BACK IN THE SWING
GOLF BALL
A record turn out at Golf Ball of 236 is quite a crowd for a low key race in the Rossendale valleys. It wasn't short on quality at the top end either. Three fellow Ribble Valley Harriers had made the trip, including international machine Chris Holdsworth, a Summer signing from Clayton-le-Moors. He's at the very top of the fell running game and still in ascendancy. With Holdsworth present, all bets were off to pick the night's winner. Scanning around at the other talent on show, it became clear that a repeat of last year's top five spot was not going to happen, even if I ran a better time. In fact, it became clear that even a top twenty position was going to be a challenge. So there's also Ste Hall and Shaun Livesey Jnr from my club, a resurgent Andy Buttery from Rossendale, two Royton lads that I knew were handy, Matt Driver from Holcombe, Chadderton and Gilbert of Horwich, the Preston lad Oliver Heaton that I can't get near, then I spot Alex Whittem of Calder Valley for the first time in many a while... it had the makings of an interesting race. This is how it should be. A mid-forties nobody in particular like myself shouldn't really be getting top five placings when still running up to a minute per mile slower than the winner.
Finally though, I managed to make a decent account of myself and felt back in the swing of things. It wasn't special, but it was solid. For the first half of the race I found myself on the trail of Clayton's Peter Coates who was making a comeback to racing after injury. His pace seemed to suit mine early on. I felt I had to overtake Rossendale's Marc Barrett, even though he's been kicking my arse in the latter stages of races all Summer. I did say to him that he might well see me again later - there's confidence for you, not - but I didn't see him again as it turned out. I was feeling pretty strong and in control. After the moorland descent of Hameldon Hill I passed Peter and another chap before dropping down on to the quarry tracks. I lost a place to a young dread-locked Todmorden runner on the following rocky climb and briefly thought about making an extra effort to sit on him. But then that could backfire later on, I considered. This was a lack of confidence in motion, but equally a decision based on stark reality of recent racing. I couldn't risk the wheels coming off. Back on the tops again and heading past the golf ball transmitter, a descent not really to my liking follows. Hard track on the same gradient, slap-slap-slap... give me something technical any day of the week. I wasn't going to force the issue on this section and near the bottom the breath down my neck revealed itself in a Holcombe Harriers vest. I was actually confident that I could mop him back up over the fields to the finish, but having got a few seconds over me, the Holcombe man Matt Dunn was equal to what I had to chuck back at him. That cost me a top twenty spot, but my time was up on last year so there was no sulking. I reminded myself what a cracking little race this is and appreciate the simple things in life like just being there, competing and enjoying it.
Sure enough Chris Holdsworth quickly ran away from the rest and showed why he is a complete class apart to win with a whopping three minutes to spare. Prior to this race, the last time I saw him was last Saturday night on the box when belatedly catching up on S4C's coverage of the Snowdon International Mountain Race. He beat Britain's best and came an amazing second place overall to Italian Alberto Vender. It was fantastic viewing and certainly the best thing I've seen on television since that Scandi police drama 'The Bridge' came to an end.
A quick pint in the social club at Loveclough then and I get talking to a chap who I used to see around at more or less every race in the first few years of my time on the fells, Rick Solman of Rossendale Harriers. Rick's been out of the racing game for some time because of a recurring injury he can't seem to shake, but he came along with Buttery to this one to watch the latter roll back the years with another great run. Utterly Buttery looks ridiculously good for nearly 48, but for me, Chorley's hardy perennial Mr Ellithorn still tops the charts in the looking good for age contest. Not so well preserved are my own looks it seems. Rick thought I was in the Vet50 category, now that was one thing - then he says I, "did well to be around top twenty in that company for a big lad''. Cheeky fecker!
On a parting note, one of the first sights I saw on approaching race headquarters and searching a parking place that evening were the Todmorden shorts of Duncan Cannon again. They seem to be haunting me. It wasn't an accident at Lee Mill, he deliberately races in them. I'm going to have to pluck up the courage to politely question him next time I see him at a race. This may seem like some weird obsession from my end, but genuinely I just want to help save someone valuable seconds per mile!
Wednesday 28th August 2018
GOLF BALL 5.5m/800ft
1st Man - Chris Holdsworth (Ribble Valley Harriers) 36:27
1st Lady - Heather Hughes (Manchester YMCA) 48:31
My Stats - 42:37 21/236
Friday, 24 August 2018
Tuesday, 21 August 2018
ONE NIGHT IN HEAVEN
There could be an argument that I appreciate things more as I get older, M-People perhaps not so much. Saying that, I'll steal one of their famous song titles for this week's ramble as it sums up a warm, wild and wet Wednesday night in which I had the most running fun in training I've had all year. Just shy of nine miles over some favourite old haunts on the West Pennine Moors with no specific happenings to make it so memorable. It was just one of those rare outings when everything clicks. On my own, running hard, enjoying pushing myself and absolutely at one with the terrain, the surroundings, the elements, the body and the soul. Now that IS what it's all about! This Summer's invariably rubbish race results paled in to insignificance in just seventy four minutes of unadulterated fell running love. As peak training performances go, this was quite unexpected and I wasn't particularly feeling the love before I started. But this wasn't a fluke either. I've been seizing every opportunity to train on the fells as much as possible the last few months and a bit of extra steel and grit had to surface at some point. A really decent and varied week's training has been had overall and even when feeling buckled I've been able to push through it and find more. Ultimately though, converting this latest mirage of form in to an actual race performance is the next step. The last time I had confidence going in to a race on the back of a good training onslaught, I raced like I had a sack of spuds on my back at Lee Mill a few weeks ago. So confidence ought to go about things quietly I think.
At long last this Summer of all Summer's has finally cracked and we've had a bit of rain to report. Some long overdue give in the ground has brought immediate benefits to the aching soreness of my knees which has now started to fade despite upping the beat last week. The down side is more on the domestic front - it's weed city in the garden, the grass needs cutting and the hedges have had a growing spurt.
Next contest up is the Golf Ball fell race at Rossendale, where things just started to come together last year. It clashes with Harrock Hill this time around, which toyed with my strong affections for the latter. But having missed the last two Harrock's and run the first one like a plank, any series potential is out of the window and frankly, Golf Ball is more of a tester out of the two and one that I shouldn't shirk.
There could be an argument that I appreciate things more as I get older, M-People perhaps not so much. Saying that, I'll steal one of their famous song titles for this week's ramble as it sums up a warm, wild and wet Wednesday night in which I had the most running fun in training I've had all year. Just shy of nine miles over some favourite old haunts on the West Pennine Moors with no specific happenings to make it so memorable. It was just one of those rare outings when everything clicks. On my own, running hard, enjoying pushing myself and absolutely at one with the terrain, the surroundings, the elements, the body and the soul. Now that IS what it's all about! This Summer's invariably rubbish race results paled in to insignificance in just seventy four minutes of unadulterated fell running love. As peak training performances go, this was quite unexpected and I wasn't particularly feeling the love before I started. But this wasn't a fluke either. I've been seizing every opportunity to train on the fells as much as possible the last few months and a bit of extra steel and grit had to surface at some point. A really decent and varied week's training has been had overall and even when feeling buckled I've been able to push through it and find more. Ultimately though, converting this latest mirage of form in to an actual race performance is the next step. The last time I had confidence going in to a race on the back of a good training onslaught, I raced like I had a sack of spuds on my back at Lee Mill a few weeks ago. So confidence ought to go about things quietly I think.
At long last this Summer of all Summer's has finally cracked and we've had a bit of rain to report. Some long overdue give in the ground has brought immediate benefits to the aching soreness of my knees which has now started to fade despite upping the beat last week. The down side is more on the domestic front - it's weed city in the garden, the grass needs cutting and the hedges have had a growing spurt.
Next contest up is the Golf Ball fell race at Rossendale, where things just started to come together last year. It clashes with Harrock Hill this time around, which toyed with my strong affections for the latter. But having missed the last two Harrock's and run the first one like a plank, any series potential is out of the window and frankly, Golf Ball is more of a tester out of the two and one that I shouldn't shirk.
Friday, 10 August 2018
OFF THE HOOK IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE
PILGRIM'S CROSS
I must be a sucker for punishment. After waking up with a really stiff and sore back for the fourth morning in succession, there was still this uncontrollable compulsion to think I could race. The back trouble had got in to a rhythm of easing by afternoon, to the point were I had still been able to do a run later in the day. Even though I couldn't even bend down properly to put on my socks this particular morning, Pilgrim's Cross remained firmly on the agenda for the evening. Why risk it? Well, it's a case of use it or lose it. Racing may not be going great right now - may not come good ever again - but if I'm fit enough to have a go in time for the start and still compelled to persevere, shying away from competition is certainly not going to improve my results.
It was difficult to make head or tail of how I ran at Pilgrim's Cross. On the one hand, I was blowing up for a period in the latter half, losing half a dozen places during a sticky half mile and failing to hang in for a chance to catch them back. On the other hand, I looked back in surprise to find I was 84 seconds quicker than last year. That was odd, I thought I ran alright last year! It may have been a little windier last time, the going underfoot marginally faster in places this time, but not enough to make up that sort of time. So am I actually doing a bit better than I think? This is one of those instances where the very finest threads of positivity are worth clinging on to and taking in to the next race.
I arrived for this one in good time. Given my lower back's state of fragility, a good warm up was essential. The pain and stiffness had subsided so I considered myself off the hook and officially fit to race.
Whilst warming up I found myself trotting around the local recreation grounds at Helmshore, where maybe a dozen football pitches are closely concentrated. I could envisage the action, hear the noises and smell the smells of all these pitches soon to be a hub of activity when the new season kicks off. It brought back a memory or two to my exceedingly modest playing days, but it was a group of six lads which caught my attention. (I say 'lads', probably in their mid-twenties - I must be really getting on a bit) They were just having a knock around, but with some proper goal nets attached to one of the goalposts. I had already admired the goalposts around here for their substantial stanchions in the top corners. You can't beat a good old hooked stanchion in the top corner of a net. Stanchions give goal nets extra depth and characteristic - to actually strike the stanchion makes any goal look extra fabulous in my opinion. Trevor Brooking's goal for England versus Hungary back in 1981 forever sticks in my mind because Trevor actually stuck the ball in the hook - optimum magnificence for a stanchion geek like me. Even I stuck it in the hook once - 1993 on the Witton Park astroturf at Blackburn. I was only playing Wembley Doubles with college mates mind you and my strike was from barely six yards out, but suffice to say the subsequent celebration outweighed the occasion a thousand fold.
Anyway, back to Helmshore and the six lads... unforgivably they hadn't netted up over the top of the hooked stanchions. To make matters worse the nets were pegged in all tight and rigid. No sag, no shape, no depth and what a complete waste of stanchion. There's lots wrong with football in recent generations that has naturally waned my interest, and generic goal netting would be one of the most recent. You don't see many stanchions at all these days, particularly hooks. So what I witnessed here was borderline criminality. I felt like going over and advising them on the matter, but it wasn't actual criminality I suppose and, in fact, absolutely none of my business. I doubt they would have even remotely related to my enthusiasm and passion for goal stanchions. More likely I would have been told, ''f*ck off, weirdo''. It is to be hoped though that all the stanchions get fully utilised here on official match days or Helmshore should be forced by the authorities to give them up to more appreciative footballing communities!
That my warm up provoked more thought and retrospective than the actual race tells it's own story. That bad patch in the second half saw a recently improving old foe of mine Ashley Holt come by with two fellow Rossendale Harriers and a Clayton-le-Moors man getting away from me on the last climb up to Bull Hill. My hamstrings and glutes were screaming, which may link up to this recent lower back trouble, but besides, there just wasn't the next gear required to come back at them. A better time, but it felt like a poorer result. I keep believing I'm only as good as the next race, rather than the last. I think that's what's keeping me motivated at the moment.
Wednesday 8th August 2018
PILGRIM'S CROSS 6m/1100ft Helmshore, Rossendale. Lancs.
1st Man - Luke Turner (Clayton-le Moors) 40:05
1st Lady - Heather Turner (Rossendale) 48:50
My Stats - 43:19 17/192
PILGRIM'S CROSS
I must be a sucker for punishment. After waking up with a really stiff and sore back for the fourth morning in succession, there was still this uncontrollable compulsion to think I could race. The back trouble had got in to a rhythm of easing by afternoon, to the point were I had still been able to do a run later in the day. Even though I couldn't even bend down properly to put on my socks this particular morning, Pilgrim's Cross remained firmly on the agenda for the evening. Why risk it? Well, it's a case of use it or lose it. Racing may not be going great right now - may not come good ever again - but if I'm fit enough to have a go in time for the start and still compelled to persevere, shying away from competition is certainly not going to improve my results.
It was difficult to make head or tail of how I ran at Pilgrim's Cross. On the one hand, I was blowing up for a period in the latter half, losing half a dozen places during a sticky half mile and failing to hang in for a chance to catch them back. On the other hand, I looked back in surprise to find I was 84 seconds quicker than last year. That was odd, I thought I ran alright last year! It may have been a little windier last time, the going underfoot marginally faster in places this time, but not enough to make up that sort of time. So am I actually doing a bit better than I think? This is one of those instances where the very finest threads of positivity are worth clinging on to and taking in to the next race.
I arrived for this one in good time. Given my lower back's state of fragility, a good warm up was essential. The pain and stiffness had subsided so I considered myself off the hook and officially fit to race.
Whilst warming up I found myself trotting around the local recreation grounds at Helmshore, where maybe a dozen football pitches are closely concentrated. I could envisage the action, hear the noises and smell the smells of all these pitches soon to be a hub of activity when the new season kicks off. It brought back a memory or two to my exceedingly modest playing days, but it was a group of six lads which caught my attention. (I say 'lads', probably in their mid-twenties - I must be really getting on a bit) They were just having a knock around, but with some proper goal nets attached to one of the goalposts. I had already admired the goalposts around here for their substantial stanchions in the top corners. You can't beat a good old hooked stanchion in the top corner of a net. Stanchions give goal nets extra depth and characteristic - to actually strike the stanchion makes any goal look extra fabulous in my opinion. Trevor Brooking's goal for England versus Hungary back in 1981 forever sticks in my mind because Trevor actually stuck the ball in the hook - optimum magnificence for a stanchion geek like me. Even I stuck it in the hook once - 1993 on the Witton Park astroturf at Blackburn. I was only playing Wembley Doubles with college mates mind you and my strike was from barely six yards out, but suffice to say the subsequent celebration outweighed the occasion a thousand fold.
Anyway, back to Helmshore and the six lads... unforgivably they hadn't netted up over the top of the hooked stanchions. To make matters worse the nets were pegged in all tight and rigid. No sag, no shape, no depth and what a complete waste of stanchion. There's lots wrong with football in recent generations that has naturally waned my interest, and generic goal netting would be one of the most recent. You don't see many stanchions at all these days, particularly hooks. So what I witnessed here was borderline criminality. I felt like going over and advising them on the matter, but it wasn't actual criminality I suppose and, in fact, absolutely none of my business. I doubt they would have even remotely related to my enthusiasm and passion for goal stanchions. More likely I would have been told, ''f*ck off, weirdo''. It is to be hoped though that all the stanchions get fully utilised here on official match days or Helmshore should be forced by the authorities to give them up to more appreciative footballing communities!
That my warm up provoked more thought and retrospective than the actual race tells it's own story. That bad patch in the second half saw a recently improving old foe of mine Ashley Holt come by with two fellow Rossendale Harriers and a Clayton-le-Moors man getting away from me on the last climb up to Bull Hill. My hamstrings and glutes were screaming, which may link up to this recent lower back trouble, but besides, there just wasn't the next gear required to come back at them. A better time, but it felt like a poorer result. I keep believing I'm only as good as the next race, rather than the last. I think that's what's keeping me motivated at the moment.
Wednesday 8th August 2018
PILGRIM'S CROSS 6m/1100ft Helmshore, Rossendale. Lancs.
1st Man - Luke Turner (Clayton-le Moors) 40:05
1st Lady - Heather Turner (Rossendale) 48:50
My Stats - 43:19 17/192
Wednesday, 8 August 2018
NOT EVEN RUN OF THE MILL
LEE MILL FELL RACE - BEMBRIDGE 5 TRAIL
So I turned up at Bacup ready to have a real go with faith in the investment of a period of solid training runs to dig in to. I was particularly looking forward to the climbs, to see how some sustained loopy loops of hill work on Pendle might pay off. But instead of revelling in the fruits of my labour at the Lee Mill race, climbing was laborious and the result was ultimately fruitless. Then, just when I thought I might have salvaged a thread of self respect with a mile to go, I took a silly detour that effectively ended what was left of the contest.
Without any recognisable super-quickies evident on the start line, I said to Johnny Horrocks that this race was anybody's. Turned out it was very nearly his with John finishing second - by a second - in a very close battle at the front. Early on I was in third place and wondering just how close to the front I might stay with only Dan Gilbert and Johnners ahead of me - neither beyond my sight if I could run a decent one. But once the first climb of any real substance began, it was clear that the only way was backwards from there. I skipped my mind back to two days earlier and a seven mile run with two thousand feet of ascent - it was an easy excuse, but the most likely one as to why I was having to work so ridiculously hard to sustain such lumbersome movement.
The front two quickly got away, another two soon passed me and this race quickly degenerated in to one of those exercises of gurning the whole way around and dreading the uphill sections that I thought I would relish. With plenty more uphill to come in the second half of the race, an eventual plateau and subsequent downhill back to the mill seemed a long time coming. I was seventh by then and just intent on consolidating this when the not so great got decidedly worse. I'd taken my eye off the distant lads ahead when I came across a mini-labyrinth of trods where old slag heaps from a disused quarry were scattered. With much of the course well marked up to this point, the tape ran out here and so in some doubt, I aimed upwards and left towards a stationary mountain biker on the skyline who I assumed to be on the course watching the race. Of course downwards and veering right is where I should have gone. In fairness I eventually got shouted back in to line by some guys in a group behind me, but negotiating a simple cut across wasn't tenable - it was a time inducing detour of broken boulders, steep gullies and fine gritty scree before getting back on track. Positions had obviously gone begging so I firstly set about catching an old road racing adversary of mine, Steve Nolan, who was tussling with a Todmorden runner. But I made little gain on them on the descent and then had no more to offer than they had in the final half mile, then my head went. Disgracefully, I lost interest and the effort rate subsided. I got psyched out by the Tod runner's shorts. Red knee-length non-technical numbers - I think they even had turn-ups and pockets. No personal offence intended to the chap concerned, Duncan Cannon, who I have no reason to believe is nothing less than a lovely guy - I clocked him as I left the scene, all smiles and proudly reunited with his other half and baby. But he might have been ahead of me even before I strayed off course if he wasn't hampering his racing in those things. Unless he'd genuinely forgotten his running shorts and had to make do, somebody at Todmorden Harriers needs to get him sorted out!
Driving home, hindsighting the waste of a lovely evening and petrol money, I pondered the need these days for probably two easy days prior to a race to properly freshen up. But then again, I argued to myself, during training days I can sometimes thrive off a tough run a day or two after. Or perhaps, in the depths of yet another state of racing crisis, I consider whether I need a coach or advisor to sort me out? But then, who can? Even the best electricians in the world couldn't do a proper job without a reliable power supply. Some days I run like a dream, some days there's just nowt in the tank and there seems no rhyme or reason to any of it. All in all though, the good days don't seem to land on race day and this was another crap result.
