IN MAY THE FORCE ISN'T WITH ME
Rolling up to the end of May now and my running has strayed from the ultimate objective of race fitness. I've been here before in previous years when the Summer and all it's glorious evening races drift away from my grasp when never quite sustaining the level to compete. A left hamstring nag is the culprit right now, picked up I believe when playing silly buggers during that daft run a week after the Three Peaks. I still see that foolish digression of unnecessary hard running as the catalyst for subsequent demise. It's not quite game over though. I'm still out there doing a bit, but tentatively and almost for the sake of it really like some kind of duty to my own conscience. I am however, pleased to report that the bike has finally found it's way out of the garage. But all the while conscious that the fruits of decent labour put in this year are decomposing and that I could quite easily end up at square one again. I've only one race to show for May and it was poor. Harrock Hill never happened last night and I'd say this next week or two is crucial really with regards to a racing Summer and whether or not it's going to happen. Whilst I have this seemingly uncontrollable psychological commitment to the Three Peaks again next year, I need some proper sport before then, some exhilaration of competing and improving. Perhaps delusion is already here and this is the process of letting go? The bowling green certainly feels nearer than it did.
Thursday, 26 May 2016
Thursday, 19 May 2016
NOT MEARLEY GOOD ENOUGH
MEARLEY CLOUGH
Almost three weeks have whizzed by since the Three Peaks. All seemed well with a sub-hour eight miler at what felt easy pace just four days after the race and I soon got back in to the swing with a 34 mile week on the board. But silly behaviour during the last run out on the Sunday of that week has put me out of sorts ever since. I discovered a route in to the long ago disused Test Track of Leyland Motors, or British Leyland as that once world famous industry was latterly known. I hadn't been on there for well over thirty years since dossing around as a kid so it was fascinating exploring and running around the outer and inner laps of what used to be the testing site mecca for some of the world's best commercial vehicles.
Add to the nostalgia the strong rays of a high Springtime sun, this seemed to inflict a solar drunkenness upon me as I bashed the test track tarmac quite hard and without much consciousness of my actions. Finally I departed the test track through the same gap in the concrete walls and suddenly took an overwhelming hit of exhaustion. The plan of eight or nine miles steady had gone to the dogs. After chucking in these extra two or three on the test track, I just crashed. The following two and a half mile shuffle homewards was indeed nothing much more than that. If I'd had 20 pence on me, I'd have phoned home to be picked up. Do phone boxes still take coins anyway?
The hamstrings were cramping, my knees had lost shock absorbency and generally I was feeling hungry, dehydrated and absolutely shot at. What a clown. I've run sensibly and consistently all year, listening to the body, then post-Three Peaks I drop my guard and inadvertently stick an unfavourable spanner in to the works. It's definitely hampered preparations for the Mearley Clough fell race this Tuesday - a week and a half later and I'm still not right.
Mearley Clough is without doubt one of the finest short fell races that at least Lancashire has to offer at this time of year and evokes fond memories of a truly decent performance here back in 2007 when I finished fourth in a very decent time. The race begins from the Calf's Head at Worston, through a few rolling fields, a farm yard, up a woodland trail and then the main event upon the hillside itself. Aside from the elite class who barely break stride, this is a hands on knees climbing assault up to Pendle's Scout Cairn.
The cairn itself looked to have been vandalised by mindless thugs for whom I wish slow death. If only we could round up such pathetic imbeciles that lack the respect or intelligence for anything other than their own twisted ideals of entertainment, thus terminating the genetic septic pool from which they spawned. Wishful thinking.
So back to the course then! From the cairn, a miniature horseshoe route leads to hurtling down the opposite steep side of the Clough before retracing steps back towards the woods and the fields. A pasta supper in the pub after and all this for a fiver. Alternatively it was a whopping £17 to enter a local 10K road race recently. That's the world we live in today.
