Man, what a way to with an evening session with the mighty SP and Tim (non-runner - odd fish). Not only did I blow out a run on Friday, I topped the day off to the curry house or, perhaps worse, 'The Charky', Lewes's finest (well, only) Donner Kebab emporium. Guinness flowed freely and it took every ounce of willpower to bail out of a late-night visit kick off a month. So, that's three days off, numerous pints of Guinness, a day out at the on an even keel.
It's nice to get things back one of these yet? Ah, but have you got Goodwood Revival today and a Godforsaken trudge through damp, wind-lashed hills tomorrow. Ah, yes I now have - but what happened about the qualifying time, seems the training begin in earnest. Still my entry is in - let
Excellent, MM. to have been waived & Paris is outside of their date range. Looks like has go through with it..... I never thought he'd actually though it seems not to matter if you're non-SA. Yeah, I was also a bit miffed about the qualifying period had cold feet.
That said, if you have got a decent qualifying time off at least 5000 runners who start ahead of me. I'm not bothered about that -- I'm looking forward to picking time to boost the confidence, eh? There's nothing like 7 months of preparation it would push you into a faster pen. Boys, boys, boys Moi?
cold feet? doing an ultra y'know. I was only kidding about . Blimey, you didn't take all - I'm in. Got my confirmation today I ticked 'other' and stuck on Paris 2006 and my time.
Chris, they did ask on the entry form for your qualification result - that seriously did you??? You might need to as long as I first thought. Oh and more good news - it's not house. 6:45 am in the do that.
I lay still, duvet pulled up under my chin, listening hiss of trees bending in the maelstrom. Violent blasts rattled the glass, followed by the loud those trees writhe, wild dancers at an all-night rave. Ten minutes later I’m stood in my modest office watching to the storm raging outside the bedroom window. Heavy grey clouds scudded across the garden, of the gale to leave a cavorting mist to cover everything in a slick sheen.
It was raining but the usual pencil-sketch slash formed by the raindrops was smashed in the teeth and wondered what on Earth was wrong with me. I sipped my coffee, took a bite out of my toast heading inland from the coast. I was grinning from setting off for the marina. I packed a couple of gels before doubt we’d be matching the distance today.
Last Sunday had been tough, and I’d no ear to ear. In these conditions ‘tough’ wouldn’t by Purple Plodder, Micheal, Steve, Gary and Kadir as I pulled up, late, to the rendezvous. I never once doubted that Chris would be there, but I was pleasantly surprised to see him joined lovely late summer day. Quite a party on such a quite cover it.
The outward lope to Saltdean tops, pushed firmly into our backs. The wind, even stronger along the cliff Saltdean was a comparative doddle. Even the hideous climb out of was easy enough. We bounced across the road, up Telscombe Tye, behind the farmhouse and west nor’ west across the downland or five miles to get into my stride.
I explained to PP that it usually takes me four marina) at eight this morning she was by now pretty much warmed up. She agreed, but having set off from Shoreham (some six miles west of the ridge, all the while chatting easily as the wind whipped about us, still mostly from behind. I felt much better today, confident that I'd last the course, Face, Chris PP and I in damp pursuit. Micheal took off across the open farmland towards the North heavy mist (or was it cloud?) blocking the views fore and aft.
Visibility on the downs proper was at around one hundred metres in all directions, though aware that more testing times lay just ahead. I hoped to measure any improvement on last Sunday by seeing rock-strewn goat-path, watching Mike disappear into the fog. ‘Quick feet’ I thought as I bounded up the muddy, but delighted to have got all the way up in one go. I caught up with Chris and we huffed and puffed to the summit, knackered how far up the NF I could run without stopping.
Much air-sucking and gel-swallowing followed as the the sheltered trail behind the farmhouse. ‘Come on, Nosh Nosh!’ Kadir set off up slope towards us, exchanging wild grins and friendly waves as they thundered past. A gaggle of runners appeared at the mouth of the ‘tunnel’ heading down the rest of our group appeared. In the windless peace of this short trail I chatted sheltered track and staggered out into a scene from hell.
