LIVING THE LAKELAND DREAM (WELL, FOR A WEEK)
Hindsight had a right old go at me after Harrock Hill; ''That cold has just got worse now, look at the state of you... coughing, spluttering and snotting everywhere and for what exactly? A four second 'improvement'. Wow. Yep, well done John. What an athlete." - a harsh, sarcastic, but sound self  assessment delivered from the hindsight department of my subconscious.
It was just as well then that the following week I was away on holiday with Sara and Co in the Lake District. No temptation of Cumbrian races on the calendar either during that period, other than Borrowdale which, at seventeen miles and shed loads of climbing, wasn't a realistic proposition right now. Instead, as far as running fitness was concerned, the week became focused on rehabilitation and finding a progressive balance between shaking off the remains of my cold whilst getting some decent running sessions in. On a family holiday, running is just something I try and squeeze in. I wouldn't be so selfish as to bugger off for half a day at a time, it just doesn't feel right to me. There could be a window for such self indulgence if I was enough of a morning person to leap out of bed at six bells, bag the Fairfield Horseshoe and be back in time for breakfast with the gang. I really wish I was that sort of morning person, but sadly I am not!
Despite temperamental weather, we got some good walks in during the day, a bit of climbing too, and then early evening when back at the ranch I would take my chance and slip on the trusty x-talons. Nothing of more than fifty minutes or so, but six consecutive days of running Loughrigg Fell to death and it's surrounding lumps and bumps was simply fabulous. Staying near Rydal, a quarter of a mile down the road and I was on the fell. Living the dream.
Loughrigg is of only very moderate prominence at around 1100 feet, but it's contours were more than enough for me to get some worthwhile training runs in. I never bored of it's plateau of rocky outcrops, endless faint weaving trods through the bracken or least of all the immense panoramic view at the summit which reveals Coniston, the Langdale Pikes, Helm Crag and Grasmere, the ridges of the Fairfield Horsehoe and Lake Windermere in such splendour.
Yes, I wish I could have got my ass out of bed early doors and done Fairfield or something major to break the mould, but as hindsight casts judgement once more, I enjoyed what I did, ran hard some days but without running in to a wall and finally shaking off the cold symptoms. Most importantly I enjoyed every minute. Even when sore from the previous outing and tired from the day's holidaying events, I could easily find the will to just get out there and do it. Quite simply, the location was more than sufficient inspiration.
But to the Saturday and when back home, the stark reality of Leyland's flatlands kicked in. I needed a hill, forcing me to run an out and back route on the tarmac to seek albeit moderate undulation with the almost forgotten distraction, but equally stark reality, of traffic and particularly knobheads driving too fast. The joys of returning to 'civilisation'.
Last week ought to give me a boost for forthcoming races, but what it did do was further deepen my rekindled love affair with running the fells. In my ideological little world I need to live up there on the doorstep of the Cumbrian mountains, to train on them daily. I need a million people to follow these running ramblings and then maybe I could fund it. Only another 999,999 followers required then to really live that dream!