BEGINNING OF THE END?
Since turning forty, summarising my racing ability over the last five years draws comparisons with a bath tub slowly draining away it's contents. Occasionally a welcome obstruction might have halted the flow, but right now it feels as if the drainage is speeding up. The whirlpool to the plughole is forming and it's gaining momentum.
There is a very real sense of some sort of end. This was the overwhelming feeling when out running yesterday. Punishing myself with further attempts of getting back to good racing fitness seems fruitless, for I'm not even getting the slightest inkling that I'm even going in the right direction. Whether this imminent end will be permanent or incur a long term break is not clear, but after another tired week that had actually followed a promising interval session... I can't be doing with the constant disappointment. The knees have been complaining again and I can't bury myself in the denial of that for much longer either. It's affecting my stride and I feel all out of synch. I thought Pilates was the miracle cure, but it can't plaster over the cracks of wear and tear. The classes certainly help, but I just never seem to recover fully from any run these days. I certainly never feel like an unsprung coil, that's for sure.
I feel shattered this morning again for no good reason. It's probably complete madness to race tonight, but there is a sense of duty to myself that I shouldn't give up just yet.
Tuesday, 30 April 2019
Sunday, 28 April 2019
'F' STANDS FOR FARCICAL AT IAAF
Blabbing on about the contorted ideology and policy of Sebastian Coe and the International Association of Athletics Federations as I did not too long ago, I lost my cool. But the outright ignorance, injustice and hypocracy of that organisation drove me to such written rantings in the first place. Sometimes a paragraph got carried away when a short sentence would have done. Some of it was speculative and self opinionated, some of it was just angry! But I can't take it back and I wouldn't dream of doing. The crux of my point remains fair I feel.
If athletes with natural physiological advantages are to be dosed with performance suppressing substances to ''create a level playing field'', then that policy ought to be across the board and not just picking on a few lasses who produce more testosterone than others.
Studying the results of the World Cross Country Championships in Athletics Weekly last month, the top twenty-five senior men were from African countries (Robel Fsiha in 17th runs for Sweden but is Eritrean born) In the senior women's race, the top seventeen are from Africa. That same continent dominated the under 20's races in a similar fashion. Generations of African distance runners must have some physiological advantages and that's fine, because that's how it is. But if the IAAF's intentions for Semenya were to be fair and across the board, then all these other fantastic African athletes should be prescribed performance suppression as well, shouldn't they?
If that was the case with athletes no longer allowed to run in their natural state, then athletics isn't even a sport any more. After a whole generation spent trying to eradicate the use of drugs, drugs would actually be allowed to completely take control. An Athletics Armageddon.
I was really disappointed to hear Paula Radcliffe jumping on the bandwagon when piping up a few weeks ago that, unless this IAAF ruling goes through, female competition will be dead as we know it because coaches will head hunt girls like Caster to take them to the top. So a bit of extra testosterone and a top coach is the secret to flooding the foreseeable big championship finals is it? ... Come on Paula, you know as well as anyone that extraordinary determination and hard work are of paramount importance. You can't buy that, it doesn't come naturally either. As for head hunting, this has already existed for years. A coach searching for the next middle and long distance superstars... are they going to be scouting the huge pool of potential in Africa, or sniffing around Europe trying to find a needle in a haystack?
African men and women endurance runners are quicker and stronger, more adept to middle and longer distances. It's physiological. It's genetic. It is fact. So too in their respective fields are black sprinters of Carribean ethnicity, bulky white Nordic European shot putters, tall high jumpers, swimmers with very large and wide feet... its endless... should they all be on performance suppressing drugs to keep the playing field level? Of course not, that would be farcical. As farcical as this world governing body itself. One way or another, I think history will tell us that the IAAF and the Court of Arbitration for Sport have got it all wrong.
Blabbing on about the contorted ideology and policy of Sebastian Coe and the International Association of Athletics Federations as I did not too long ago, I lost my cool. But the outright ignorance, injustice and hypocracy of that organisation drove me to such written rantings in the first place. Sometimes a paragraph got carried away when a short sentence would have done. Some of it was speculative and self opinionated, some of it was just angry! But I can't take it back and I wouldn't dream of doing. The crux of my point remains fair I feel.
If athletes with natural physiological advantages are to be dosed with performance suppressing substances to ''create a level playing field'', then that policy ought to be across the board and not just picking on a few lasses who produce more testosterone than others.
