BIG BREAK
Actually, there seems very little to be gained in some sort of ceremonious signing off at the Blencathra and Tebay races. I haven't run at all since Fairfield, which suggests I'm already two weeks in to the resting and healing process. There seems little point in blowing this accrued recovery time on two tough races that will be even tougher on a fortnight of runlessness.
It's not so much a case of listening to the body, but more a case of being told by it - and in no uncertain terms.
Fanciful ambitions and best intentions count for nothing without the basic ability to go out and run properly. After thirteen and a half years of running, it's time to take a proper break from it and see if I can get my crocked bits and pieces fully revived. There's no plan for when to try again exactly, not even in the furthest reaches of my mind's eye. Simply when it feels right to, I suppose.
With Ben at work deep in to his training as a sports injury therapist, he's used me as a subject to get some case study hours in and had a good look at my knees last week. It turns out my right knee is turned out. This would explain all sorts of aches and pains with the right hand side of my running mechanics. Top that with a back that rarely feels fully flexible and has been giving me grief again lately, with what I thought was a bruised heel but is plantar fasciitis and all those things combined with a far from perfect left knee either... it would seem ridiculous to carry on.
The paranoia of losing fitness altogether was eased yesterday when I finally got the bike out for an hour, blew some cobwebs away and really enjoyed it. I think I can finally make a habit of cycling now, particularly as I feel I really have to.
At the beginning of next week I've got a session booked on the bowling green. Yes, that's right, the bowling green. It was never tongue-in-cheek you know, I said it might come to this.
In a very timely, even incredulous coincidence, one of my good pals Leroy (Lee Dalton) has got in to crown green bowling recently. If the crossover from fell running to bowling may sound a stark contrast, Leroy's most recent sporting accolade is a Second Dan in karate.
Dalton and I used to roll up together all the time (he knows what I mean), but now we're going to roll a few 'ends' together and see what happens. The seeds of a new sporting passion to be sewn? Who knows? Certainly something to fill the gap whilst waiting for the green shoots of running recovery.
Friday, 31 May 2019
Wednesday, 22 May 2019
DISSENTING DESCENDING
FAIRFIELD HORSESHOE
I couldn't quite believe it when I worked out it was eleven years since my last appearance at this fantastic race. It's been at least seven years since I even summited Fairfield on a training run.
Despite this inconceivable sense of time travel, everything felt so strangely familiar on this long awaited return - although I was a little blase about how far the parking field was from registration. As it was my wife's birthday weekend, we had another stayover up this end of the world just ten minutes down the road from Rydal. Plenty of time for a chilled morning, no need to rush... but somehow I ended up getting tight for time to get my number, scampering down the track to chuck my kit on and then hurry back up to the start just in time for kick off. At least it got the adrenaline pumping at last, for every single outing since my last race eight days ago has been limited to slow jogging. Aches and pains in my knees again, general lack of energy levels - and as such - loss of running mojo. I've barely been able to run a sweat up.
Fairfield is just the sort of race that will chew you up and spit you out if not in condition for it. My woeful performances in both training and racing recently meant I was never going to treat it with anything less than the utmost respect.
When I thought I still had time on my hands and about to head off for registration, I get a shout and it's the familiar face of Blackburn Harrier Matt Nuttall. There's probably a joke going around about my admiration for Nuttall, but he's a strong all rounder who has run solid and fast at all disciplines for a quarter of a century or more. To cut a long story short, for a long time he was the runner who I aspired to emulate, even though I never really got close. Getting the better of him in the odd track session was as good as it got.
Matt's a committed athlete, strong personality, calls a spade a spade and unless it's profound and worth saying, he may not say much at all. He's always made a great double act with his best mate and close rival at the club, Paul Guinan. Nuttall and Guiny were like the Kray twins when I was at Blackburn.
