and a half miles (though it’s very hard to tell - I'm calculating distance on pace and time only) and I chugged up to the apartment steps in a shade under an hour.
All in all I can’t wait to get back to my muddy hills.
Recovery of form will be slow and painful. And all the more fun for that.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I’d spent the lion’s share of the afternoon wallowing in my foggy stupor on Jake’s self-supporting garden hammock. This could and would continue until around 9pm when I’d succumb to the inevitable and crawl, bleary-eyed and miserable, to my pit, so starting the week of afternoon nodding and late-night movie watching that is west-to-east jetlag hell.
Or I could get up, round up the hounds and hammer out a homecoming hillside assault on Blackcap. Huzzah! Salvation is at hand. The dogs had long since given me up as a lost cause. Their initial tail-wagging frenzy as I arrived home laden with suitcases in the early hours had waned, replaced by resigned slumps and the occasional heavy sigh. My announcement – ‘Dogs out!’ – and sudden, urgent activity brought confusion, wide-eyed incredulity before wild yelps and vigorous tail-thrashing. It was all I could do to strap on my runners and plug in my DAB Radio amidst the melee.
Half four on a bright and breezy Tuesday afternoon. The contrast in conditions with my last run, some 24 hours earlier in the Texan tropics, was amazing; I felt renewed, invigorated. Barely 10 minutes in I knew this would be the return to form I craved. My hills have changed in my absence, taking on a lush, springy coat, welcoming my footfalls with a lover’s tender embrace. Fields of bright yellow rapeseed, now glorious in full flower, illuminated the distant hills as if back-lit. Dandelions speckled the thick grass carpet; skylarks frolicked noisily in the wildflower meadows over Lewes. Where the track was worn to bare, dry mud wild blossom lay like confetti strewn to greet my return; natures ticker-tape. I was in my heaven.
I took a couple of walk breaks (Physician - Heal thyself!) on the tough climb through the thick gorse towards the brazier, on Blackcap’s skirts and again on her summit, pausing to take in the hazy view over Sussex and Kent. Homeward bound with the breeze in my favour I upped the pace, truly running for the first time in weeks. My thighs moaned, put out by the unexpected exertion, but my lungs, revelling in the oxygen-rich downland air, easily kept up with demands from the engine room. My heart soared; this is where I long to be, this is where I belong. No heartless concrete pathways or riverside asphalt can substitute for my beloved hills; I promise I'll not leave you for so long again.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Popped out this morning for a more sedate 5-miler over the hills.
The euphoria of Tuesday long past I expected this to be tougher and so it proved. I stopped to rest a few times, enjoying the sunlit vista to the south, the snout-nosed silhouette of Seaford Head, the shimmering sea between Seaford and Newhaven, the dark hills of the Sunday run rising above me, a green tsunami frozen in time.
The hounds seemed to sense my casual mood, running easily around me with no real urgency, happy to be out in the early sunshine. A lone horseman rode the crest of Blackcap as we reached the beacon and I pondered turning back, as much to save my labouring legs as to avoid canine/ equine conflict. But I need to build the mileage just now, and to shorten a run without good reason can be as addictive as a hi-ball before breakfast,* so on I plod.
I finished in a shade shy of an hour, hot, tired, sweat-soaked with aching legs but pleased to have got out there and banked a few miles. Theres a longer run in prospect this Sunday when the Jog Shop Joggers are planning a visit to the Famous Residences, somewhere close to ten very hilly miles and not one of my preferred routes. Should be interesting.
[SIZE="1"]* hi-jacked from a quote from Sam Snead, golfing legend, where he referred to quitting between tee and green.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
If not fear then at least apprehension lurked menacingly before this morning’s constitutional. A brace of restorative midweek plods had massaged my confidence, but I’m still painfully mindful that the rebuilding process after a marathon is by necessity a long and steady one.
I’ve played a bit of golf lately; a couple of rounds in Houston and one last Friday at the exquisite Knole Park near Sevenoaks. Knole Park is a National Trust site, home to some 700 deer (indigenous fallow and latterly the darker, stockier Japanese Sika) who roam unrestricted across the property. It’s one of the few courses that retains the ‘preferred lies’ rule in the warmer months. This is to compensate for some unusual hazards; hoof prints pepper the greens whilst ubiquitous deer droppings add texture and fragrance to the fairways. For all that the place has a wonderful, timeless charm. It was, as Wallace would say, a grand day out.