Studying the results of the World Cross Country Championships in Athletics Weekly last month, the top twenty-five senior men were from African countries (Robel Fsiha in 17th runs for Sweden but is Eritrean born) In the senior women's race, the top seventeen are from Africa. That same continent dominated the under 20's races in a similar fashion. Generations of African distance runners must have some physiological advantages and that's fine, because that's how it is. But if the IAAF's intentions for Semenya were to be fair and across the board, then all these other fantastic African athletes should be prescribed performance suppression as well, shouldn't they?
If that was the case with athletes no longer allowed to run in their natural state, then athletics isn't even a sport any more. After a whole generation spent trying to eradicate the use of drugs, drugs would actually be allowed to completely take control. An Athletics Armageddon.
I was really disappointed to hear Paula Radcliffe jumping on the bandwagon when piping up a few weeks ago that, unless this IAAF ruling goes through, female competition will be dead as we know it because coaches will head hunt girls like Caster to take them to the top. So a bit of extra testosterone and a top coach is the secret to flooding the foreseeable big championship finals is it? ... Come on Paula, you know as well as anyone that extraordinary determination and hard work are of paramount importance. You can't buy that, it doesn't come naturally either. As for head hunting, this has already existed for years. A coach searching for the next middle and long distance superstars... are they going to be scouting the huge pool of potential in Africa, or sniffing around Europe trying to find a needle in a haystack?
African men and women endurance runners are quicker and stronger, more adept to middle and longer distances. It's physiological. It's genetic. It is fact. So too in their respective fields are black sprinters of Carribean ethnicity, bulky white Nordic European shot putters, tall high jumpers, swimmers with very large and wide feet... its endless... should they all be on performance suppressing drugs to keep the playing field level? Of course not, that would be farcical. As farcical as this world governing body itself. One way or another, I think history will tell us that the IAAF and the Court of Arbitration for Sport have got it all wrong.
Friday, 26 April 2019
GOING DOWNHILL SLOW
RIVINGTON PIKE
Maybe it wasn't the wisest move to race the Pike just a few days after a leg trashing training run up and down Moel Eilio. Then the out and back walk to the summit of Snowdon on the Rhyd Ddu Path the morning after wasn't what you might call 'active rest' in this instance either. But then it's important not to get back in to a habit of shirking races and conjuring lame excuses to myself.
I'd planned on racing 'Rivi' at the weekend if we weren't up to much else, yet how was I to know I'd get carried away more or less as soon as we landed on our midweek mini-break in Snowdonia? It was difficult not to get excited as we approached our campsite where Eilio and the closely connected duo of Mynydd Mawr with Craig Cmbychan soar out of nowhere to form the mouth of the valley which starts at Betws Garmon and follows the Avon Gwyrfai up to Llyn Cwellen.
The top of Moel Eilio was calling and I knew I had to have a crack at getting up and down there before light faded and mouths got too hungry back at base camp that early evening. Although just shy of only four miles later, I'd climbed and then come down 2000ft of this 2382ft lump as fast as I possibly could. The steep descent worked my quads to the point of glorious numbness, which is something that needs to be done from time to time (fell runners will understand) and then particularly the downhill walk off Snowdon the day after left them in absolute bits. (Well worth it though, I think it's 25 years since I last topped the highest point in Wales. A truly spectacular day and a great route which avoided most of the crowds aside from the fifteen minute queue at the summit!)
Running was then out of the question for a few days, but even walking downstairs was still challenging as late as Friday morning. It wasn't so much a case of should I or shouldn't I do Saturday's race, more a case of could I or can I? Saturday morning and the stairs felt normal again. Quadriceps still sore to touch but the devil had already taken over my mindset, I was racing. It wasn't until parking up at Horwich and trotting the half mile up the road to registration at the Crown Hotel that I had my doubts. My legs were still a bit tender. But I was here now, so no going back.
Even arriving with fifty minutes to spare at the Crown, a queue spiralled through the pub, over-spilling in to the beer garden and on to the pavement. Another case of no decent warm-up time I feared, but my disgruntlement turned to relief as the queue shifted along quickly. Thanks to exemplary organisation and efficiency from the team on the race desk, I was entered and out of there in ten minutes.
