Tom Roper's Running Training

Brighton Half Marathon

On Sunday, the day I turned 67, I ran the Brighton Half Marathon, my seventh time at this event, and my thirtieth half-marathon overall. My lack of training told, I’m sorry to say, and I finished in 3:05:11. My fastest time here, and my second fastest half, was in 2005 in 1:43:14. 

The splits tell the story. I started off well in spring sunshine, though my legs complained even in the early stages. It took nigh on twenty minutes after Dame Kelly Holmes had fired the starting gun before my group crossed the start line. As the route unfolded, with its curious diversions (the race has been bedevilled by failures to measure exactly 13.1 miles over the years) things didn’t get any easier. I was passed by the 2.30 pacing group, but they were too fast for me. In the second half I settled into a painful plod, but still kept the belief alive that I could finish in under three hours. When I reached the turn at the west end of Hove lagoon, and three miles back into a fierce head wind, I started to run-walk. The finish seemed so far from the pier, but I managed a final burst to cross the line in better style. I will not be buying any of the race photographs; they do not show me to advantage.

Other lessons learnt:

• Don’t take the park and ride bus (The smell! And the people!)
• I’m going to stop wearing the ankle support I’ve worn for two years now and see what happens

More positively, forty of my fellow Seaford Striders took part, with Ollie Sprague first home in 51st position, in 1:18:08; Emily Danvers was first Striders woman in 1:42:09. 

My thoughts now turn to the rest of the year. I think 10k is perhaps a better distance and I shall eschew any further half marathons this year. I have entered the Lewes 10k which takes place on Easter Monday over an agreeably agricultural course, and there are more 10ks I could enter, both as part of the Sussex Grand Prix and the Seaford Striders Club Grand Prix. 

Eridge Park 10 Trail Challenge

A week ago I ran, with three of Lewes’s redoubtable Twitten runners, Duncan Rawson, Rob Read, David Stacey, the Eridge Park 10 Trial Challenge. The mud in the shower has gone, my toes are more or less dirt-free and I can knock the dried filth off my trail shoes, so it may be time to record the race. 

Eridge Park is a couple of miles south of Tunbridge Wells, and owned by the Marquess of Abergavenny. You may wonder why a Welsh peer should have his residence in Sussex, but that’s feudalism for you, and explains the Abergavenny name on Sussex pubs, and the frequent use of the family name, Nevill, in local toponyms. This was the nineteenth renewal of the race, though I am ashamed to say I had never heard of it before, and only discovered it through a leaflet left on my car windscreen at another event. The leaflet promised views, hills and mud. What could be more agreeable?

The morning of the race was cool, though bright. We assembled in parkland. Numbers were issued in order of surname, which meant that Rawson, Read, Roper and Stacey were all close together. Some of us went for warm-up runs. I abstained; I knew the race would be hard enough without adding extra distance.

We were sent on our way with an unorthodox start, a banner unfurled from the starting rostrum bearing the word bang. And we were off, a good wide start line, and a gentle descent. The organisers have gone to some trouble to name give parts of the course whimsical names, such as the Tomb of the Unknown Harrier and  the Leap of Death. It was near the entrance to the Lost Wood, I believe, a little over four miles in, that I lost my battle with the mud and fell face first into the swamp. My shoes stayed on, though, thanks to the looped lacing I use, and it was a soft landing. I rose and carried on. In a curious way, it was a liberating experience; I now knew that the mud had done its worst. I had to put up with jocular remarks from marshals, such as one who accused me of stealing his Lordship’s mud, and, my hands being coated, the jelly babies I ate at the next water stop had a crunchy garnish. On I went. The highest point of the course dubbed Saxonbury 659, had a folly, a tower straight out of a fairy tale. In total I climbed 1,362ft.  

I knew I was slow, and the last few miles were hard; they included a ridiculously steep ascent, lots more mud, and a sudden heavy downpour of rain, though I was in the woods for this and protected from the worst. The last few hundred yards twisted and turned, until the cricket ground came in sight, where a game was in progress. I had very little left, but managed to hold off two ladies close behind and finished in 2:37:04. My fellow Seaford Strider Natasha Swan finished in 1:47:18. As for my fellow Twitten runners, Rob finished in 1:39:18, David in 1:45:20 and Duncan in 1:49:43. At the finish there was beer, pints of Larkins Traditional, and cake. 

With thanks to Rob, the master of post-run group selfies, here are some photographs. 