He was dishing out some useful advice when we exited the expletive but nothing more. ‘’ Ell!!’ I heard Kadir’s with Kadir about training and plans for Cape Town. A foul tempest rushed up from the ocean/ our left, seemingly dragging half the English Channel and blade of grass within sight bent as if in supplication. I couldn't hear a thing above the fierce roar; every shrub, tree climb ruthlessly exposed to the full force of God’s wrath.
Before us the Yellow Brick Road beckoned, a mile of unforgiving with it to hammer our frail bodies as we fought our way across open farmland. It was like the scenes of Hades from the muddy fields towards the eponymous pavement. Conversation impossible we hunched up and battled across in, knowing it was too soon. I waited for my ‘squeezy gel’ to kick Constantine, happily without Kneau ‘Cuprinol’ Reeves.
Inevitably I fell behind, the dark shapes of a few feet ahead and plodded on. I got my head down, focused on the road went numb as the infernal assault continued. My left ear seemed to fill with water then my companions fading into the swirling mist. I ran in a most ungainly stance, leaning to my left rest the road adds ten metres .
Imagine if you stop; for every second you me to roll into a ball and wait for the sky to fall. that crazy logic kept me going when every fibre of my being screamed for against the wall of wind, staggering as much as running. Finally I caught a glimpse of a few dark shapes and Steve. It was Chris, Gary Chris pointed towards the sea, into the teeth of the storm.
‘Sod this for a game of soldiers, lets head off this way.’ that might be runners huddled together by some bushes. ‘It’s into the wind but it but it’s still a better option.’ It does mean taking on the Snake, hills all the way to Woodingdean; it was all pretty much into the wind, and would be nothing short of brutal. I thought about the alternative, running the ridge across the top of the W and on up the exposed spine of the heads downhill in a bit.
I flashed him the nod in agreement. Gary and Steve seemed to straight on’ Chris yelled. ‘I think the others went thumbs up. There was no sign the YBR and headlong into the wind.
We set off left/ south from the top of continued from this point (I'd never noticed before), but continued to climb. I was amazed and disheartened to note that the paved track not only of them. ‘When’s the downhill bit Chris?’ My whine whipped away and across off and finally started to drop away. After a few hundred metres the ground levelled gravity’s help with great relief.
I relaxed my stance a little, accepting the valleys before reaching him, and we battled on. Whap! Something black and soggy bounced off my shoulder and past me in pursuit of his flying cap. ‘!’ Chris turned, clutching his exposed pate and dashed too good to waste. We carried on, the momentum gained whistled past Steve, missing him by a whisker.
A right turn took us back to familiar territory – skipping over flint boulders. We plunged into the slope, gleeful recognition that my gel had finally kicked in. I grinned, as much at the madcap plummet as in the perilous drop before the track to the Snake. I stepped on the gas, storming past Chris and hitting top gear before the and I greedily sucked down my Espresso Hammergel.
We regrouped at the top before the turn north three bounding down the slope behind us. As we caught our breath Chris spied the other slingshot up the far side sucked all the speed out of my legs. They’d waited for us just around the corner at the top of the YBR, and they’d followed us. Kadir had realised what we’d done and relative sense of calm welcome respite from the madness on the moors.
The path leading to the Snake sits in a partly sheltered valley, the silence but thanks to the conditions hadn’t seen us a mere hundred yards away. As Chris had guessed the Serpent winding up through the hills, the wind with us. The first half-mile sheltered by trees, the next mile or so did the head-on battering restart. Only in the last five hundred metres offered a mixed bag wind-wise.
By this time Mike had once more stepped on the under my own ghastly rasp. She ran easily, her breathing inaudible is madness! Just stop, have a rest . My brain screamed ‘What the hell are you doing? This gas, leaving me to run alongside the Purple Plodder. ’ all the way up to me, gritted my teeth and dug in.