Come race night and upper hamstrings were feeling like guitar strings ready to twang from an overly twisted tuner, particularly on the left side. I could tell this race was going to be tougher tonight. I didn't feel fresh at all, even the slightest incline during warm up punished my legs which felt trashed. Whether it was very delayed onset fatigue from the Peaks, that Sunday morning silliness or more likely a combination of both that's left me this jaded, all I know is that excuses are futile. I took a race number and must have thought I could pull a rabbit out of the hat.
The first half mile felt like a truly ferocious pace and one that caught up with me as the incline starts to intensify in the woods. I thought if I could just hold on before the main climb... then I noticed a course diversion and not one that whet my already losing appetite. A dip down to the brook, a sticky ascent out and then a traverse back and losing height again before starting the main climb from the very base of the Clough. Well that just did my head in a bit and I was absolutely blowing out of my rear whilst losing a good few places in the process. Never a nice place to be in a fell race. Meanwhile ahead, way ahead and up high was a most impressive race leader, young local lad Josh Boyle. With the not to be sniffed at likes of Darren Kay and Sam Watson in his wake, Josh was running the unrunable on sections of Mearley's steepest offerings and held out to take a most impressive victory indeed at the age of just 15. As for myself, I frittered away to finish eighteenth and was unable to stave off or then kick back at the challenge of Accrington's Graham Morris. It was Graham to whom I spat some dummy and spilled my beans at the end about my racing days being numbered and looking up the price of a set of decent second hand woods for the Crown Green season. But here was I, whining to a guy almost ten years older than myself who is enjoying something of a renaissance during the last year or so. Graham's a good guy and tried to give me encouragement and suggested that breaking up the running with cycling could be a solution. It's certainly worked for Mr Morris with a Great Britain vest for veteran duathalon now in his possession. I enjoy cycling, but I don't love it enough. It's a relationship I would definitely need to work on but it is the right time of year to try and embrace it.
Over pasta supper and a pint I shared some thoughts old and new with my old Chorley clubmate Mark Ellithorn - the Benjamin Button of fell running - 'The Thorn' seems to look younger every time I see him and of course he must enjoy me keep reminding him of that.
Very little running at all followed that week. I felt like a crumpled mess for most of it. This week has seen a moderate return to normal operations but still tender in places. Next race up that ticks my box of possibility is the first of the Harrock Hill summer series next Wednesday. But I'm going to have to feel far more finely tuned than this if I am to risk competing again. The big question for me and my running is indeed a big question and has been asked before. Whilst I still have the belief, the willingness to compete, am I but a deluded soul whose best running performances are really long since gone?
Tue. 10th May 2016
MEARLEY CLOUGH (3.9m/1Tu200ft) Worston, Lancs.
1st Man - Josh Boyle (Barlick) 30:55
1st Lady - Caitlin Rice (Glossopdale) 36:00
My Stats - 36:22 18/153
MEARLEY CLOUGH
Almost three weeks have whizzed by since the Three Peaks. All seemed well with a sub-hour eight miler at what felt easy pace just four days after the race and I soon got back in to the swing with a 34 mile week on the board. But silly behaviour during the last run out on the Sunday of that week has put me out of sorts ever since. I discovered a route in to the long ago disused Test Track of Leyland Motors, or British Leyland as that once world famous industry was latterly known. I hadn't been on there for well over thirty years since dossing around as a kid so it was fascinating exploring and running around the outer and inner laps of what used to be the testing site mecca for some of the world's best commercial vehicles.
Add to the nostalgia the strong rays of a high Springtime sun, this seemed to inflict a solar drunkenness upon me as I bashed the test track tarmac quite hard and without much consciousness of my actions. Finally I departed the test track through the same gap in the concrete walls and suddenly took an overwhelming hit of exhaustion. The plan of eight or nine miles steady had gone to the dogs. After chucking in these extra two or three on the test track, I just crashed. The following two and a half mile shuffle homewards was indeed nothing much more than that. If I'd had 20 pence on me, I'd have phoned home to be picked up. Do phone boxes still take coins anyway?