I couldn't help observing that certainly for a race day, Mr Nuttall seemed much more laid back and friendlier than I've ever seen him before. Not that he was ever unfriendly as such, more so the broodiness of a fiercely focused competitor. Perhaps his more holistic approach to racing at the moment is bringing out his more socialite nature?
Anyway, like myself, Matt's struggling to get back to anything like form. Unlike myself though, he's dealing with it.
Even racing as a mere shadow of his former self, I'm admiring Nuttall all over again for a whole set of different reasons. His attitude to taking harsh beatings at every race of late is to say, ''I am where I am'', getting on with doing races he's never done before to maintain his interest and also hopefully building a way back. I wish I could share that same outlook, but I'm more of a troubled specimen. It's not that I don't get enjoyment, fulfilment or even lack gratitude that I am capable of running around routes like the Fairfield Horseshoe; it's just that if I can't feel as if I am being competitive, then I'd prefer to just run the route on my own. Being in a race to get an arse-kicking time after time is just making me more and more despondent. Nuttall however, well Nuttall is a different monster and is a monster that has a plan. I'm sure he'll see it through and that eventually he'll get back up to standard. I thought he'd lost the plot a few months ago when I saw photographs of him plugged in with earphones during a few fell races. Now I'm thinking it was all part of the grander masterplan.
I was around a minute or so behind Matt throughout most of the race until the last couple of miles, which says much about how far he has to go yet. I was reasonably content to make the summit inside an hour and had picked off plenty of places after a conservative first climb on to ridge of Nab Scar. I seemed to be holding my own on the second half of the horseshoe which throws in a couple more short climb testers and I remember thinking about half way down how I was feeling quite good and ready to finish the job off. But when the descent gets rockier and steeper, the quads numbed a touch, my knees didn't feel up to the job and all the places I had made up on the climb - and then some - were cheaply thrown away over the sort of terrain that once upon a time I thrived on. In one sense I felt I was holding back, but equally I felt I just couldn't push myself on either. With knees hurting and stiffening up, there was no rhythm at all to this shambolic manoeuvre down the hillside that sparked bouts of vocal self-condemnation and dissent which I can only hope no passing competitors thought was aimed at them.
I took a random peek at my watch which displayed 1.37... the valley floor still looks a long way down and even if I was descending in a plane I would say there was still a few minutes until touchdown.
In 2007 I had crossed the finishing line in 1.31.
The next time I dare glimpse at said wrist-based timing instrument is when I catch a view of all the runner's vehicles in the field, still a distance away and still a few hundred feet below. Now I'm on 1.42. I'd said to my fell racing widow Sara that I'd be hitting that track back to the finish in about 1:40, but here I was, still up the bloody fell. The last quarter of the race had disintegrated in to another sorry mess.
True to his word though, Clayton Harrier Chris Funnell had a drink waiting for me at the finish after we shared a few words running off the top of Fairfield. That put a smile on my face at least.
I walked back down the track with Nuttall after finishing and he was still looking at the positives, although when it came to his own descending, he too was a bit perplexed at his demise. Both of us also pointed to the odd day every fortnight when randomly we go out and run and everything seems fine again, before taking another week or two to recover and be able to run like that again. What's going on? Matt's got five years on me, battered himself since his early twenties doing triathlons, Ironman and still been a prominent and consistent runner throughout. He's got more of a right to be worn out and more of a right to be pissed off than me. But he's made of sterner matter than I, both in physicality and the stuff between the ears.
Another tough cookie is Wharfedale's Mark McGoldrick. Around the last time I did this race we were in each other's pockets at some races. In the last four or five years though, our running fortunes could not have gone in more different directions. Goldy was well up there in seventh at this one and has been sort of sub-elite for a few seasons now. A cracking fell runner indeed. I guess you've either got it or you've not and he has tapped in to another level and beyond. He laughed when I reminded him I used to beat him from time to time, but the joke was most definitely on me.