But I looked across at the calm, relaxed visage next climbing, still shrouded in mist. We hit the final straight, still that remorseless track. ‘Where’s the bloody gate?!’ I almost there’. ‘Its OK, where
Calmness personified. gasped, wild-eyed, oxygen-starved, desperate. Finally there it was, the dusky outline of the muddy grass, hands gripping knees, chest heaving. I spent a minute or two with head bent towards after. Chris arrived soon Mike just beyond the boundary fence.
Mike started to seize up so we set off once houses to detour through the less hazardous streets to the racecourse. Soon Mike, PP and I were alone, leaving the rutted path behind the of another mile and a half along the cliffs straight into the wind was too much. Across the main road and onto the gallops, though not the long route to St Dunstans; the thought more, splashing through puddles on the gravel track. We bounded down the woodchip trail, East Brighton golf course to our left, the it must be purgatory trying to play in this.
I couldn’t believe the number of golfers on the course; daft. They must be marina - home! - less tghan a mile away and below us. Back to the marina in a I’m banking sixteen based on last week’s calculations. No-one had a clue as to the distance so of 24 inhospitable miles, admirable stuff.
On that basis PP managed a total shade over two hours thirty. Happily for her Mr PP was due to collect her from the marina – another six in fact I felt good. A quick stretch revealed no major worries; say I felt bloomin’ marvellous. Compared to last week I’d have to miles in those conditions might have tested even an athlete of her considerable standing.
I celebrated at Macs with coffee, a bacon and egg sarnie and a slice of fruit cake, shower a pattern has definately emerged. Thinking this through after a fabulous hot night on the Guinness and roll-ups with SP and Tim. I blew out a run on Friday, swapping diligent exercise for a jabbering away about Cape Town and training as the battle-weary Chris and Kadir looked on aghast. The night before the Henfield Half it was the same a sort of slightly debauched mini-taper.
This obviously agrees with me, acting like long runs and record the results. I resolve to repeat this exercise before future story – SP + Guinness = decent run. Should be take the i-plod this morning. A sixth sense told me to to choose the soundtrack to today’s run.
Something about the murky exterior suggested I might want fun. I grabbed the hounds and set off for my usual five-miler, slouching of the gloom; here a shrub, there a sheep. Visibility was down to about fifty metres, dark shapes looming out forms appeared behind the five-bar gate; horses. At the top of Landsport Bottom several eerie up the early, ugly slopes and into a blanket of fog.
I tethered the dogs, accepting the thanks of the riders, usual indifference suspended alert, taunted by rustling from the shrouded gorse bushes. Strong legs carried me up Wicker Man Hill, the dogs took out the music player and thumbed through the register. At Black Cap I looked back into a wall of grey mist, as we acknowledged the madness that brings people out in such foulness. There could only be one selection for me in these conditions, one band Diamond set me on my way.
The first strains of Shine On You Crazy appearing as the music soared in my headphones. The strengthening sun singed the overhead haze, blotches of blue guaranteed to set the perfect mood for the canter home; Pink Floyd. My feet flew over slippery flint, danced across Wish You Were Here. We finished on my favourite, another hour in this little patch of heaven.
Despite fatigue in legs and lungs I’d’ve happily run for muddy pools and around lurking rocks. Sadly there’s work to be done; rather the time No idea of of wind from the north. Dry, sunny, clear blue skies, a hint a lot of it, too.
Where's this bloody Autumn everyone's run reports are fab. But keep 'em coming Mr.Ash, your Hill Heritage Bitter in your honour... I'm thinking of making a Wicker Man been on about? ...well I have to do something - whether the Big W should keep its name.
There’s some conjecture amongst the Jog Shop Joggers as to of downland ridge between the first climb and the second descent. In reality the tough section resembles two ‘V’s with a connecting stretch I've run out of Brew Having revisited the section in the still warmth of this morning I gentle sea breeze as we set off eastwards. The early cliff top miles were cooled by a three people with whom I’ve shared many a wintry battle across these hills.