Rivington Pike is a classic fell race. Maybe not actually a fell race as such, as at least half of the course is on road. But it does go up a fell and it's a no nonsense up and downer that dates back to the nineteenth century and the country's earliest known hill race still in existence. Greats have run it, greats have won it. Perhaps the most famous would be Ron Hill, although the mere mention of Ron alone isn't fair on all the other fantastic athletes, male and female, of fell or road racing pedigree that have taken this illustrious title. In more recent times, fell champion Rob Hope is well worth a mention, for he has seven victories to his name at this race. Next year it will be a quarter of a century since Rob's first taste of Rivington Pike glory back in 1995. That he is still in the mix today and third place at the ripe old age of forty-four says much about his sheer class. Rob Hope remains one of the fell running contemporary greats for me, a living legend in every sense of the word along with the likes of Ian Holmes and Rob Jebb. These guys keep it real and let their running do the talking too. No hype, no histrionics and no bull shit 'hashtagging'. (Whatever that's all about)
Pure, hard working, top quality athletes who keep winning stuff and yet just get on with it.
This was only my second appearance here. It took me a while to get a free Saturday from work to run it, then when I finally did it in 2013, it obviously didn't tug at my heart strings enough to return with too much haste. All I remember of that year was an iron-like taste of blood in my mouth at the finish after burning lung tissue trying to catch Ashley Holt and Rob Jackson.
So jogging around with plenty of time in hand seemed to ease the legs off before the start, but I was cautious not to do too much as temperatures were peculiarly in to the seventies Fahrenheit for the time of year. Even the breeze was warm. Not conducive to good racing conditions, but it was the same for everyone. One of Ribble Valley's esteemed recruits Michael Cayton went one place better than last year to win it for the first time. The name of Ambleside's Sarah McCormack caught my eye last week at Loughrigg where she smashed it. Here she was again winning easily and a fantastic eleventh overall ahead of some very handy male competitors.
Further down the field and I didn't seem to be going along too badly. Holt's here again, on decent form and wasn't too far ahead a mile in, nor were the sort of usual suspects that I don't want to be getting too far away from me such as Raby, Gilbert and Walsh. That was until we hit the steep short grassed section just before the gates of the final push to the Pike itself. It was like being at Loughrigg again, but worse. There's an unflattering terminology used by runners - ''I was blowing out of my arse'' - which refers to fates similar of going off too fast or just struggling due to not being up to the job. It was that very same proverbial hole which I was blowing out of here at Rivington. Unlike Loughrigg last week, I didn't even find any sort of recovery whatsoever coming down. In fact it got harder. I don't recall slowing so much whilst running downhill before! I was working hard, really hard to sustain what poor pace I could muster and yet even the forces of gravity didn't seem to be an advantage. The still slightly downwards main road to the finish had the arms and legs out all over the place. It was pain. At the end I led down and literally could barely speak to anyone for two minutes, maybe more. (lucky them) I was out of it.
Other than those dreary details, no point dwelling too much. Next race please...
Saturday 20th April 2019
RIVINGTON PIKE FELL RACE
Crown Hotel, Horwich. Nr. Bolton 3.2m/699ft
1st Man - Michael Cayton (Ribble Valley Harriers) 17:20
1st Lady - Sarah McCormack (Ambleside) 20:11
My Stats - 51/409 22:20
I'd planned on racing 'Rivi' at the weekend if we weren't up to much else, yet how was I to know I'd get carried away more or less as soon as we landed on our midweek mini-break in Snowdonia? It was difficult not to get excited as we approached our campsite where Eilio and the closely connected duo of Mynydd Mawr with Craig Cmbychan soar out of nowhere to form the mouth of the valley which starts at Betws Garmon and follows the Avon Gwyrfai up to Llyn Cwellen.
The top of Moel Eilio was calling and I knew I had to have a crack at getting up and down there before light faded and mouths got too hungry back at base camp that early evening. Although just shy of only four miles later, I'd climbed and then come down 2000ft of this 2382ft lump as fast as I possibly could. The steep descent worked my quads to the point of glorious numbness, which is something that needs to be done from time to time (fell runners will understand) and then particularly the downhill walk off Snowdon the day after left them in absolute bits. (Well worth it though, I think it's 25 years since I last topped the highest point in Wales. A truly spectacular day and a great route which avoided most of the crowds aside from the fifteen minute queue at the summit!)