The hamstrings were cramping, my knees had lost shock absorbency and generally I was feeling hungry, dehydrated and absolutely shot at. What a clown. I've run sensibly and consistently all year, listening to the body, then post-Three Peaks I drop my guard and inadvertently stick an unfavourable spanner in to the works. It's definitely hampered preparations for the Mearley Clough fell race this Tuesday - a week and a half later and I'm still not right.
Mearley Clough is without doubt one of the finest short fell races that at least Lancashire has to offer at this time of year and evokes fond memories of a truly decent performance here back in 2007 when I finished fourth in a very decent time. The race begins from the Calf's Head at Worston, through a few rolling fields, a farm yard, up a woodland trail and then the main event upon the hillside itself. Aside from the elite class who barely break stride, this is a hands on knees climbing assault up to Pendle's Scout Cairn.
The cairn itself looked to have been vandalised by mindless thugs for whom I wish slow death. If only we could round up such pathetic imbeciles that lack the respect or intelligence for anything other than their own twisted ideals of entertainment, thus terminating the genetic septic pool from which they spawned. Wishful thinking.
So back to the course then! From the cairn, a miniature horseshoe route leads to hurtling down the opposite steep side of the Clough before retracing steps back towards the woods and the fields. A pasta supper in the pub after and all this for a fiver. Alternatively it was a whopping £17 to enter a local 10K road race recently. That's the world we live in today.
Come race night and upper hamstrings were feeling like guitar strings ready to twang from an overly twisted tuner, particularly on the left side. I could tell this race was going to be tougher tonight. I didn't feel fresh at all, even the slightest incline during warm up punished my legs which felt trashed. Whether it was very delayed onset fatigue from the Peaks, that Sunday morning silliness or more likely a combination of both that's left me this jaded, all I know is that excuses are futile. I took a race number and must have thought I could pull a rabbit out of the hat.
The first half mile felt like a truly ferocious pace and one that caught up with me as the incline starts to intensify in the woods. I thought if I could just hold on before the main climb... then I noticed a course diversion and not one that whet my already losing appetite. A dip down to the brook, a sticky ascent out and then a traverse back and losing height again before starting the main climb from the very base of the Clough. Well that just did my head in a bit and I was absolutely blowing out of my rear whilst losing a good few places in the process. Never a nice place to be in a fell race. Meanwhile ahead, way ahead and up high was a most impressive race leader, young local lad Josh Boyle. With the not to be sniffed at likes of Darren Kay and Sam Watson in his wake, Josh was running the unrunable on sections of Mearley's steepest offerings and held out to take a most impressive victory indeed at the age of just 15. As for myself, I frittered away to finish eighteenth and was unable to stave off or then kick back at the challenge of Accrington's Graham Morris. It was Graham to whom I spat some dummy and spilled my beans at the end about my racing days being numbered and looking up the price of a set of decent second hand woods for the Crown Green season. But here was I, whining to a guy almost ten years older than myself who is enjoying something of a renaissance during the last year or so. Graham's a good guy and tried to give me encouragement and suggested that breaking up the running with cycling could be a solution. It's certainly worked for Mr Morris with a Great Britain vest for veteran duathalon now in his possession. I enjoy cycling, but I don't love it enough. It's a relationship I would definitely need to work on but it is the right time of year to try and embrace it.
Over pasta supper and a pint I shared some thoughts old and new with my old Chorley clubmate Mark Ellithorn - the Benjamin Button of fell running - 'The Thorn' seems to look younger every time I see him and of course he must enjoy me keep reminding him of that.
Very little running at all followed that week. I felt like a crumpled mess for most of it. This week has seen a moderate return to normal operations but still tender in places. Next race up that ticks my box of possibility is the first of the Harrock Hill summer series next Wednesday. But I'm going to have to feel far more finely tuned than this if I am to risk competing again. The big question for me and my running is indeed a big question and has been asked before. Whilst I still have the belief, the willingness to compete, am I but a deluded soul whose best running performances are really long since gone?