I’ve never found golf lessons terribly helpful. Most pro's seem hell-bent on deconstructing the cumbersome collection of movements I’ve strung together over the years in an effort to build a swing of beauty. This is pointless as I’m likely to play a few times only to leave the game for months, returning once more to ‘find my game’ anew. My customary ungainly slashing at the ball has served me well and I’ll not give it up for the sake of aesthetics. Of much greater help is to delve into my priceless collection of adages and teachings, many dictated in his dotage by the incomparable (and, sadly, late) Harvey Pennick. A half hour's contemplation with Mr Pennick can get my head back in the game.
Of equal comfort in these times of struggle is Randy Voorhees’ ‘As Hogan Said . . . The 389 Best Things Ever Said About How To Play Golf.’ This well-thumbed tome offers pearls of wisdom from the great and the good from Hogan, Bobby Jones and other fine exponents of the game. One such morsel got me thinking about running, and this was in my mind today as I set off with Chris, Ade and Steve along the Sussex cliff-tops under slate-grey skies into a boisterous headwind. The quote is from Annette Thompson and is perfect for anyone guilty of putting themselves under unfair or unnecessary pressure.
‘There’s a Japanese phrase I like to use that says
“A bridge was not built to take its life’s load all in one day.”
What we often try to do is pack the needs of a whole round into a very small set of circumstances. “On this hole maybe I can . . . I really need a . . .Next hole I gotta . . . “
I need-a, I gotta . . . well, the Needas and Gottas can’t play golf. They self-destruct.
Remember this:
A single bridge. A moment’s load. Here and now.’
I thought this through on the climbs above Rottingdean and Saltdean. I really don’t need to push things just now – I simply have to get some hilly miles banked and come through unscathed. This is one step on a gradual return to distance running. Happily the lads revealed that last weeks’ plod over the same 11 mile circuit had been at a brutal pace. The consensus was today to take things a little easier and enjoy it - suits me sir!
The ‘famous residences’ handle refers to a section at around mile six or seven where we leave the downs behind Telscombe and run through the built-up area between the village and Rottingdean. One of the original Ultra runners (of the Sam Lambourne/ Lycra Tony era) named the circuit. Why the famous residences? he was asked. 'Coz I live there'. The streets run flat for a while before a harsh concrete climb back to the top of the downs, the road rising to meet you as your hamstrings tighten and, in my case, your groin squeaks in protest.
From the summit we returned to the downland trail, running easily into Rottingdean, past the duck pond and through the allotments to the foot of Windmill hill. This very short but no less brutal climb has many a runner walking from half way up; not today.
‘We’ll Mountain Goat it today lads’ offered Chris. With that we four proceeded to ‘bounce' up the rutted track, heels never touching the floor as our hamstrings and calves worked double-time to launch us onwards and upwards. A breathless recovery lasted too few seconds and we pushed on across the top, the pitch 'n' putt course to our left, St Dunstans dead ahead. Down the steep descent behind the modern building, Chris and Steve running full tilt, Ade and I a good deal more circumspect. By the time we reached the tunnel under the main road that leads back to the cliff-tops the gap was over 200 metres. I hung on, determined not to push too hard but not wanting to fall any further behind. I ran on breaths; that is, I let the rhythm of my breathing dictate my maximum pace. I suspect this is similar to Andy’s HR training (without the technological confirmation) and it worked; I recovered sufficiently to be able to step up the pace gradually over the last two miles, reeling in the leaders 500 metres before the finish.
Breathing hard, considerably more damp than my comrades, I nonetheless felt happy with my work. 'Shows you had something in the tank' offered Chris, looking horribly fit and fully recovered. 11 hilly miles in around 1:45 – Seaford Half could yet be within my compass, albeit only 3 weeks away.
Later, over coffee in Mac’s café, Chris and I discussed the recovery time needed after a marathon. Some reckon you need a day off for every mile run; others plough straight back into their routine. My own view is you’re susceptible to injury and illness having put your body through such a rare and extraordinary experience, so it’s best to take things easy if you can. I feel I've got my rate of return more or less right, given the interruptions of work and all that.