Running was then out of the question for a few days, but even walking downstairs was still challenging as late as Friday morning. It wasn't so much a case of should I or shouldn't I do Saturday's race, more a case of could I or can I? Saturday morning and the stairs felt normal again. Quadriceps still sore to touch but the devil had already taken over my mindset, I was racing. It wasn't until parking up at Horwich and trotting the half mile up the road to registration at the Crown Hotel that I had my doubts. My legs were still a bit tender. But I was here now, so no going back.
Even arriving with fifty minutes to spare at the Crown, a queue spiralled through the pub, over-spilling in to the beer garden and on to the pavement. Another case of no decent warm-up time I feared, but my disgruntlement turned to relief as the queue shifted along quickly. Thanks to exemplary organisation and efficiency from the team on the race desk, I was entered and out of there in ten minutes.
Rivington Pike is a classic fell race. Maybe not actually a fell race as such, as at least half of the course is on road. But it does go up a fell and it's a no nonsense up and downer that dates back to the nineteenth century and the country's earliest known hill race still in existence. Greats have run it, greats have won it. Perhaps the most famous would be Ron Hill, although the mere mention of Ron alone isn't fair on all the other fantastic athletes, male and female, of fell or road racing pedigree that have taken this illustrious title. In more recent times, fell champion Rob Hope is well worth a mention, for he has seven victories to his name at this race. Next year it will be a quarter of a century since Rob's first taste of Rivington Pike glory back in 1995. That he is still in the mix today and third place at the ripe old age of forty-four says much about his sheer class. Rob Hope remains one of the fell running contemporary greats for me, a living legend in every sense of the word along with the likes of Ian Holmes and Rob Jebb. These guys keep it real and let their running do the talking too. No hype, no histrionics and no bull shit 'hashtagging'. (Whatever that's all about)
Pure, hard working, top quality athletes who keep winning stuff and yet just get on with it.
This was only my second appearance here. It took me a while to get a free Saturday from work to run it, then when I finally did it in 2013, it obviously didn't tug at my heart strings enough to return with too much haste. All I remember of that year was an iron-like taste of blood in my mouth at the finish after burning lung tissue trying to catch Ashley Holt and Rob Jackson.
So jogging around with plenty of time in hand seemed to ease the legs off before the start, but I was cautious not to do too much as temperatures were peculiarly in to the seventies Fahrenheit for the time of year. Even the breeze was warm. Not conducive to good racing conditions, but it was the same for everyone. One of Ribble Valley's esteemed recruits Michael Cayton went one place better than last year to win it for the first time. The name of Ambleside's Sarah McCormack caught my eye last week at Loughrigg where she smashed it. Here she was again winning easily and a fantastic eleventh overall ahead of some very handy male competitors.
Further down the field and I didn't seem to be going along too badly. Holt's here again, on decent form and wasn't too far ahead a mile in, nor were the sort of usual suspects that I don't want to be getting too far away from me such as Raby, Gilbert and Walsh. That was until we hit the steep short grassed section just before the gates of the final push to the Pike itself. It was like being at Loughrigg again, but worse. There's an unflattering terminology used by runners - ''I was blowing out of my arse'' - which refers to fates similar of going off too fast or just struggling due to not being up to the job. It was that very same proverbial hole which I was blowing out of here at Rivington. Unlike Loughrigg last week, I didn't even find any sort of recovery whatsoever coming down. In fact it got harder. I don't recall slowing so much whilst running downhill before! I was working hard, really hard to sustain what poor pace I could muster and yet even the forces of gravity didn't seem to be an advantage. The still slightly downwards main road to the finish had the arms and legs out all over the place. It was pain. At the end I led down and literally could barely speak to anyone for two minutes, maybe more. (lucky them) I was out of it.
Other than those dreary details, no point dwelling too much. Next race please...
Saturday 20th April 2019
RIVINGTON PIKE FELL RACE
Crown Hotel, Horwich. Nr. Bolton 3.2m/699ft
1st Man - Michael Cayton (Ribble Valley Harriers) 17:20
1st Lady - Sarah McCormack (Ambleside) 20:11
My Stats - 51/409 22:20
Friday, 19 April 2019
MORE PUNISHMENT
LOUGHRIGG
This seven o'clock starter in Ambleside on a Tuesday night has always seemed to be one that has got away from me... until now. Loughrigg and I were like lovers entwined for a week when up this way on holiday a couple of years ago, running more or less all of it's expansive network of paths and sheep trods. Since then there's been an even keener inclination to finally do the fell race.