Tue. 10th May 2016
MEARLEY CLOUGH (3.9m/1Tu200ft) Worston, Lancs.
1st Man - Josh Boyle (Barlick) 30:55
1st Lady - Caitlin Rice (Glossopdale) 36:00
My Stats - 36:22 18/153
Thursday, 5 May 2016
SATISFACTORY DISAPPOINTMENT!
THREE PEAKS RACE
I kept running right up until race day with a pacey two and a half miles to waken the lungs up on the penultimate day but one. On the penultimate day itself I jogged what I thought was a tootle of three miles or so back home from the garage after dropping my car off for MOT and servicing. The 'or so' turned out to be a good bit more than I had loosely estimated. Coupled with a headwind and squally showers, it ended up a bit of a slog but I kept it as steady as I could.
Race day arrived and by my own normally zombified standards of morningness I felt pretty good. It takes me a few hours to come round in to the land of the officially conscious, so I got up early enough to allow for that process to kick in. Whether it was excitement, adrenaline, or even fear, I was in the zone from the moment I awoke which was a rarity indeed. Another rarity was Yorkshire's highest peaks heavily awash with snow on the last day of April. It was also a fabulous and inspiring sight to see.
As the masses flowed through the marquis for kit check I found myself in the familiar company of ex-Blackburn clubmate Chris Barnes. ''I've not trained for this Sutts, I'm running round with Andy Heys'' (That's Andy Heys of Blackburn Harriers, a Peaks first timer and with respect most likely a little further along the estimated finishing time than Barnes and I) The runner that turns up for a race saying they feel great and are going to frigging smash it are a very rare breed indeed, so obviously Barnesy's pre-race self assessment got the heavy pinch of salt it deserved. ''Aye Chris, whatever. Just have a drink ready for me at the finish''.
Cometh that half way mark past the tenth hour and the trip-hazardous surge from the starting field begins and we were off. My main plan was to hold back from temptation to push on in the first half of the race and have something left in the latter half. Although with a time in mind, I wasn't actually going to be very time conscious and essentially just run my own race. Pen-y-Ghent is the first peak to tick off which I pitter-pattered up without much energy expended.
Coming off the top I was in familiar company again, ''I thought you were running with Andy?'', said I. ''I can't find him. I'm just going to jog round now sub-4.15, I'll be happy with that'', said Mr Barnes. ''Like I said, have a drink ready for me''. The Barnes cracks me up. I couldn't help thinking he'll still be changing his race plan with half a mile to go. We ran together for a few miles as our steady pace certainly suited myself but started to realise I was in danger of losing concentration of my own job. In fact in the nicest possible way, Chris was becoming a complete pain in the arse. Should I try and push on from him or hold back? I went for the latter as he gained some considerable yardage on me during a short uphill section beyond High Birkwith. I was able to get back in to the solitary mental zone again and just keep myself to myself for a bit, but with Chris toing and froing ahead, he was a like a loose cannon and one that I was trying hard to ignore as having any baring whatsoever to my own performance.
By Ribblehead Viaduct, just shy of the half way mark, I was still feeling fairly fresh but I took a curious peep at my watch which made grim reading as far as my timekeeping ambitions were concerned. Having reached this point in 1.27 back in the PB year of 2013, this time I trotted down to the iconic twenty four limestone arches in 1.39. No wonder I felt fresh! There's no denying I was a little despondent about that. Although I was feeling fine, equally there was no point showing a lack of respect to the next section and trying to play catch up on the long and arduous slog up Whernside. I decided to lunch on the lower reaches of this largest of the Three Peaks and whilst that sounds like some idyllic picnic sat on a Burberry blanket, the reality was a seed bar and some chocolate coated coffee beans with nothing but your nearest competitor's backside in view as the incline steepens. I just thought take it easy here, fuel up and then give it a bit more energy further up the hillside. Occasional running bud Johnny Horrocks is up there with his stepdad Simon spectating and they give it a bit of ''Come on Sutty'', which was an unexpected welcome boost.
