The weather had settled down, air slightly heavy, hungover from the recent downpours.
No rain this evening, just a steady westerly breeze to cool the skin on the outward miles. The Big W shone across the valley, her lung-busting chalk pathways climbing into low, heavy cloud. I’ll have to work out a home-based route to include this brutal challenge, though I suspect it will take a few adventures with an OS map to get there.
The going got tough, the ascent of Wicker Man hill (new name for an old favourite) particularly draining. Determined not to stop I struggled on, finally cresting the ridge overlooking Blackcap. A few hundred yards on the flat and the gentle descent of the west face of WMH brought a mini-recovery. There’s a definite pattern on this run. Struggle outward for two-and-a-half miles, dark thoughts of shortening the run or having a rest scrabbling around in my head like mischievous spiders; the fly home, feet barely touching the ground, optimism rising with every step. So it was tonight, the white-walled stables a beacon of light in the gathering gloom.
The dogs had a field day. Rabbits covered the dandelion-rich meadows between the gorse bushes, watched over by a slippery fox who, so intently was he studying the menu, managed to miss us until we were almost upon him. As usual my trusty hounds chased the furry diners to all points without reward, returning to my side exhausted, tongues lolling, heads bowed, but somehow happy to have ‘taken part’.
A fifty minute journey over five hilly miles followed by a strict and brutal stretching session.
My planned social ten miler on Monday has gone the way of all flesh, work once more trampling the best laid plans. Looks like a hung-over Sunday blast to Ditchling, this before the undoubted sporting moment of my year; my Daughter has entered us (that’s her and me, folks) into her dance group fun day Parent and Child competition
I hope we’re still speaking after that.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I find insects fascinating.
One of my favourite Sci-Fi/ Horror movies is The Fly – actually I like the Vincent Price version and the Jeff Goldblum version equally but for very different reasons. I find myself falling out of love with flies in general, however, around this time of year, when so many of these allegedly harmless creatures take an active part in my running life.
I recall with a smile the cartoon image of The Happy Biker – a large, leather and cut-off denim-clad gentleman with cow-horns protruding from his coal-scuttle helmet, darkened goggles strapped to his sweaty brow and lips peeled back to reveal a fly-encrusted shit-eating grin.
I cannot share his joy.
The little bastards seem to find my most vulnerable spots with unerring accuracy – tear ducts, back of the throat, nostrils . . . all played uncomfortable host as I clomped my way towards Ditchling.
High wispy cloud stained beautiful blue skies, warmth emanating from the sun-kissed hills of East Sussex, blankets of Buttercups beaming from the luscious turf. Once more on this outward loop a steady stream of air pushed into my reddening, sticky fizzog, providing a smidgeon of aircon on a muggy morning. I’d wiped away my umpteenth miniature kamikaze when a sharp pain announced further intrusion just below my left ankle. I pulled up to investigate, much to the amusement of the hirsuit couple sprawled untidily beside the downland track, pupils dilated, passing the Dutchy and giggling uncontrollably. As I pulled the top of my trainer away from my ankle an angry, disoriented wasp emerged. He seemed to dust himself off, slightly embarrassed by this interruption to his flight across the Downs, and set off once more towards the fields of bright yellow flowers. I can’t remember the last time I was stung by a wasp (or any other critter). Had this happened before? And if not, what are the chances of anaphylactic shock? Oh well, if this was to be it what a gorgeous day (and place) to peg out.
The Downs played host to all manner of folk this morning. Cyclists battled along the flint-strewn tracks, walkers held hands and gazed across the Counties. Horse riders and the occasional plodder greeted this large sweaty man and his canine harem with good-natured gestures and the occasional ‘mornin’’. At the turn I took a moment to drink in the views. The dogs slipped under some barbed wire to take advantage of a natural dew pond, engorged with the heavy rains of recent days. Funny how nature repeatedly bites her thumb at her most destructive and incompetent tenants.
The gentle breeze assisted our homeward lope, her cooling whispers teasing my clammy carcass with offers of respite and refreshment. We met many of those we’d passed on the climb, grins of recognition exchanged. One or two adventurers had stopped to consult their OS maps. Much scratching of heads and rubbing of chins did I witness as I chugged eastward.
