From our foreign correspondent
Some overseas news from Fumel AC. I'm confused about one word of the french - I did think 'assidument' meant assiduously, but that can't be right - anyone know a better translation - 'alcoholically' perhaps, 'randomly', 'laxidasically'...
L’HOMME EN FORME :
Impressionnant début de saison de Steve ,avec un podium sur un 33 Kms trail,
Il prépare assidument le marathon de Paris qui se courra en avril.
Labels: Athleticism
Mud-wrestling dykes
A little to the East of Cambridge, there exists a seven-mile-long, 20-metre high scratch across the fens called the Devil's Dyke. Made largely out of shiggy and brambles, in the summertime it is a lovely place for a stroll across Anglia with views out to the gently-curving fenland horizon as it rises to meet the blue of the sky.
In the winter, however, things are... different. The shiggy-component rises to the surface and lies in wait for passing marahashers, whispering sotto-voce to the brambles of victims to be snagged and brought down into the mud. Which is why Chris Howell (renowned for his sense of humour in this respect) decided it would make the perfect February training run. A carrot was, however, presented - in the form of lunch at the Dyke's End afterwards.
After protracted email faffage, a division of the bravest (ie stupidest) hashers met outside the pub in Reach on Sunday, at more or less completely different times based loosely around the theme of 10:15am, there to tackle the run. Approaches differed - Hannah equipped herself with lycra, gels and performance electronics, Winston with a bolshie 11-year-old on a bicycle and the fond hope of getting at least a couple of miles of running in before the cries of "I'm COLD and TIRED and BOOOOOOOORED!!!" forced him to turn back (in the event, we managed to keep Hermionie quiet until we reached the A14).
There is something particularly satisfying about starting to run towards a distant horizon through a fine mist of freezing drizzle, discovering almost immediately that the previous day's rain has turned the path to something resembling over-thickened gravy. If anyone discovers exactly what it is, I'd appreciate knowing, because within 500 yards, most of the marahash suicide squad looked like someone had fired cow-dung at their legs from a blunderbuss.
The Dyke consists of a number of uphill sections of narrow path, separated from more sections of narrow uphill path by abrupt and steep descents into deep ravines, the better to appreciate the forthcoming crawl up the muddy side of the ongoing dyke. The comedy aspects of these were only be enhanced by the need to get an 11-year-old on a bicycle down one side and up the other without using violence or a helicopter.
After the A14, the Dyke crosses Newmarket racecourse. Then again. Then again. Newmarket, in fact, appears to consist largely of racecourses connected by dykes. On the whole, this is none too surprising really. A few of the troops decided to take advantage and pretend they were horses, but abandoned the effort when they saw the odds being offered on them.
After crossing the railway line using one of Network Rail's super-safe pedestrian crossings (a small white sign by the rails saying 'err... take care now..'), the going changed from thin gravy to thick slimy axle-grease with embedded tree-roots. The terrain also decided to add 100m in height over two miles, and best of all the path proved itself to be attractively cambered in the adverse sense, providing the faster runners with the opportunity of skidding off the path into the 30-foot ravine beside it. Chris Howell forged ahead at 7m30 per mile through the tree-roots and slime, and provided the best (witnessed) comedy moment, only narrowly avoiding a spiky plunge by scrabbling in the mud like a roadrunner cartoon and JUST regaining traction in time. Nat apparently went one better on the return trip, managing a full face-plant into the shiggy, but this was only witnessed by a couple of locals that referred to her as 'the young lady'. Fortunately, we understand that her concussion isn't permanent.
At the far end, Chris and Jeremy forged ahead into Woodditton across a field of what Chris refers to as 'quality shiggy' - the kind of mud that can add a kilogram to each foot within four strides. The intended loop through a farm track was thwarted by the presence of barbed wire and CCTV, - it appeared that the locals had been warned about us in advance. The marahashers resisted the temptation to visit the Three Blackbirds for a pint, and headed back to catch the rest of the pack on the return trip. Blood was drawn by the Dyke on the return, when it lured Jeremy into a patch of brambles by sharpening a corner unexpectedly. Brambles 1, Jeremy 0.
On returning to Reach, some of the less sane members of the contingent decided to head off down the lode towards the river to 'add a couple more miles'. Chris R., Jeremy and Hannah were justly punished for this by being refused service at the Dyke's End on their return, on the basis that the pub was 'full' - a decision that probably had more to do with the fact that they were covered in shiggy and blood, smelled truly rank, and worst of all, happened to be accompanied by Chris H's wardrobe selection for the afternoon - oversized brown docs, tight lycra pants and a dodgy bomber-jacket, which made him look like an escapee from a re-run of 'The Sweeney'.
Labels: devils dyke, east anglia, hashers, idiots, mud, running, thermonuclear warfare
A modest proposal
So this morning I was getting dressed when I remembered that I had to take our PR agency out for a nice lunch (PRs, like toddlers, behave much better when well fed). The first thought that crossed my mind was: 'Oh bugger, I wanted to do those hill sprints at lunchtime.'
This is what is known in the trade as a Prioritisation Fail. Something that marahashers seem particularly prone to.
The classic example is, of course, spending sunday morning redistributing shiggy up and down the fens north of Bottisham, rather than lounging in bed with a pain au chocolat and a loved one, but I have observed many other manifestations of the phenomenon over the years - purchase of ill advised lycra over much needed sensible trousers, choice of holiday destination by availability of flat, off road routes and/or decent physiotherapists, a tolerable level of child neglect.
This year, uniquely, I am experiencing Prioritisation Fail by Proxy. The mysterious arrival of an entry for the London Marathon 5 months after the less mysterious arrival of child 3 (provisionally labelled The Dowry Problem) can only be attributed to someone waking up and genuinely thinking: 'I know what Hermione would like more than anything right now. More than, say, a week at Babington House or a free pass around Rigby & Peller's more avant guarde collection, what she
really wants an entry in the London Marathon!'
Sigh.
Still, I am not alone. I know there are a number of marahashers out there, doing the marahash thing over the next few months. Maybe it's time to pull up the chairs into a supportive online circle and start the talking cure?