So is this my last race for a while? Can I suffer more punishment? My works postie and fell runner Alan Life thinks I should see out the end of June before considering downing tools. I feel like a crock though and just to add to my list of ailments, a creased back has erupted this week after a long period of relative calm.
Basic competency to run at all without pain pending, I've decided to see out my midweek race favourites of Blencathra and Tebay next month before in all likeliness calling time on the racing game and the plundering attempts to be fit for it.
I remain optimistic that I might be able to have a go again at some point in the future, but the curtain appears to be falling on this particular volume of running ramblings of nobody in particular it would seem.
Leaving the scene from Rydal down the dusty track back to the main road, a heart warming sight for an admirer of the fellrunning old school; I spot a chap of relative seniority in an Up & Down t-shirt. A priceless garment of vintage fell running value. The Up & Down magazine dates back to the very early 1990's - a brilliant editorial labour of love by one of my favourite fell folk, Dave Woodhead. There can't be many of those t-shirts about anymore. It goes without saying the model in question was also wearing original Ronhill tracksters and a pair of Walsh PB's. Talk about keeping it real? The ultimate antidote to tech-t's, graphene grip and compression tights enhanced with muscle containment membrane. What a dude.
Saturday 18th May 2019
FAIRFIELD HORSESHOE Rydal, Cumbria 9m/3000ft
1st Man - Carl Bell (Keswick AC) 1.20:17
1st Lady - Kelly Roberts (Helm Hill) 1.31:54
My Stats - 1.48:48 */*
FAIRFIELD HORSESHOE
I couldn't quite believe it when I worked out it was eleven years since my last appearance at this fantastic race. It's been at least seven years since I even summited Fairfield on a training run.
Despite this inconceivable sense of time travel, everything felt so strangely familiar on this long awaited return - although I was a little blase about how far the parking field was from registration. As it was my wife's birthday weekend, we had another stayover up this end of the world just ten minutes down the road from Rydal. Plenty of time for a chilled morning, no need to rush... but somehow I ended up getting tight for time to get my number, scampering down the track to chuck my kit on and then hurry back up to the start just in time for kick off. At least it got the adrenaline pumping at last, for every single outing since my last race eight days ago has been limited to slow jogging. Aches and pains in my knees again, general lack of energy levels - and as such - loss of running mojo. I've barely been able to run a sweat up.
Fairfield is just the sort of race that will chew you up and spit you out if not in condition for it. My woeful performances in both training and racing recently meant I was never going to treat it with anything less than the utmost respect.
When I thought I still had time on my hands and about to head off for registration, I get a shout and it's the familiar face of Blackburn Harrier Matt Nuttall. There's probably a joke going around about my admiration for Nuttall, but he's a strong all rounder who has run solid and fast at all disciplines for a quarter of a century or more. To cut a long story short, for a long time he was the runner who I aspired to emulate, even though I never really got close. Getting the better of him in the odd track session was as good as it got.
Matt's a committed athlete, strong personality, calls a spade a spade and unless it's profound and worth saying, he may not say much at all. He's always made a great double act with his best mate and close rival at the club, Paul Guinan. Nuttall and Guiny were like the Kray twins when I was at Blackburn.
I couldn't help observing that certainly for a race day, Mr Nuttall seemed much more laid back and friendlier than I've ever seen him before. Not that he was ever unfriendly as such, more so the broodiness of a fiercely focused competitor. Perhaps his more holistic approach to racing at the moment is bringing out his more socialite nature?
Anyway, like myself, Matt's struggling to get back to anything like form. Unlike myself though, he's dealing with it.