Atop BlackCap I stopped once more to absorb the unspoiled view. Newhaven and Seaford nestled against the ocean to the east, the Sussex plains stretched lazily across the Ouze valley, basking in the midday glow. The North Downs, looming dark on the horizon to my left, cast watchful shadows over Surrey and Kent; behind me the Brighton sea glittered and glimmered as on the hottest summers' day.
In the last couple of miles I realised that Tess, the infamous and fearless whippet, was struggling. This was no recent injury, nor even the effects of her recent surgery. The old girl is getting . . . well, old, really. 10 hilly miles appears to be slightly too far for her battle-weary bones. By the time I’d turned the last corner into my road Gypsy and Willow were in close pursuit but the plucky Tess trotted in some half a minute later.
10 miles (or there abouts) with lots of lovely attritional climbs.
As for my running, a bit of a Curate’s Egg I’m afraid. I encountered some trouble in the control room today. My legs were whining when my breathing settled, yet I struggled for breath just as my feet started to fly. In the rare moments that limb joined lung in perfect harmony I ran easily, feeling strong, capable of great things. For the majority of my hour and forty minutes though it was very much hard work.
‘Hard work’ is of course a relative term.
My morning slog was candy-from-a-baby stuff compared to this afternoon’s dreaded Dance Comp. Having committed to joining my fabulously gifted Daughter for ‘Parent and Child Freestyle’ I had spent most of Saturday sweating profusely over our incredibly simple yet for me almost impossible to memorise routine.
It went something like this: (Count in: 1, 2, 3, 4 . . .)
Right Left Right Left
Step Point (left)
Step Kick (right)
Phoebe Spins Ash lifts
Right Left Right Left
Hop, Step (right)
Hop Step (left)
Switch Turn
Switch Turn
Cross Hands
Kick Right
Phoebe Spins
Head - hold Right (2-count)
Repeat . . .
Frankly I’d rather run a marathon. Marathons go rather like this:
Start Plodding
Take Occasional Refreshment
Continue Plodding
Ignore Pain and Desire to Quit
Finish
Celebrate
Take a few weeks off . . .
My biggest beef with the dancing thing was not the fact that I had to dress like a loser from Strictly Come Nonsing Around In Front Of Graham Norton, nor the fact that I’d be performing in front of a lot of people that fall into that social category of ‘people I sort of know quite well but have never got really drunk with’. No, it was the fact that we performed this routine not once (first round) or twice (semi-final) but (and this was the kicker) a third time on our own in the final. I was too worried about cocking things up for Phoebe to be embarrassed. The din was deafening as we cavorted across the dance floor; clapping, cheering, names (mostly pleasant) bellowed from the partisan crowd.
It was all worth it though.
Thanks to Phoebe’s carefully planned choreography and my ability to complete the routine without falling flat on my arse, we managed to dupe the judges into awarding us first place. I confess to being immensely proud, yet equally determined never to repeat the exercise.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yes it's hard to see how I can top this, unless of course I get a recall to the Sussex Strollers first eleven and finally lay the ghost of my negative goal-scoring record (minus one in all competitive matches spanning 20 years).
Hamburg is a pleasant surprise to me.
I'm impressed with the look and feel of the place - a large amount of greenery, striking architecture, friendly people, excellent beer. I'm housed in the NH alongside the lake you mentioned, Andy. It's an early start this morning but a sedate plod around the shore beckons this evening or possibly tomorrow morning. I'll pass on your fond regards
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:However, some stills survived
It's take a whole shipload of Swederbrew to get those published . . .
I have it. Of course.
Publish the first photo and the ship sails. But it'd better be good. It takes a lot of palm grease to get an entire shipload of beer through customs you know.
The words ‘never’ and ‘again’ should, for the record, be joined by the words ‘Guinness’, ‘Irish Pub’, ‘Hamburg’, ‘England match’ and ‘exhibition folk’. But above all, rising pheonix-like from the wreckage of last night, a single word transcends this list of prohibition:
Jägermeister.
I recall (clearly – how ironic is that?) SP taking up a tumbler of the nefarious cough mixture and downing incomprehensible measures of it during our post-run celebrations in Almeria. I had no inkling of the damage this foul concoction (described in some circles as an ‘herbal liqueur’ can achieve until I tried to open my eyes this morning. One of the early Motorhead ditties, (I won’t pay your) Price, opens with one of those Beattle-esque, apparently candid off-mic moments. Contrived or not it fits beautifully with my condition this morning. Lemmy, that silk-toned crooner of legend, is picked up on the mic an instant before the brain-mashing intro:
‘I’m so drunk.’