Upon the brow of Whernside's long plateau, a prolonged hail shower blew horizontally which was enough a reason to get off there as quickly as possible. The descent was a little precarious in places, slushy snow made life interesting but at one point where the path becomes a zig-zag of foot holes on one of the steeper sections, walkers and runners alike were tottering about all over the place trying to stay on their feet. It was chaotic. If I hang about too much on steep descents it aches my knees so I spotted a clear, direct line through this mayhem and went for it. Faintly - and I mean so in the most minimal sense - I brushed the rucksack of a walker who, in fairness to myself, had suddenly frozen to a halt right in front of me, forcing my body shape to contort accordingly to avoid a crash. The young lady in question shrieked in an entirely over-exaggerated way as if I'd actually knocked her off her feet. Despite her overwhelming lack of traffic sense, I nevertheless raised an arm and sounded an apology for my own incidental part in this minor skirmish. But the apology was snubbed. All I could hear was South of England accentuated chunnerings of disgruntlement which continued until finally fading out of my earshot.
I suppose walkers and particularly inexperienced ones don't take kindly to scantily clad nut jobs hurtling through their personal space and I can relate to that, but here was somebody with a very low threshold of what one might consider to be trauma. It's not as if I had taken her by surprise. More than 200 runners had already passed her at this point. There really is nowt queerer than some folk.
As the gradient off Whernside began to shallow, that man Barnes came in to sight again, pulling away a little on the road and bridleway section to the Hill Inn. Again, at the Hill Inn I didn't feel bad at all. I could tell I'd done some miles, but I wasn't dreading the final climb up Ingleborough and was in fact looking forward to it as I felt there was going to be plenty left to put in a decent effort from that final checkpoint at the summit. I'd given up on the stopwatch. I was starting to realise that regardless of the time, I was actually starting to learn how to run this race and actually what I do need to do next time to not only run it sensibly, but get the time I aspire to. More than anything, it's about being in good enough shape to have the confidence to run that first half with more aggression than conservatism and have it in the bank to hold it together after that. That said, my own conservatism did pay off once at the sunny summit of Ingleborough where the gloves literally came off along with my racing cag. I risked a sly glance at my watch again and winced. About twenty minutes outside where I wanted to be! More importantly though, I had something left at this point which couldn't be said of many competitors around me.
Beginning the initially tentative rock hopping descent off Ingleborough's jagged brow, I wasn't surprised to see Barnesy again. But it did raise an eyebrow that he was way over to the left, slipping around on a bank of snow having told me earlier about a quicker route over to the right that Three Peaks legend Rob Jebb uses! The race route is briefly taped in this area so I just followed the tape and seemed to get a decent line. Once I hit the main path I opened up my stride and started to build up a strong pace which I maintained pretty solidly for the final five miles back to Horton. I pulled back forty-five places on this closing section, only for my final victim to surprise me with an avenging late counter-surge in the finishing field. It was the sprint of a younger man that these slightly older legs sadly had no answer to.
I clocked 4.00:27 and was it not for messing about at food stations with my electrolyte tablets, would have sneaked under the four hour mark. Chris 'I've not trained for this' Barnes was only four minutes behind me so not bad for a 'jog out' or whatever it was in the end. Up at the front, the elites of the elite came very close indeed to the course record which Andy Peace has held since 1996. Lauenstein and Lightfoot had probably warmed down, dunked their legs in the chilly Ribble, dined and had forty winks by the time I returned to Horton, but I really enjoyed it this year and more so maybe than my previous five appearances at this great race. As for the much documented Achilles trouble, not once did I even think about it during those four hours. Perhaps that is testament indeed to not running hard enough! Walking in a normal fashion the following day though was obviously a bridge too far, but no running hangover since and normal service resuming. I suppose underlying disappointment could never quite be so strangely satisfying as in last Saturday's race.
Sat. 30th April 2016
62nd THREE PEAKS RACE 23.5m/5276ft Horton-in-Ribblesdale, North Yorks.