With that in mind I head for home and a leisurely lunch in front of the sofa before boarding another 'plane, this time Glasgow-bound for the Fishing show. Runners safely packed, of course
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder, if you notched up '11 hilly miles in 45 minutes', then you've plainly been hiding your running light under the biggest bushel in bushel town, and then on the day of the annual 'who's got the biggest bushel' contest.
Now go back, hit 'edit' and depressing as it might be, insert the 'one hour and' that's meant to go ahead of the 45 minutes admission!
Aw, Mick . . . don't be such a spoil-sport . . .
a man can dream, even if it is in a dark cloud of self-delusion . . .
That's what laying off the ale for a few days does for ya - I'm heading for Guinnesstown.
OK, done, but I'm leaving your post in as it gave me somthing to smile about as I unpacked in my hotel room overlooking a far-too-quiet river Clyde and the cold steel and glass visage of the SECC, my home for the next 6 days.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
First up, apologies for the poverty of this post; I’m knackered.
Weeks of suitcase-living have taken an inevitable toll. I’m feeling permanently jet-lagged, even older than I really am, fat, tired and fat-tire'd.
Oh well, publish and be damned.
A game of two halves today if ever there was one.
A full week of debauchery (well, late-night drinking and hearty eating at any rate) devoid of so much as a run for last orders left me wary of a long run for the second week, err . . . running. Arriving on the stroke of nine at our gathering point I was happy and amazed to see a dozen or so lycra-clad fools huddled above the wind-swept marina steps. Amongst them I spotted Rog and Cam, Chris’s sister and Paris cheerleader accompanied by Dave (who I’d not met before, and who proved to be, despite knee surgery earlier this year, most adept – and swift - over wet, muddy hilltops), Ade and a couple of seriously quick hill-runners from our marathon group, Paul and Steve. Chris emerged from his car, scanning the skies for signs of mischief.
‘Looks like we missed the worst of it.’
Rain had lashed my Lewes windows early this morning, the downs trapping the thunderheads to landward. Just now the seafront was bathed in a brighter, more optimistic light.
As soon as we set off to the east I knew I was in for a tough time. Normally I use the three mile lope to Saltdean to get things running smoothly – lungs up to capacity, legs warmed through, breathing rhythm settled and comfortable. Not today. The group seemed to hare off at full pace. I struggled woefully to keep up, my lungs wheezing in protest. Cam chatted amiably about her recent running exploits, mostly short, track-based races where she’d acquitted herself well. I was interested but must have appeared otherwise, wheezing grunts my only comment on her racing tales.
I re-set my dials at the Saltdean loo-break, vowing to run at my own pace even if that meant trailing the main group. Cam (who’d run competitively yesterday and was eager to preserve her legs) kindly remained with me.
‘You go on if you want to catch the others, Ash. I’ll be fine.’
I assured her (in between heaving gasps for breath) that this was actually me running at ‘a comfortable pace’ – chivalry was not at work here. Up Telscombe Tye and across the downland ridge we ran, keeping the main group in sight but making little or no headway during the blustery climb. Large muddy pools lined the stony path across the sheep-fields, the freshly-sheared wool-givers blinking at the bipeds splashing through their sodden pasture. Spits and spots of rain began to fall from the darkening skies; we’d not get home without a soaking.
The leaders elected to take in the steep 600 metre climb through the muddy lumps and slippery hollows of the ploughed field rather than the paved streets of Saltdean. Halfway up my lungs begged respite and I dropped a cog, assuming a steep uphill 'power-walk'. The rain picked up pace in an effort to dampen our spirits but we’re no fair-weather band, we hillside lopers; we love the wet stuff! I felt something within me stir, returning to a gentle jog, gradually lengthening my stride to reel in a small group of run-walkers ahead. Into the tree-sheltered alley at the top of Farmers’ Hill I relaxed and let my breathing settle naturally. Here, after almost six miles of pure struggle, I’d found a recognisable rhythm. My pace stepped up again as I turned left (south). The scale of the weather front revealed itself across the seaward fields. Heavy black rain clouds moved with deadly purpose, sliding smoothly across the hills towards the ocean-side villages like a monstrous stealth-bomber, doors open, payload falling with steady, unerring accuracy.