Four days on from that not even run of the mill showing at Lee Mill and it's day two of a holiday on the Isle of Wight. Holiday time clashed with Kentmere Horseshoe this year which was unfortunate, but naturally I had already investigated to see if there were any races on the island. It turned out the only one that week was right on the doorstep of where we were staying at Bembridge. Rude not to, then. Alas the baking Summer broke that Sunday with rain all day and considerable fifty miles per hour winds hurtling up the English Channel. It was a wild one and made for a refreshing change to run in these much more oxygenated conditions. The race was a multi terrain five miler that strangely only shaved the lower woodlands of the one climb of note around here - up to the monument upon Culver Down. As such, it was fairly flat and fast going. Once the race settled down I found myself in fourth spot with the distance to the front two not really altering much after their initial surge at the start. Third place was clearly my only realistic aim though and with about a mile to go I started to fancy my chances. The lad ahead was getting closer and close enough for me to note a shoelace undone which I thought might further hamper his progress. Closing down a ten second gap, I got just behind him coming off the coastal path and heading back towards the village. I'll play the age card here then, as this fit and lean early twenty something held me off before retaining the gap and then stretching it further once we hit the final half mile on tarmac. I gave it a go, though the old legs just wouldn't engage any quicker and refused to be pushed beyond their boundaries.
A good run of form has yet to show itself this Summer. It's August now and I've barely had a couple of truly decent performances to note. I'm back in that dark place again, thinking what's the bloody point. But it didn't stop me pleasuring in a daily beach and cliff run to the top of Culver and back from where I was staying, time trialling the route on the occasions I felt like it. And maybe that's the future that I must also consider, just enjoying the random good days and seeing out the plod days in my own privacy rather than publicly disappointing myself by pretending I've still got some decent racing days left.
Wednesday 25th July 2018
LEE MILL FELL RACE 6.6m/1100ft Lee Mill, Bacup. East Lancs.
1st Man - Dan Gilbert (Horwich RMI) 50:55
1st Lady - Claire Ward (Hunter's Bog Trotters) 56:13
My Stats - 54:21 11/76
Sunday 29th July 2018
BEMBRIDGE 5 TRAIL 5m Bembridge, Isle of Wight
1st Man - Andy Weir (Thames Hare & Hounds) 32:10
1st Lady - Hannah Walker (Ryde) 41:54
My Stats - 33:35 4/66
LEE MILL FELL RACE - BEMBRIDGE 5 TRAIL
So I turned up at Bacup ready to have a real go with faith in the investment of a period of solid training runs to dig in to. I was particularly looking forward to the climbs, to see how some sustained loopy loops of hill work on Pendle might pay off. But instead of revelling in the fruits of my labour at the Lee Mill race, climbing was laborious and the result was ultimately fruitless. Then, just when I thought I might have salvaged a thread of self respect with a mile to go, I took a silly detour that effectively ended what was left of the contest.
Without any recognisable super-quickies evident on the start line, I said to Johnny Horrocks that this race was anybody's. Turned out it was very nearly his with John finishing second - by a second - in a very close battle at the front. Early on I was in third place and wondering just how close to the front I might stay with only Dan Gilbert and Johnners ahead of me - neither beyond my sight if I could run a decent one. But once the first climb of any real substance began, it was clear that the only way was backwards from there. I skipped my mind back to two days earlier and a seven mile run with two thousand feet of ascent - it was an easy excuse, but the most likely one as to why I was having to work so ridiculously hard to sustain such lumbersome movement.