Ist Man - Marc Lauenstein (Team Salomon) 2.48:58
1st Lady - Victoria Wilkinson (Bingley) 3.26:47
My Stats - 4.00:27 177/703
THREE PEAKS RACE
I kept running right up until race day with a pacey two and a half miles to waken the lungs up on the penultimate day but one. On the penultimate day itself I jogged what I thought was a tootle of three miles or so back home from the garage after dropping my car off for MOT and servicing. The 'or so' turned out to be a good bit more than I had loosely estimated. Coupled with a headwind and squally showers, it ended up a bit of a slog but I kept it as steady as I could.
Race day arrived and by my own normally zombified standards of morningness I felt pretty good. It takes me a few hours to come round in to the land of the officially conscious, so I got up early enough to allow for that process to kick in. Whether it was excitement, adrenaline, or even fear, I was in the zone from the moment I awoke which was a rarity indeed. Another rarity was Yorkshire's highest peaks heavily awash with snow on the last day of April. It was also a fabulous and inspiring sight to see.
As the masses flowed through the marquis for kit check I found myself in the familiar company of ex-Blackburn clubmate Chris Barnes. ''I've not trained for this Sutts, I'm running round with Andy Heys'' (That's Andy Heys of Blackburn Harriers, a Peaks first timer and with respect most likely a little further along the estimated finishing time than Barnes and I) The runner that turns up for a race saying they feel great and are going to frigging smash it are a very rare breed indeed, so obviously Barnesy's pre-race self assessment got the heavy pinch of salt it deserved. ''Aye Chris, whatever. Just have a drink ready for me at the finish''.
Cometh that half way mark past the tenth hour and the trip-hazardous surge from the starting field begins and we were off. My main plan was to hold back from temptation to push on in the first half of the race and have something left in the latter half. Although with a time in mind, I wasn't actually going to be very time conscious and essentially just run my own race. Pen-y-Ghent is the first peak to tick off which I pitter-pattered up without much energy expended.
Coming off the top I was in familiar company again, ''I thought you were running with Andy?'', said I. ''I can't find him. I'm just going to jog round now sub-4.15, I'll be happy with that'', said Mr Barnes. ''Like I said, have a drink ready for me''. The Barnes cracks me up. I couldn't help thinking he'll still be changing his race plan with half a mile to go. We ran together for a few miles as our steady pace certainly suited myself but started to realise I was in danger of losing concentration of my own job. In fact in the nicest possible way, Chris was becoming a complete pain in the arse. Should I try and push on from him or hold back? I went for the latter as he gained some considerable yardage on me during a short uphill section beyond High Birkwith. I was able to get back in to the solitary mental zone again and just keep myself to myself for a bit, but with Chris toing and froing ahead, he was a like a loose cannon and one that I was trying hard to ignore as having any baring whatsoever to my own performance.
By Ribblehead Viaduct, just shy of the half way mark, I was still feeling fairly fresh but I took a curious peep at my watch which made grim reading as far as my timekeeping ambitions were concerned. Having reached this point in 1.27 back in the PB year of 2013, this time I trotted down to the iconic twenty four limestone arches in 1.39. No wonder I felt fresh! There's no denying I was a little despondent about that. Although I was feeling fine, equally there was no point showing a lack of respect to the next section and trying to play catch up on the long and arduous slog up Whernside. I decided to lunch on the lower reaches of this largest of the Three Peaks and whilst that sounds like some idyllic picnic sat on a Burberry blanket, the reality was a seed bar and some chocolate coated coffee beans with nothing but your nearest competitor's backside in view as the incline steepens. I just thought take it easy here, fuel up and then give it a bit more energy further up the hillside. Occasional running bud Johnny Horrocks is up there with his stepdad Simon spectating and they give it a bit of ''Come on Sutty'', which was an unexpected welcome boost.