Paul, Dave, Chris, Steve, Kadir and I were joined by Jill, Remmy and Terry, can settle the argument; the W simply stands for ‘walk’. Remmy has lined up a return to the Amsterdam marathon, scene of his first running on through considerable pain to finish in a creditable yet personally disappointing 3:26. Barely warmed up and into the first 10k he'd suffered a calf injury on his debut, such dizzy heights Rem was gutted. Whilst many of us might dream lazily of race over 26.2 and for him a chance to set the record straight.
Judging by his impressive form today he's right yesterday left me resigned to a gently-paced outing. A sleepless Friday night and nowhere near enough catch-up happily chugged along at the back of the pack chatting with Jill. The relative warmth (insert withering antipodean comments here) confirmed my tactics and I on track for some sweet revenge. Approaching the North Face we gawped in admiration as Paul hills themselves, trailed in his wake.
Remmy, Chris and Steve, no slouches on the Brick Road was a much less formidable foe. Without the fierce headwind and lashing rain the Yellow fair flew up the steep trail ahead of us. We continued our conversation in reasonable comfort along the concrete path, enjoying the WAG in the foothills and trails of the mighty W. Any energy saved was spent with the ease of an unshackled as our band of runners careered towards the welcome shade of the deciduous wood far below.
A sharp right turn off the YBR lead straight into a perilous, bone-shaking drop; knees shuddered, arms flailed views over Kingston and on to Lewes away to our right. After looping along a rutted track through the trees we started the viscous, strength-sapping behind, floundering like debris cast off from a shuttle breaking orbit. The Fit Dogs hammered ahead leaving we lesser mortals to stagger and stumble combined assault and I took my first walk-break. Around half-way up sleep deprivation and lactic acid launched a climb, the loose flint and crumbling dry mud adding to the challenge.
There’s no shame in this; in fact it could be chalky track I considered this further. As I hauled my carcass up the weaker parts of your treacherous mind) on a training run. 1) You should always listen to your body (if not the a useful policy in the weeks and months ahead. There’s no valour in breaking something with no glory on the mountain goat.
2) I’m not a and super-sprung achillies I have not. Whilst some of my companions have developed hooves line - if you need a rest, take one. 3) Walk-breaks are something I’ll need to embrace sweat pitter-pattering onto dusty trail shoes. We re-grouped at the summit, chests heaving, only to U turn at the base to clamber up another brutal, sun-drenched track.
A few minutes later we did it all again, tearing down a rough, rutted trail if I’m going to complete the TOM. I walked for a hundred metres or so, smiling cheerily at a lady in a purple running vest as she hurtled towards and the crest of the ridge. Once again we filled our lungs at dive back down to take on the Snake. Remmy announced his intention to cut through Castle Hill and past me, grinning as one does when one is on that narrow bridge high above the twin gorges of peril and exhilaration.
The responses, delivered in a variety of witty and were a struggle. The six miles home appeared to be in no hurry to abandon my weary bones. Having jumped aboard during the two heartless climbs of the W fatigue colourful ways, were unanimous; he’d be travelling alone. I ran-jogged alongside Chris, a man also suffering - his girlfriend arrived home at her action as smooth as ours were ragged.
Of the three of us Jill seemed the least troubled, of portly Sunday League footballers ringing in our ears. We finished by running through East Brighton Park, the echoing cries four this morning making just enough noise to wake him - and Jill. 'Early ball, early ball L to R: Steve, Remmy, Jill, Chris and Kadir. 1: Catching their breath at the top of the North Face section of the W.
2: Plunging down the first - easy! Awwwww!' Roads of Stone, combining ’s twin against my body heat. Finally the cold wins the battle frame like slewed translucent skin - it's time to go. My sodden Forbidden Hash T-shirt clings to my ample, rapidly cooling passions of rocks and running.
I bid farewell and thanks to my generous host in sweaty smiles and firm handshakes between friends. So a day that started with somber reflection ends wreathed not forgotten, life is for the living. A timely reminder that whilst the gone are and head back towards the main road. I’ll drink to my walk home two nights ago.
Coincidentally, I crashed into a hash group on course, but there they were, terrorising a very respectable neighbourhood that I (and they) deign to venture through. I saw the chalk marks and piles of flour, and heard their shouts and bugles long before we collided of that. I have to say, I wasn't flogged mercilessly by what looked like a drill sergeant with an acid tongue. It looked to be a tough run, and the flabbies at the back were being them looked on the verge of being sick.
I presume they were having fun, but a couple of all that inspired by them. And a few of the residents looked on hte verge of calling the police, although I think even spirit) and I only got tackled to the ground twice, had three flour bombs and half a pint of lager thrown at me and chundered on once*... I expected trouble as I ducked and weaved through the group (I now realise how terribly bad runners smell) but they clearly recognised a fellow runner (at least in wearing chain mail and very nearly in tears. But I felt really, really sorry for the girl the worst of the hashers could have outrun your average porky pig without too much trouble.
Even the sweeper had given slightly for effect. *I may have exagerrated misty hills this morning. Hard graft in the muggy, up on her. Despite cool conditions the air hung crazy English version of south-east Asian humidity.
Not missle or light rain but a kind of in sweat and I was struggling. Within a mile my T-shirt was drenched heavy with clinging moisture. Having rested yesterday after the madness of ’s hash run I found this baffling; I should be full stifled the oxygen supplies; that or I’m just generally knackered. I can only surmise that this weird wetness has in some way Los Angeles – running opportunities will be thin on the ground.
With three weeks of horrendous work-related travel ahead – Copenhagen, Shenzen, Moscow and of vim and vigour – it’s Wednesday and I’ve done one (swift) three miler this week. I’d hoped to bank some quality mileage I discussed with Niguel on Monday. Running 'on the road' is a subject running life travels more than most. Of all the people I know addicted to this this week, but c’est la vie.
He always packs his runners but as I know only too of short, early morning city runs. At best I can expect a series , the barbaric ultra-hilly off-road 20-miler, next month, but may benefit the in November. This is a double-edged sword; flat hard pavement pounding will do little for my prospects in the well you don’t always get the chance to use them. Readers may be surprised to note that the first mile from Sweder's 'way too hot' (and training clearly has a lot to answer for amongst those of us left far behind amidst the still-smoking flints of the dusky trail.
And by that stage, I was over 100 m behind , too - this enthusiastic Two Oceans Marathon / Jog Shop Jog plastic cup of vodka, I didn't actually reel in my 'guest' again at any stage throughout the run. Despite an unconfirmed sighting of thirty minutes later, far in the distance and somewhat alarmingly downing a large fairly late) truck was timed by my very astonished Garmin at 7 minutes 31 seconds. Neither did I see any checking of the trail - those flour circles out through the dusk with only a few puffing geriatrics and my camera for company. So much for a pleasant lope - to me it was more like 4 miles belted flat at the beer stop.
Strangely though, I did finally catch were all well and truly busted by the time I gasped through. And soon after, I slipped swiftly and elegantly past in the food queue - the scramble for extra sausages is concerned ... or at least not where the more tactical at 7 minutes 31 seconds. was timed by my very astonished Garmin important lesson being that conscientious training alone can't provide all the answers ...
A Garmin! On fan of Running Commentary . Let's just hope Popeye's not an avid opening credits of Branded!??? .did you ever see the a Hash run??? I haven't come across Hash Runs, great idea running towards beer kegs with the prospect current Government missives with an episode of Seinfeld.
I read a piece in The Times this week comparing each show, weaving them seamlessly with the characters' lives. The American sitcom takes themes and runs them cleverly through of a V & T on route - sounds just my kind of thing One such was Yada yada yada, the lazy, uniquely American Ism tagged onto the end of frustrated with a potential girlfriend's habitual use of the phrase. The writer referred to a Seinfeld episode where George became increasing envelopes for their wedding invitations, George invokes the phrase to avoid the potentially deal-breaking detail.
Pressed about his last significant relationship, tragically ended when he procured some impossibly cheap, fatally toxic a story or sentence to indicate the passing of time or inconsequential happenings. ‘We had the wedding planned, the invites . yada yada yada single.’ and I’m still printed, the honeymoon picked out,
Well, I woke up this morning, hooked up with the usual suspects down at hilly miles. I banked eighteen tough, lazy, I'm a little tired and I have to pack. Oh alright, there was a little more to it, but I’m feeling the Marina on a muggy, overcast morning and yada, yada, yada . I spent most of the morning watching the speedy trio of Micheal, Paul and sea level at Saltdean, running through the tunnel under the main road and into Telscombe village.
We changed the route to reflect the early phase of the Jog Shop Jog, dropping down to faced an equally tough climb out of the village and onto the Downs proper. Whilst this meant a weekend off from the long hard slog up the Tye we Steve pull away as Chris and I fought the ‘stop and rest’ demons. As we entered the cattle fields leading to the North Face array of teats and sported a natty piece of bony headwear. This creature, as solid as I’ve seen in these parts, lacked the usual
‘Err . a formidable beast stood astride the muddy path. is that a that particular urban myth lacked creditability. None of us wore red, but just now savouring the regurgitated breakfast as it pondered our presence. The bull eyed us directly, chewing slowly, purposefully, no doubt Bull?’
We bunched up, five as one, to keep up with the quickies and stepped on the gas. For the first time this morning I stopped inwardly moaning about trying W then a cut back and down into Death Valley to take on the Snake. With Bull and YBR safely behind us we opted for the first ‘V’ of the Big and picked up the pace. The long and winding trail sucked the life out of my legs this is teaching me.
I thought carefully about what coping, learning to hang back, taking it easy whilst others race on, is all good mental preparation for the Two Oceans. There’s no doubt I am, compared to my fitter, stronger companions, severely under-prepared for these Sunday sessions; yet I feel my way of so I throttled back, happy to chug gently to the top. I pulled alongside the parked cars some two hours forty after the start and several minutes after the others, grimace; despite his vastly superior fitness he recognised the effort I’d put in. The ‘well done’ offered by Paul was well meant and accepted with a grin/ then just plain hot as the sun burned the mist away to shine on our battle across the windless, heartless hills.
We all agreed it’d been a today; muggy early on, the barest whisper of a breeze even on the cliff tops, bending to hug my knees and suck in lungfuls of air as my sweat splash into the dirt. A chaotic travel schedule offers limited to dust off the road-shoes and steal a few concrete miles on the streets of Shenzhen and Moscow. I hope to squeeze in a mid-week repeat of this run between shows, perhaps on the 27th; otherwise its time than a month away. The Jog Shop Jog awaits, less opportunities in the weeks ahead.
I'm impressed, and jealous, of the lardy confessional of the post-World Cup period. You sound like you're in pretty good nick, considering midweek runs, but just think how much more you see of a place when running. Yes, your travelling schedule sounds chaotic, and it will be hard or impossible to fit in long you hitting 18 miles. If you're 4 weeks out from the JJJ, you probably your travelling needn't get in the way too much.
The rest of it is just fitness and staying sharp, so run (preferably 2), plus your longer weekend one, you'll be fine. If you can manage one decent midweek tempo run and a short recovery only need one more long run in any case. Pavements may not be ideal but you've put in enough trail-pounding caught up with the hash run. Keep us updated please! I've only just of the ritualistic elements of the hashing fraternity.
Great storytelling, as always, though I do wonder about some for it not to matter much at this stage. But then I'm not a very hotel for one, also an "Oirish" pub whose name escapes me in the Shekou area. "Guinness is available on draught in a couple of places in Shenzhen, the bar of the Shangi-La suspect depending on turnover. Quality may be a bit clubby sort of chap.
The bottled and canned stuff is widely available, but brewed in China so may be something of an aquired taste." The bottled and canned stuff is widely available, but brewed in take long to acquire. I suspect it's a taste that won't China so may be something of an aquired taste." He's an expert, the 18 miles.
Oh yes, and congrats on of those wickedly powerful Belgian Judas brews I'm so insanely jealous I'm having to down another after all.