The race was splendidly organised by Tunbridge Wells Harriers, and well and enthusiastically marshalled. Duncan, who takes over the reins as Race Director of the Moyleman marathon for the 2018 race, was muttering about coloured tape as we left. 

The Horsham 10k: running to the sound of peacocks

The Horsham 10k is, with the Barns Green half, of the two races in the Sussex Grand Prix that I have never run, so I took myself to Horsham Rugby Club on a fine, not too hot, Sunday morning. Lining up for the start, I saw that there were pacers for 50 and 55 minutes, each holding a silver helium balloon with the time written on it. A nice and unusual touch for a 10k. I thought I might try to stay with the 55 minute pacer, but it was not to be. I kept up for the first 3k, but began to lose her on the hills. 

The race starts with a circuit of the rugby field, and then heads out on the road, then along a bridleway and a country lane, before a tour of the suburbs of Horsham, and then round again for a second lap. On the second lap, its harder, and the hills which seemed easy enough on the first lap, become more difficult. More and more runners passed me, though I kept my pace steady. Towards the end, as I slogged uphill towards the rugby club, I heard the cries of peacocks from behind a wall, like the screams of the damned in the lowest circle of hell. 

Then into the rugby club for the finish. My fellow Striders did well. I haven’t seen full results yet, but I understand Josh Rudd came sixth overall. 

Running the Bewl 15 with the Seaford Sliders

Any run that ends with cake, a brass band, and beer, has to be worth entering. As I limped back up the lane, in the company of another runner who revealed herself to be the Assistant Race Director, I remarked on this. 

In retrospect, the difficulties diminish in importance. After a run of dry sunny days, Sunday began with rain, heavy at times, and the course was difficult. I ran the race last in 2009, when the sandy soil around Bewl Water was dry and dusty, so that runners ahead raised clouds like the posse in a Western. This was rather different. An innovation is the use of chip timing, less important to slowcoaches like me who use calendars rather than watches to log the duration of our runs, but definitely useful for the fast ones, at a race with a crowded start like Bewl. 

Led by a piper, we walked down to the start. I sheltered under some trees, until it was time, and we lined up for the start, filling the narrow lane. No sooner had we started than the scale of the problem became clear. The sandy surface had become, with the persistent rain, treacherous. We slid our way through the first few miles. indeed a witty fellow runner asked me if my vest should not read Seaford Sliders, rather then Seaford Striders. We pressed on. The rain stopped at around five miles, and we could enjoy the views, as we went into woods and out again in clearings on the banks of Bewl Water. I saw grebes and heard fish jumping. At around mile ten, the route heads inland, for a gruelling series of hills. By now I was being passed by thin runners, fat runners, men, women, younger and older than me. As we neared the final miles, other runners had the benefit of coaches who came to encourage them on. Their encouragement was not always well received. I pressed on, painfully slow, but still running. I’d rather run slowly than walk. 

 

I had decided to enter this race back in January; it was to be my longest race of the year. I finished. The marshals and supporters were splendid. I shall return. 

My fellow Striders results are as follows:

01:37:20 Simon Fletcher, 01:51:03 Scott Hitchcock, 01:56:40 Phil Robinson, 02:12:16 Claire Keith, 02:23:45 Alan Hards. And I finished in 03:19:51.

You are now entering Mapp and Lucia country

The first time I ran the Rye Ten Mile, I was deceived by the name into thinking that it took place in Rye itself, and that runners took part dressed as characters from E.F Benson’s Mapp and Lucia stories, or, even better, as characters from Henry James. In fact, the race takes place in Peasmarsh, a few mile north of the town, and goes nowhere near Rye itself. But it’s a gorgeous rural route, on lanes, in and out of sunlight, past pretty cottages and grander houses. The woods are supposed to harbour wild boar, but I only saw a dead badger.

In 2012 I was delayed by a guerrilla car boot sale. I took no chances this time and came a different way arriving with sufficient time to stare at some crossword clues in the car before my pre-race routine of inhalers, Body Glide and a visit to the lavatory.

We lined up for the start, I thought a little depleted, though the results show there were two hundred of us. Off we went and, as ever, I think I went too fast in the first two or three miles. The route goes out into the woods, takes a long loop between the three and seven mile points and then returns to the race HQ the same way as miles 0-3. At mile 2 or so, there’s a steep descent, which reminds the wary runner that he will have to go up this on the way back. It feels very hilly, though I see my total elevation gain was only 236m (that’s a bit under three consecutive ascents of Seaford Head). 