Upon the brow of Whernside's long plateau, a prolonged hail shower blew horizontally which was enough a reason to get off there as quickly as possible. The descent was a little precarious in places, slushy snow made life interesting but at one point where the path becomes a zig-zag of foot holes on one of the steeper sections, walkers and runners alike were tottering about all over the place trying to stay on their feet. It was chaotic. If I hang about too much on steep descents it aches my knees so I spotted a clear, direct line through this mayhem and went for it. Faintly - and I mean so in the most minimal sense - I brushed the rucksack of a walker who, in fairness to myself, had suddenly frozen to a halt right in front of me, forcing my body shape to contort accordingly to avoid a crash. The young lady in question shrieked in an entirely over-exaggerated way as if I'd actually knocked her off her feet. Despite her overwhelming lack of traffic sense, I nevertheless raised an arm and sounded an apology for my own incidental part in this minor skirmish. But the apology was snubbed. All I could hear was South of England accentuated chunnerings of disgruntlement which continued until finally fading out of my earshot.
I suppose walkers and particularly inexperienced ones don't take kindly to scantily clad nut jobs hurtling through their personal space and I can relate to that, but here was somebody with a very low threshold of what one might consider to be trauma. It's not as if I had taken her by surprise. More than 200 runners had already passed her at this point. There really is nowt queerer than some folk.
As the gradient off Whernside began to shallow, that man Barnes came in to sight again, pulling away a little on the road and bridleway section to the Hill Inn. Again, at the Hill Inn I didn't feel bad at all. I could tell I'd done some miles, but I wasn't dreading the final climb up Ingleborough and was in fact looking forward to it as I felt there was going to be plenty left to put in a decent effort from that final checkpoint at the summit. I'd given up on the stopwatch. I was starting to realise that regardless of the time, I was actually starting to learn how to run this race and actually what I do need to do next time to not only run it sensibly, but get the time I aspire to. More than anything, it's about being in good enough shape to have the confidence to run that first half with more aggression than conservatism and have it in the bank to hold it together after that. That said, my own conservatism did pay off once at the sunny summit of Ingleborough where the gloves literally came off along with my racing cag. I risked a sly glance at my watch again and winced. About twenty minutes outside where I wanted to be! More importantly though, I had something left at this point which couldn't be said of many competitors around me.
Beginning the initially tentative rock hopping descent off Ingleborough's jagged brow, I wasn't surprised to see Barnesy again. But it did raise an eyebrow that he was way over to the left, slipping around on a bank of snow having told me earlier about a quicker route over to the right that Three Peaks legend Rob Jebb uses! The race route is briefly taped in this area so I just followed the tape and seemed to get a decent line. Once I hit the main path I opened up my stride and started to build up a strong pace which I maintained pretty solidly for the final five miles back to Horton. I pulled back forty-five places on this closing section, only for my final victim to surprise me with an avenging late counter-surge in the finishing field. It was the sprint of a younger man that these slightly older legs sadly had no answer to.
I clocked 4.00:27 and was it not for messing about at food stations with my electrolyte tablets, would have sneaked under the four hour mark. Chris 'I've not trained for this' Barnes was only four minutes behind me so not bad for a 'jog out' or whatever it was in the end. Up at the front, the elites of the elite came very close indeed to the course record which Andy Peace has held since 1996. Lauenstein and Lightfoot had probably warmed down, dunked their legs in the chilly Ribble, dined and had forty winks by the time I returned to Horton, but I really enjoyed it this year and more so maybe than my previous five appearances at this great race. As for the much documented Achilles trouble, not once did I even think about it during those four hours. Perhaps that is testament indeed to not running hard enough! Walking in a normal fashion the following day though was obviously a bridge too far, but no running hangover since and normal service resuming. I suppose underlying disappointment could never quite be so strangely satisfying as in last Saturday's race.
Sat. 30th April 2016
62nd THREE PEAKS RACE 23.5m/5276ft Horton-in-Ribblesdale, North Yorks.
Ist Man - Marc Lauenstein (Team Salomon) 2.48:58
1st Lady - Victoria Wilkinson (Bingley) 3.26:47
My Stats - 4.00:27 177/703
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