So this year, sitting nicely inside Sara's Easter hols off work, it turned in to an excuse for an overnight camp. Already in the area from a day's walking and pottering, I scarcely recall ever being so early for a race. Saying that, twenty-six even earlier birds had already gone before me by the time number 27 here had registered.
Mountain goats from Lakeland clubs were in abundance and much of them looked like talented new blood. Even at forty-something, it's rare that I turn up for a fell race and see quite such an overwhelming majority of faces young enough to be my sons and daughters. Great to see though, but it was clear I was in for a good spanking tonight even if I defied logic and ran out of my skin.
There were some familiar evening race faces from Lancashire too. Firstly I cross paths with Bowland's Matt Bourne in the church car park who came up by virtue of the weather forecast it would seem - a beautiful Spring evening it was too. Then Darren Fishwick in the church hall - even less tech-savvy than me and so my 'Ten Good Reasons' for him remain unread - but he did give me a detailed lowdown of the race route. Wigan's Stephen Nicholls was limbering up on Rothay Park full of melancholic racing enthusiasm as usual. The familiar face (and still young, damn it) of Johnny Horrocks in the blue and white of Blackburn Harriers was typically playing it cool despite being on the cusp of the form his life.
Darren's advice was get out of the traps quick before it bottlenecks at the two bridges coming off the park. Well the chance would have been a fine thing! I thought I shot off sprightly enough but still got caught in the bridge jam, barely managing to burst out of the top fifty. It was a crazy one hundred yard stampede, further fuelled by what turned out to be a race record breaking field of 269 runners.
Straight after shuffling across the bridges, the upward slog starts and I settled down to a reasonable pace. I was even exhuming small doses of confidence as I picked my way further up the positional ladder with what felt at the time like plenty in reserve. But with a few hundred feet still to climb before this modest summit of 1083 feet, body chemistry went all out of synch. I began to blow hard and then I just blew up. Place after place was then lost and confidence drained far quicker than I had just dared to collect it.
Fishwick, in crap form by his standards and as beatable as ever just now, came past puffing. In the opposite direction, the leaders were returning already and the stark reality of just how off the pace I am in this race came to the demoralising fore.
By the time I reached Loughrigg's summit for the turnaround, this lung buster of a race had me feeling on the point of combustion. Initially, returning downhill brought no relief whatsoever as positions continued to go cheaply begging. About half way down the descent though, finally I recovered some wind and held my place. I suppose it's of some consolation that the race started and ended feeling good, but the bit in the middle where it all went wrong is going to take some even harder training and more races to build up the resilience.
The place I did manage to hold was absolutely nowhere, but then even a decent run here might not have scraped top thirty or forty. Johnny H ran an absolute blinder and even he only squeezed in to the top twenty. The quality present here - at what might be construed as a low key short midweek race - was considerable.
So whilst still plenty of room for improvement this year that only a few months of regular racing might put right, a peek through the goggles of realism is in order and I should say what I see rather than what I want to see. There's no point kidding myself any longer, times have changed and time has moved on. I should try and accept this than get myself wrapped up in over-ambition which ultimately leads to failure. I'm getting older and I'm getting slower. Fact. There are now wave upon wave of younger guns, faster and stronger. Even most of my contemporaries that I once equalled or bettered are now streets ahead of me and resisting their own onsets of decline with much more success. Once upon a time I might turn up for a Lakeland fell race with every chance of a top twenty place at the least and even have the audacity to be very disappointed not to be. Realistically, those days are long gone and perhaps just for the sake of actually enjoying my racing, it is now time to significantly lower the bar of my own expectations. Although part of me believes I could still hit a retro purple patch, statistics over the last six years speak for themselves... aside from the odd flash of form it's been so long since I've even got anywhere near that former self with any sort of consistency. To believe I can get back there now would be simply delusional.
The spectacular panorama from Wansfell Pike was had the day after for a fantastic walk from Skelghyll Woods, skirting back via Ambleside before sadly heading back homeward. Unable to resist a run later that afternoon, a few crappy miles were jogged out in local suburbia for the sake of it and that was a culture shock after a cracking couple of days in the big country.
Tuesday 10th April 20
LOUGHRIGG
Rothay Park, Ambleside 4m/1083ft
1st Man - Jacob Adkin (Keswick) 25:59
1st Lady - Sarah McCormack (Ambleside) 30:41
My Stats* - 55/267* 32:20*
* * * Although a completely pointless footnote of an also-ran, official results published have me down for 103rd in 35:46. This was based on the time I gave to the race organiser later that evening after I had been missed out in the checkout at the finish. But who knows which button I pressed on my watch, or when exactly, for the official results a week later showed I'd given myself a time penalty of over three minutes! Oh well. All I know is that Fishwick was about half a minute ahead of me and there's no way Nicholls beat me. So for my own record, I'm claiming the revised stats above which also takes in to account the distance I was behind the runner ahead of me and that I couldn't hear anybody close behind. It really isn't that important, apart from reiterating the fact that Stephen Nicholls had another great opportunity to beat me, but didn't. Thank you.
LOUGHRIGG
This seven o'clock starter in Ambleside on a Tuesday night has always seemed to be one that has got away from me... until now. Loughrigg and I were like lovers entwined for a week when up this way on holiday a couple of years ago, running more or less all of it's expansive network of paths and sheep trods. Since then there's been an even keener inclination to finally do the fell race.
So this year, sitting nicely inside Sara's Easter hols off work, it turned in to an excuse for an overnight camp. Already in the area from a day's walking and pottering, I scarcely recall ever being so early for a race. Saying that, twenty-six even earlier birds had already gone before me by the time number 27 here had registered.
Mountain goats from Lakeland clubs were in abundance and much of them looked like talented new blood. Even at forty-something, it's rare that I turn up for a fell race and see quite such an overwhelming majority of faces young enough to be my sons and daughters. Great to see though, but it was clear I was in for a good spanking tonight even if I defied logic and ran out of my skin.
There were some familiar evening race faces from Lancashire too. Firstly I cross paths with Bowland's Matt Bourne in the church car park who came up by virtue of the weather forecast it would seem - a beautiful Spring evening it was too. Then Darren Fishwick in the church hall - even less tech-savvy than me and so my 'Ten Good Reasons' for him remain unread - but he did give me a detailed lowdown of the race route. Wigan's Stephen Nicholls was limbering up on Rothay Park full of melancholic racing enthusiasm as usual. The familiar face (and still young, damn it) of Johnny Horrocks in the blue and white of Blackburn Harriers was typically playing it cool despite being on the cusp of the form his life.
Darren's advice was get out of the traps quick before it bottlenecks at the two bridges coming off the park. Well the chance would have been a fine thing! I thought I shot off sprightly enough but still got caught in the bridge jam, barely managing to burst out of the top fifty. It was a crazy one hundred yard stampede, further fuelled by what turned out to be a race record breaking field of 269 runners.
Straight after shuffling across the bridges, the upward slog starts and I settled down to a reasonable pace. I was even exhuming small doses of confidence as I picked my way further up the positional ladder with what felt at the time like plenty in reserve. But with a few hundred feet still to climb before this modest summit of 1083 feet, body chemistry went all out of synch. I began to blow hard and then I just blew up. Place after place was then lost and confidence drained far quicker than I had just dared to collect it.
Fishwick, in crap form by his standards and as beatable as ever just now, came past puffing. In the opposite direction, the leaders were returning already and the stark reality of just how off the pace I am in this race came to the demoralising fore.
By the time I reached Loughrigg's summit for the turnaround, this lung buster of a race had me feeling on the point of combustion. Initially, returning downhill brought no relief whatsoever as positions continued to go cheaply begging. About half way down the descent though, finally I recovered some wind and held my place. I suppose it's of some consolation that the race started and ended feeling good, but the bit in the middle where it all went wrong is going to take some even harder training and more races to build up the resilience.
The place I did manage to hold was absolutely nowhere, but then even a decent run here might not have scraped top thirty or forty. Johnny H ran an absolute blinder and even he only squeezed in to the top twenty. The quality present here - at what might be construed as a low key short midweek race - was considerable.
So whilst still plenty of room for improvement this year that only a few months of regular racing might put right, a peek through the goggles of realism is in order and I should say what I see rather than what I want to see. There's no point kidding myself any longer, times have changed and time has moved on. I should try and accept this than get myself wrapped up in over-ambition which ultimately leads to failure. I'm getting older and I'm getting slower. Fact. There are now wave upon wave of younger guns, faster and stronger. Even most of my contemporaries that I once equalled or bettered are now streets ahead of me and resisting their own onsets of decline with much more success. Once upon a time I might turn up for a Lakeland fell race with every chance of a top twenty place at the least and even have the audacity to be very disappointed not to be. Realistically, those days are long gone and perhaps just for the sake of actually enjoying my racing, it is now time to significantly lower the bar of my own expectations. Although part of me believes I could still hit a retro purple patch, statistics over the last six years speak for themselves... aside from the odd flash of form it's been so long since I've even got anywhere near that former self with any sort of consistency. To believe I can get back there now would be simply delusional.
The spectacular panorama from Wansfell Pike was had the day after for a fantastic walk from Skelghyll Woods, skirting back via Ambleside before sadly heading back homeward. Unable to resist a run later that afternoon, a few crappy miles were jogged out in local suburbia for the sake of it and that was a culture shock after a cracking couple of days in the big country.
Tuesday 10th April 20
LOUGHRIGG
Rothay Park, Ambleside 4m/1083ft
1st Man - Jacob Adkin (Keswick) 25:59
1st Lady - Sarah McCormack (Ambleside) 30:41
My Stats* - 55/267* 32:20*
* * * Although a completely pointless footnote of an also-ran, official results published have me down for 103rd in 35:46. This was based on the time I gave to the race organiser later that evening after I had been missed out in the checkout at the finish. But who knows which button I pressed on my watch, or when exactly, for the official results a week later showed I'd given myself a time penalty of over three minutes! Oh well. All I know is that Fishwick was about half a minute ahead of me and there's no way Nicholls beat me. So for my own record, I'm claiming the revised stats above which also takes in to account the distance I was behind the runner ahead of me and that I couldn't hear anybody close behind. It really isn't that important, apart from reiterating the fact that Stephen Nicholls had another great opportunity to beat me, but didn't. Thank you.
Thursday, 4 April 2019
ABSOLUTE DRIBBLE, BUT IT'S A START
PETE HARTLEY MEMORIAL LIVER HILL RACE
This first race back ended up being even more messy than I was expecting, but I kept my composure and took a hiding gracefully for a change.
One thing that did rankle with me though at this 'free entry' race was the lack of coinage dropping in to the Rossendale & Pendle Mountain Rescue Box. Perhaps the organisers could drop a subtle hint by suggesting a small donation in their fixture details - I think they have done so in the past. At registration, the three or four before and after me didn't give a sausage, the tight sods. Maybe I'm being a martyr about it just because I put a premeditated good few quid in, but in that short time around the desk where entries were pouring in, the percentage of entrants donating appeared poor to say the least. A couple from the Rab and Columbia jacket brigade were amongst the skinflints that I noticed. They fork out well in to three figures to parade around in the name of high end trendy outdoorsiness, I wonder if they spent over two quid on freshly ground coffee from the mobile trailer hanging around on the main road through?
PETE HARTLEY MEMORIAL LIVER HILL RACE
This first race back ended up being even more messy than I was expecting, but I kept my composure and took a hiding gracefully for a change.
One thing that did rankle with me though at this 'free entry' race was the lack of coinage dropping in to the Rossendale & Pendle Mountain Rescue Box. Perhaps the organisers could drop a subtle hint by suggesting a small donation in their fixture details - I think they have done so in the past. At registration, the three or four before and after me didn't give a sausage, the tight sods. Maybe I'm being a martyr about it just because I put a premeditated good few quid in, but in that short time around the desk where entries were pouring in, the percentage of entrants donating appeared poor to say the least. A couple from the Rab and Columbia jacket brigade were amongst the skinflints that I noticed. They fork out well in to three figures to parade around in the name of high end trendy outdoorsiness, I wonder if they spent over two quid on freshly ground coffee from the mobile trailer hanging around on the main road through?
Maybe some didn't see the collection box, maybe some saw it was free entry and left their cash in the car. But those with cash on them who made a conscious decision to not stick summat in that box when they knew it was there... well you bloody tight arsed sods, is all I can say! I can only hope post-race that more short arms did manage to delve further in to those long pockets.
Every time this nobody in particular has a ramble these days I seem to get on my soapbox, but I think there is fair reason to get uppity about this. The very fell running relevant importance of the cause for that collection box would be why. Any time, any place, any runner on the fells might end up in desperate need of any of the fantastic voluntary mountain rescue services one day.
Back to the race though and setting off nice and sensible didn't really pay dividends because it felt like I never got going. It was obvious my pace just wasn't there. Runners I thought I ought to be up with or not too far away were soon out of reach and got further away as the race went on.
"Come on Dribble!", shouted one owd chap just before we drop off the moor back down to Marl Pits. 'Dribble Valley' is the very affectionate name by which my current club is known in these Rossendale parts. I think it might just have something to do with cream of their latest crop and winner of this race last year in fact, Callum Davidson, being 'poached' by Ribble Valley last year. But Callum's a big boy and I'm pretty sure he made his own mind up.
Obviously I didn't take the 'Dribble' tag personally, it's quite funny really. But then again it was an accurate assessment of my own performance. The effort rate was there but I was slow. Somebody hasn't been working an interval session in to their week yet to get the old pins-to-airbags ratio ticking over quicker... and that would be me. It was also disappointing to get spanked late on by a couple of Accrington runners, including the lively veteran Graham Morris who has a habit of turning up when I don't run particularly well in recent years.
But, this is where I am at right now. There's no inquest as to why I ran worse than I thought, although ticking off one of the highest months of mileage in the last two years could prop up insecurely as an explanation, if not an excuse. I can't take consolation for a quicker time than last year either for the ground was far better going this year.
Speaking of Accrington Road Runners, what have they done to their vest colours? From the distinctive banana yellow and royal blue classic of which you could spot an Accy runner from a mile away, to this new mainstream flash of limey fluorescence trimmed with a darker blue. The vest was overdue an update perhaps, but this revamp just isn't Accy for me.
Tuesday 2nd April 2019
PETE HARTLEY MEMORIAL LIVER HILL RACE
Marl Pitts, Rawtenstall 4.3m/820ft
1st Man - Rob James (Royton RR) 32:14
1st Lady - Emily Morgan (Rossendale) 39:53
My Stats - 25/262 38:15
Every time this nobody in particular has a ramble these days I seem to get on my soapbox, but I think there is fair reason to get uppity about this. The very fell running relevant importance of the cause for that collection box would be why. Any time, any place, any runner on the fells might end up in desperate need of any of the fantastic voluntary mountain rescue services one day.
Back to the race though and setting off nice and sensible didn't really pay dividends because it felt like I never got going. It was obvious my pace just wasn't there. Runners I thought I ought to be up with or not too far away were soon out of reach and got further away as the race went on.
"Come on Dribble!", shouted one owd chap just before we drop off the moor back down to Marl Pits. 'Dribble Valley' is the very affectionate name by which my current club is known in these Rossendale parts. I think it might just have something to do with cream of their latest crop and winner of this race last year in fact, Callum Davidson, being 'poached' by Ribble Valley last year. But Callum's a big boy and I'm pretty sure he made his own mind up.
Obviously I didn't take the 'Dribble' tag personally, it's quite funny really. But then again it was an accurate assessment of my own performance. The effort rate was there but I was slow. Somebody hasn't been working an interval session in to their week yet to get the old pins-to-airbags ratio ticking over quicker... and that would be me. It was also disappointing to get spanked late on by a couple of Accrington runners, including the lively veteran Graham Morris who has a habit of turning up when I don't run particularly well in recent years.
But, this is where I am at right now. There's no inquest as to why I ran worse than I thought, although ticking off one of the highest months of mileage in the last two years could prop up insecurely as an explanation, if not an excuse. I can't take consolation for a quicker time than last year either for the ground was far better going this year.
Speaking of Accrington Road Runners, what have they done to their vest colours? From the distinctive banana yellow and royal blue classic of which you could spot an Accy runner from a mile away, to this new mainstream flash of limey fluorescence trimmed with a darker blue. The vest was overdue an update perhaps, but this revamp just isn't Accy for me.
Tuesday 2nd April 2019
PETE HARTLEY MEMORIAL LIVER HILL RACE
Marl Pitts, Rawtenstall 4.3m/820ft
1st Man - Rob James (Royton RR) 32:14
1st Lady - Emily Morgan (Rossendale) 39:53
My Stats - 25/262 38:15
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