I was passed by younger fitter runners, and some older ones too, but I kept a rhythm of sorts going. The route was cheerily and efficiently marshalled, and well watered, with stops at 3, 5.75 and 7 miles. After the seond water stop I inhaled an insect, which caused a coughing fit that lasted for a mile or so, but resolved itself. For the last few miles I was running on my own. There were runners behind me but so far that I could not hear them and, like jockeys, I don’t believe in looking back, while those in front were long gone. The hill at eight miles was tough, but I resisted the temptation to walk, and I ran back to the finish, arriving as the prize-giving was in full swing. The first man, Tom Mullen of Haywards Heath Harriers, finished in an astonishing 1:01:39. See Nice Work’s results page for full results, including my own 1:50:05. The last time I ran this race, I achieved 1:43:25.

it’s not often I can claim to have been the first member of the Seaford Striders home in a race, but on this occasion I was, as I was the only club member running.

I was rewarded for this by water, all the melting Jaffa cakes I could eat, and a hefty medal which one of my cats attacked when I returned home.

 

Six weeks till the Bewl 15, 5 July 

Ten years ago

Ten years ago yesterday I finished the London Marathon, my second marathon, and the first of the three times I took part in that extraordinary event. My time was nothing to boast about, 4:32:11. I wrote a full account, for the antiquarians among you. As I watched it, in Paula Radcliffe’s last year, I wonder if I should return to it next year. It would be my first year in a new age group, but since the leading male runner in the 60-64 group finished in 02:54:41, I’m unlikely to impress anyone. The fastest 65-69 man still managed a sub-3, and the fastest 70+ man did it in 03:12:58. 

So  instead I went for an agreeable rural run, with many sheep and lambs to entertain me, and while I began in steady drizzle, by the end the sun was nearly out. 

 

As for future running, my plan is to run some of the longer events in the Sussex Grand Prix: next Sunday’s Haywards Heath Ten Mile, the Rye Ten Mile and the Bewl Fifteen. I think I need something to stretch me. 

Crowborough 10k

The sun shone as I drove north through Sussex to the start.  Crowborough is famous, not only as the home of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle, but also as the highest inhabited point about sea level in East Sussex. I found the race headquarters in damp thick fog. 

The race is hilly, two laps, comprising a long descent, an ascent and a brief flat stretch. It is easy to go too fast on the first downhill, as I did. The uphill starts with a ford, and it is a mark of pride for many to run through it. I did so on both laps. 

I first ran this race in 2011, I see, the year after it was snowed off. My times have been as follows

2011: 1:01:32
2012: 1:02:33
2013: 1:04:33
2014: 1:02:20

So, while today’s time was not a course personal best, it represents improvement. It would be lovely to run it inside the hour. Perhaps it is still possible.

 

My tenth Brighton 10k

When I first ran this race in 2005 the Reebok Brighton 10k. That will be as meaningful to younger runners as telling them is was sponsored by Will’s Whiffs or Pear’s Soap. The chart below shows. in general, decline and fall, though note that I picked up speed a little this year, finishing in two minutes less than last year.

The race becomes bigger and bigger, and this year stayed on the A259, rather than the promenade, thanks to the building works for Brighton’s i360. This was a mixed blessing. It may have helped the front of the field go faster, unimpeded by bollards and ill-disciplined dog-walkers, but further back in the race, without any clear division between those running out and those running back, and without firm marshalling, it was nightmarish. The blame, though, lies with my fellow runners, particularly those who clamp headphones on their ears and pay no attention to the outside world.

Nevertheless, it was a good run. I went off too fast, and paid for this at the end, when I had very little left for the last kilometre.  Still, I took some pleasure in overtaking a particularly annoying oaf with the world’s biggest headphones on. 

The Firle half marathon: 'I think your girth is loose'

I last ran this race in 2010, when I finished in 2:20:20, and before that in 2008 when it was a mere 20k, so perhaps it was not too disgraceful to finish today in 2:29:53. The organisers had changed the route so that the big climb out of Alfriston now ascends the same hill that competitors in the Beachy Head Marathon tackle, rather than the one next to the clay pigeon shooting range. This is good news for nervous runners who don’t like gunfire while they run. 

As is right and proper for any event in the British countryside, dogs and horses played important roles. Some runners were of the Cani-Cross persuasion, and yoked their hounds to their waists with complicated webbings, straps and leads. As the race began, the dogs gave tongue, and their owners uttered strange cries of encouragement. 