Indeed.
I remember very little of last night’s match, other than John Motson competing with (and yielding to) traditional Irish folk music (apparently they like their Jiggy With It in Hamburg) and a full-blown Pub Quiz. The Man-Child Walcott made a belated appearance but it all got a bit blurry after that. Our hastily cobbled together team of ne’er-do-wells managed to complete the quiz, scoring just enough points to win a small consolation prize.
A round of Jägermeister.
And the tenuous link to running is?
I’d scheduled an easy lope around the lake this morning.
Stuff that for a game of soldiers. It’s all I can do to drag my wasted carcass along to the show.
Have a nice day.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Nothing like an evening of carnage to put things back into perspective...
For my part, I popped down to The Valley yesterday, to cover the Iain Dowie unveiling, and found myself at the centre of Simon Jordan's circus act. My contribution to the world of war reporting appears in picture form in this morning's Daily Mail and also the Sun, as I try and sneak back inside my black mac, while a steward wrestles with a man with a writ. At least it looks as if I was trying to write something down at the time...
I'm trying to convince people that the expression on my face is one of calm and composure, but there seem to be a number of early votes being cast in favour of both boredom and a light sleep, suddenly disturbed...
Thanks for not running Sweder. It makes me feel marginally better about my own enforced inertia. Am definitely on the mend but I think it will be the weekend at the earliest before I can get out there.
Yes, Jagermeister rings a distant Almerian bell. Was that the stuff that SP was absorbing in that bar-with-no-beer with the Gilbert and George-lookalike gay guys canoodling to Abba in the corner? It certainly did induce some odd behaviour in SP but I'll spare his blushes by saying no more.
Mick - excellent, I'll try to check out the papers later. The newsagent will hate me leafing through them without buying. I heard the press conference on 5 Live and it did sound a bit chaotic.
I'm big fan of Dowie. I met him and chatted a couple of times when he was No 2 to Gerry Francis at QPR. Very articulate, driven guy in football terms. Will be interesting to see what he can do on a bigger stage with some money to spend.
Are you a Charlton fan btw?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I am, for my sins, a born and bred Charlton fan, having toddled into the world about half a mile from the ground, and worked for them in their press office for a few years, up until about four years ago. I wrote a book about them too, also for my (evidently bigger) sins. I'm not sure JK Rowling is all that troubled though...
Andy, yes, that was the bar. I can remember snippets of conversation from that dark and stormy night. As you say, best left well alone.
Mick, I saw the shots in the Mail - it looked like quite a party.
Nice to see a bailiff getting slung out for a change
Ever noticed Dowie's striking resemblance to Mr Incredible?
SP, what's happening? Are you running again?
Have you recovered after Portugal?
Are you still the size of a house?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Absolutement on the 16th, both for the day and the evening.
What's the 'recovery' venue; Lewes or Seaford? I may be able to lay on accommodation with full breakkie to follow
Insurance Co won't pay out on the GPS (or the other accessories I had in the laptop bag) - that's some industry you're involved with :mad: I guess what with my golf clubs getting filched from your car that makes us about even You might want to try your HH insurance though . . . I can provide a copy of the Police report. It's very detailed . . . and all in Dutch. Very sheckshie, yesh . . .
At least I got a replacement laptop (the machine was listed on our company assets and therefore covered), although once again the insurance co.'s procurement people were so slow we went out and purchased one ourselves and sent them the bill. For the record it's Cornhill - or should that be Cornhole?
Anyway, enough of this whining - I have a very painful five miler scheduled for this lunchtime. As its now already 13:40 I'd best get out there . . . :o
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
May . . . the farce be with you . . .
Perhaps those dancing feet could be put to good use on some of those fell runner's descents....
can achieve until I tried to open my eyes this morning. One of the early Motorhead ditties, (I won’t pay your) Price, opens with one of those Beattle-esque, apparently candid off-mic moments. Contrived or not it fits beautifully with my condition this morning. Lemmy, that silk-toned crooner of legend, is picked up on the mic an instant before the brain-mashing intro: