South Downs Way
It was about 6.30pm last Friday when Talking Bollocks rang.
Where are you?
Crawley. (Nice)
Are you coming home tonight?
No, I’m off to Brighton – the South Downs Way run.
Bugger thought TB, as he looked at his car at Ely station, and wondered how he was going to get into the house or lay the bash trail the following morning, when his car and office keys were safely locked away in his office in Peterborough.
Where are you?
Crawley. (Nice)
Are you coming home tonight?
No, I’m off to Brighton – the South Downs Way run.
Bugger thought TB, as he looked at his car at Ely station, and wondered how he was going to get into the house or lay the bash trail the following morning, when his car and office keys were safely locked away in his office in Peterborough.
It did not look promising, as the train journey to Brighton on the Sunday morning was accompanied by torrential rain, thunder and lightening. Undeterred, a small but perfectly formed pack of three met at Brighton Station, and set out through town, then up and up past the racecourse and onto the ridge. As we hit the South Downs way, spirits were high. There had been nothing more than a few spots of rain, and the wind and clouds were with us, giving fine views of Lewes and the sea. Bliss.
I think the first inkling that my 14 mile estimate may have been slightly out was as we approached the village of Southease (complete with ye olde church) after coming off the ridge for the first time, and the GPS was already recording well over 10 miles. I was reasonably sure this was about half way - must be some mistake. Watching Breezeblock and Whippet sprint into the distance up the 217m climb between Southease and Firle Beacon, I dropped back to a brisk walk, and was reminded of the Talking Bullocks joke.
The young bull says to the old bull, ‘lets run up that hill and screw one of those cows’.
Says the old Bull, ‘no, lets walk up and screw them all’.
Not that I fancy cows or anything. Or the sheep that were waiting at the top of the hill.
The Breezeblock strategy of keeping up with Whippet proved to be a poor one, as legs got tired along the ridge. With my parents and Mrs Whippet waiting at the pub, I had high hopes as we came down off the ridge again at Alfriston that we would be back within the revised timetable of 3 hours, after a short run along the river in the beautiful Cuckmere valley. Unfortunately, we hadn’t counted on the bastard shiggy from hell that was the levee next to the river. Think bad day at the Somme after a heavy downpour. Every step was a struggle, until finally we decided to abandon the river and head back along the road.Whippet and myself agreed the final GPS reading was 21 something. Bugger. But at least we have calibrated the Howell mile – it appears to be about 50% more than your standard British one, and the Sussex Best and Roast Beef tasted fantastic.
8.50am Tuesday morning. Legs still tired. Shouldn’t have even attempted the hash last night. Now where’s my keys.
9.00am I must have had them last night to get in from the hash.
9.05am Bored now. My keys must be here somewhere.
9.10am F*ck, F*ck, F*ck, I do not believe how inanimate objects can hide themselves whenever you are in a hurry.
9.15am Ring Talking Bollocks.
Hi Rob, how’s things going in Peterborough today?
Fine, yourself?
Fine, going really well – have you seen my keys?
What do they look like?
Front door key, bike key, locker at work with laptop inside it key, that type of thing…
Redmayne Arnold and Harris key fob?
Yes – how did you guess?
Mmm, they sound exactly like the spare set I borrowed from the agent on Saturday, currently sitting in this envelope I’m about to post back to them…
posted by Chris Howell @ 12:08 PM
2 Comments:
Think my legs have just about recovered now, unlike my shoes.
Still have no idea how you could possibly have thought that was going to be 14 miles.
The last paragraph made me laugh...
well, it all started easily enough, not too hot, a hint of rain, wind on the back, two like- minded runners to chat to, perfect.
Also happy in the knowledge that I had 0.5 Litres of water and a pocket full of gels, more than enough for 14 miles (!)
Sheila did say to me though, "why aren't you taking your off-road shoes with you?", my answer was, I don't need them, we are just running from Brighton to Seaford along the Sea front.
3+ hours later...
Chris was right about the mud-from-hell, having no real control of your feet after 18 miles of running is not a good preparation
for a 3 mile cross country route, that came straight from 'It's A Knockout', the 1970's prime time TV game. All that was missing were the inflatable costumes, donkeys, and Eddie Waring earning a few bob in the Rugby League Summer break.
Never before did I consume 2 pints of Harvey's Best with such relish as finishing this run.
Next!
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