A flock of close-shorn bleaters huddled alongside the hedgerow as our tail-end group, now five-strong, splashed along the muddy track. They held their ground ‘till the last moment, shuffling away from the path and into the rain-lashed field. I’d’ve felt sorry for them but they’d be back to their wind-break in a matter of moments; we still had more miles of this nonsense to endure. The track zigzagged through a gate marked with various sized chunks of rock and flint. I felt my ankle turning the wrong way as I plunged through the gap, jumping onto the other foot in time to prevent what would have been an ugly crash. Scanning the desolate scene I confirmed this was the last place one would want to pick up a hobbling injury. Hmm. Hobbling; interesting word, that. The thought formed and left, instantly replaced by the image of James Caan, tethered, helpless, staring wild-eyed at the crazed Kathy Bates as she wielded her sledgehammer. Misery; the word hardly does it justice.
Chris had waited at the right turn ahead. In the absence of Lycra Tony or Sam, and given the rapidly deteriorating conditions, this was a wise move; best to keep everyone as close together as possible. Rog, no doubt boosted by his excellent mid-week performance, was long gone, as were Dave and the two super-hares. We re-grouped once more at the top of the drop into Rottingdean. I set off with Chris, still comfortable with the pace but aware that my companion was barely working hard; he’d be off soon enough.
Half way down the hill into the village a couple of young lads, one about ten the other a few years his junior, emerged from the woodland. The smaller chap chased his older brother, calling in vain for him to wait. I remembered being this mean to my brother Jim, grinning as I also recalled that little brothers get even eventually. We caught the smaller chap just as he abandoned another attempt to catch up.
‘You’ll be alright once you’ve grown longer legs’ I offered.
The withering look he shot back was impressive for one of such tender years. My assumed slight added fuel to his jets and he set off a-fresh, racing ahead of us. ‘Go on son, give it some!’
Next up was my beloved Windmill Hill. We’d ‘Mountain Goated’ it last Sunday, and I felt sure I could do so again now that my lungs appeared to have woken up. Sure enough I made it, trailing just behind Chris. At the top Chris took about five seconds to recover. I grasped my knees and stared at the grass, chest heaving.
‘’This’ – huueeerr – ‘weather is’ – huuueeer – ‘crap!’
‘Yep – best get this finished then!’ and he was off, bounding across the hilltop and past the pitch and putt. I followed but with no intention of catching up. My recovery times are pretty poor just now, the first real casualty of my hectic, non-running weeks in Scotland and Texas. Sometimes we just have to accept our limitations.
Plummeting down the slippery slope beside St Dunstans I was struck by the vast army of snails revelling in the wet grass. Helix aspersa of all colours writhed in ecstasy, many joined, some double-stacked in the mollusc world’s tribute to Caligula. Disgusted I ploughed through their ranks, many a slimy liaison ending abruptly under the heartless stomp of my Addidas Climacools. I’ll live with the guilt .
The final westward two mile slog across the cliff tops, assisted by a rain-filled tailwind, passed without incident. I ran comfortably, happy that I’d recovered some form but committed to some mid-week ploddery to avoid a repeat of my shaky start. The tiny image of Chris thundering into the murky distance confirmed the completion of his post-Paris recovery. He’ll murder Seaford in two weeks time.
Coffee and fruitcake restored warmth and smiles in the basement of Macs.
At times and in weather such as today’s it can be lovely simply to stop running and get in the warm.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Just me, the howling wind, lashing rain, thunderous skies, three glum dogs and a rock n roll soundtrack to break your heart.
God was there too, in the midst of the mother of all tantrums.
The celestial toddler ejected meteorological toys from His pram with great zeal and wild abandon.
I must confess I loved every muddy, stinging, battered, frozen minute.
Sometimes you have days, usually related to work, when only a hard run in the foulest conditions will do. I’ve had a couple of those back-to-back this week (it's still only Wednesday for pity's sake) and in the interests of maintaining cordial relations with the residents of Chez Sweder I had to hit the hills tonight.
Much better now, thanks.
5 miles, utter foulness
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I know what you mean Sweder, just to get through the day I have to get out for a run :-) I just hope it will stay at least dry for my lunch time run today, if only for novelty value
May . . . the farce be with you . . .
.