The front two quickly got away, another two soon passed me and this race quickly degenerated in to one of those exercises of gurning the whole way around and dreading the uphill sections that I thought I would relish. With plenty more uphill to come in the second half of the race, an eventual plateau and subsequent downhill back to the mill seemed a long time coming. I was seventh by then and just intent on consolidating this when the not so great got decidedly worse. I'd taken my eye off the distant lads ahead when I came across a mini-labyrinth of trods where old slag heaps from a disused quarry were scattered. With much of the course well marked up to this point, the tape ran out here and so in some doubt, I aimed upwards and left towards a stationary mountain biker on the skyline who I assumed to be on the course watching the race. Of course downwards and veering right is where I should have gone. In fairness I eventually got shouted back in to line by some guys in a group behind me, but negotiating a simple cut across wasn't tenable - it was a time inducing detour of broken boulders, steep gullies and fine gritty scree before getting back on track. Positions had obviously gone begging so I firstly set about catching an old road racing adversary of mine, Steve Nolan, who was tussling with a Todmorden runner. But I made little gain on them on the descent and then had no more to offer than they had in the final half mile, then my head went. Disgracefully, I lost interest and the effort rate subsided. I got psyched out by the Tod runner's shorts. Red knee-length non-technical numbers - I think they even had turn-ups and pockets. No personal offence intended to the chap concerned, Duncan Cannon, who I have no reason to believe is nothing less than a lovely guy - I clocked him as I left the scene, all smiles and proudly reunited with his other half and baby. But he might have been ahead of me even before I strayed off course if he wasn't hampering his racing in those things. Unless he'd genuinely forgotten his running shorts and had to make do, somebody at Todmorden Harriers needs to get him sorted out!
Driving home, hindsighting the waste of a lovely evening and petrol money, I pondered the need these days for probably two easy days prior to a race to properly freshen up. But then again, I argued to myself, during training days I can sometimes thrive off a tough run a day or two after. Or perhaps, in the depths of yet another state of racing crisis, I consider whether I need a coach or advisor to sort me out? But then, who can? Even the best electricians in the world couldn't do a proper job without a reliable power supply. Some days I run like a dream, some days there's just nowt in the tank and there seems no rhyme or reason to any of it. All in all though, the good days don't seem to land on race day and this was another crap result.
Four days on from that not even run of the mill showing at Lee Mill and it's day two of a holiday on the Isle of Wight. Holiday time clashed with Kentmere Horseshoe this year which was unfortunate, but naturally I had already investigated to see if there were any races on the island. It turned out the only one that week was right on the doorstep of where we were staying at Bembridge. Rude not to, then. Alas the baking Summer broke that Sunday with rain all day and considerable fifty miles per hour winds hurtling up the English Channel. It was a wild one and made for a refreshing change to run in these much more oxygenated conditions. The race was a multi terrain five miler that strangely only shaved the lower woodlands of the one climb of note around here - up to the monument upon Culver Down. As such, it was fairly flat and fast going. Once the race settled down I found myself in fourth spot with the distance to the front two not really altering much after their initial surge at the start. Third place was clearly my only realistic aim though and with about a mile to go I started to fancy my chances. The lad ahead was getting closer and close enough for me to note a shoelace undone which I thought might further hamper his progress. Closing down a ten second gap, I got just behind him coming off the coastal path and heading back towards the village. I'll play the age card here then, as this fit and lean early twenty something held me off before retaining the gap and then stretching it further once we hit the final half mile on tarmac. I gave it a go, though the old legs just wouldn't engage any quicker and refused to be pushed beyond their boundaries.
A good run of form has yet to show itself this Summer. It's August now and I've barely had a couple of truly decent performances to note. I'm back in that dark place again, thinking what's the bloody point. But it didn't stop me pleasuring in a daily beach and cliff run to the top of Culver and back from where I was staying, time trialling the route on the occasions I felt like it. And maybe that's the future that I must also consider, just enjoying the random good days and seeing out the plod days in my own privacy rather than publicly disappointing myself by pretending I've still got some decent racing days left.
Wednesday 25th July 2018
LEE MILL FELL RACE 6.6m/1100ft Lee Mill, Bacup. East Lancs.
1st Man - Dan Gilbert (Horwich RMI) 50:55
1st Lady - Claire Ward (Hunter's Bog Trotters) 56:13
My Stats - 54:21 11/76
Sunday 29th July 2018
BEMBRIDGE 5 TRAIL 5m Bembridge, Isle of Wight
1st Man - Andy Weir (Thames Hare & Hounds) 32:10
1st Lady - Hannah Walker (Ryde) 41:54
My Stats - 33:35 4/66
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