For the first few miles my main problems were respiratory; I had been recovering from a cold, slept badly the night before, and it felt as if a large weight sat on my lungs. This section is flat and loops around Firle Estate before heading east on the Old Coach Road. I was well behind most of the rest of the field and frequently overtaken, but, apart from the breathing, things went well. By the time we reached Alfriston, about seven miles in, my breathing settled, so it was time for the legs. My troublesome knee twinges from time to time, but I made it up to the escarpment, where riders and horses met us, part of an endurance riding event. The idea of borrowing a horse was attractive. It’s a steady climb, with one or two dips, to the highest point of the course, where I heard one teenage rider exclaim, ‘I think your girth is loose’. I was about to take offence, when I realised she was addressing another rider, not me. 

When the path reaches Firle Bostal it’s a headlong dash down a steep tarmac road. This is cruel, because the inescapable illusion is that the foot of the hill is the finish. It isn’t, and I was sent out on a final flinty path. Though there was now less than a mile to go, my legs were shredded, and I only wanted someone to say, ‘you can stop running now’. Then back into the estate, and a short run down to the finish, and all the energy bars I could eat. 

And so I ran my first half-marathon for eighteen months. I’ll be back. 

Three races in three days

In Sussex there are two opportunities, at bank holiday weekends, to run three races in three days. The harder challenge occurs in the spring, when the foolhardy may run the East Grinstead and Haywards Heath 10 mile races, and finish off with the Burgess Hill 10k. The three together make a marathon, more or less.

I, on the other hand, chose the less challenging August treble, consisting of the Alfriston Water Meadows Fun Run, a little over 5k off-road, the Newick Will Page 10k  and the King’s Head Canter, a 5k, a total mileage of a modest 12.69. Nevertheless, given my aversion to road running and to running on consecutive days, I approached the races with caution.

The Alfriston race, part of the village’s festival, starts and ends on the Tye, and runs along the side of the Cuckmere. Though short, about 5.4km, it is not without its challenges: rutted paths, cows and their by-product, stiles and annoyed ramblers who did not appreciate having to wait to climb the stiles. In small fields, slower runners like me feel exposed, but I could see, as the leaders returned along the opposite bank, exciting duels between the first, second, third and fourth runners, all Seaford Striders. Ben Martin, a junior won, with Gareth Hutchinson in second place and Paul Heywood in third. The menacing clouds above us produced only a drop or two of rain, and we returned to a prize-giving interrupted only once by the Eastbourne Scottish Pipe Band. 

The Newick Will Page 10k is a bigger event, run on country lanes around the village, beginning and ending at their sports field. The first half is broadly downhill, so the laws that govern the universe dictate that the second half must be uphill, and the final kilometre is particularly hard. When I ran it before, the pain was enhanced by being able to hear the loudspeakers calling the finishers home long before I was anywhere near the finish. This year, perhaps because of a cricket match that was to be held on the field later on, the loudspeakers were silent, so that particular mental torture was denied me. 

Finishing the Newick 10k, photo by Tony Humphries

Finally, in heavy rain, there was today’s King’s Head Canter, a new race for me. It begins in Chiddingly, the village where Picasso used to come to stay and finishes at East Hoathly, at the King’s Head where the 1648 brewery, named after the year when we executed Charles Stuart, that man of blood, is based.  The brewery sponsors the race and generously gives every finisher a pint or soft drink if they prefer. The race poses a logistical problem, solved by leaving one’s car either at the start, and then walking back over the fields to Chiddingly after the race, or leaving it at the finish and walking across fields before the race. I chose the latter course, and confidently set off on what I thought was the path. I was followed by other runners, a mother and her two daughters, deceived by my air of knowing where I was going.  I had to admit that I had taken a wrong turning, and we retraced our footsteps, but though I was sure I now knew the correct path, they unaccountably preferred to drive to the start rather than trust my way finding again.  

Waling two miles across wet fields is not recommended, if one wants to start a subsequent running race dry-shod. We assembled for the start and were off. I found a good pace and stuck to it and, much to my astonishment, found I was overtaking other runners. There were a few downhills but no corresponding ascents and I was pleased to finish in, by my watch, 27:51. I await the official results. Then I joined the damp queue for my free pint: I chose the lightest beer on offer, Hop Pocket. It lived up to its name.