Even racing as a mere shadow of his former self, I'm admiring Nuttall all over again for a whole set of different reasons. His attitude to taking harsh beatings at every race of late is to say, ''I am where I am'', getting on with doing races he's never done before to maintain his interest and also hopefully building a way back. I wish I could share that same outlook, but I'm more of a troubled specimen. It's not that I don't get enjoyment, fulfilment or even lack gratitude that I am capable of running around routes like the Fairfield Horseshoe; it's just that if I can't feel as if I am being competitive, then I'd prefer to just run the route on my own. Being in a race to get an arse-kicking time after time is just making me more and more despondent. Nuttall however, well Nuttall is a different monster and is a monster that has a plan. I'm sure he'll see it through and that eventually he'll get back up to standard. I thought he'd lost the plot a few months ago when I saw photographs of him plugged in with earphones during a few fell races. Now I'm thinking it was all part of the grander masterplan.
I was around a minute or so behind Matt throughout most of the race until the last couple of miles, which says much about how far he has to go yet. I was reasonably content to make the summit inside an hour and had picked off plenty of places after a conservative first climb on to ridge of Nab Scar. I seemed to be holding my own on the second half of the horseshoe which throws in a couple more short climb testers and I remember thinking about half way down how I was feeling quite good and ready to finish the job off. But when the descent gets rockier and steeper, the quads numbed a touch, my knees didn't feel up to the job and all the places I had made up on the climb - and then some - were cheaply thrown away over the sort of terrain that once upon a time I thrived on. In one sense I felt I was holding back, but equally I felt I just couldn't push myself on either. With knees hurting and stiffening up, there was no rhythm at all to this shambolic manoeuvre down the hillside that sparked bouts of vocal self-condemnation and dissent which I can only hope no passing competitors thought was aimed at them.
I took a random peek at my watch which displayed 1.37... the valley floor still looks a long way down and even if I was descending in a plane I would say there was still a few minutes until touchdown.
In 2007 I had crossed the finishing line in 1.31.
The next time I dare glimpse at said wrist-based timing instrument is when I catch a view of all the runner's vehicles in the field, still a distance away and still a few hundred feet below. Now I'm on 1.42. I'd said to my fell racing widow Sara that I'd be hitting that track back to the finish in about 1:40, but here I was, still up the bloody fell. The last quarter of the race had disintegrated in to another sorry mess.
True to his word though, Clayton Harrier Chris Funnell had a drink waiting for me at the finish after we shared a few words running off the top of Fairfield. That put a smile on my face at least.
I walked back down the track with Nuttall after finishing and he was still looking at the positives, although when it came to his own descending, he too was a bit perplexed at his demise. Both of us also pointed to the odd day every fortnight when randomly we go out and run and everything seems fine again, before taking another week or two to recover and be able to run like that again. What's going on? Matt's got five years on me, battered himself since his early twenties doing triathlons, Ironman and still been a prominent and consistent runner throughout. He's got more of a right to be worn out and more of a right to be pissed off than me. But he's made of sterner matter than I, both in physicality and the stuff between the ears.
Another tough cookie is Wharfedale's Mark McGoldrick. Around the last time I did this race we were in each other's pockets at some races. In the last four or five years though, our running fortunes could not have gone in more different directions. Goldy was well up there in seventh at this one and has been sort of sub-elite for a few seasons now. A cracking fell runner indeed. I guess you've either got it or you've not and he has tapped in to another level and beyond. He laughed when I reminded him I used to beat him from time to time, but the joke was most definitely on me.
So is this my last race for a while? Can I suffer more punishment? My works postie and fell runner Alan Life thinks I should see out the end of June before considering downing tools. I feel like a crock though and just to add to my list of ailments, a creased back has erupted this week after a long period of relative calm.
Basic competency to run at all without pain pending, I've decided to see out my midweek race favourites of Blencathra and Tebay next month before in all likeliness calling time on the racing game and the plundering attempts to be fit for it.
I remain optimistic that I might be able to have a go again at some point in the future, but the curtain appears to be falling on this particular volume of running ramblings of nobody in particular it would seem.
Leaving the scene from Rydal down the dusty track back to the main road, a heart warming sight for an admirer of the fellrunning old school; I spot a chap of relative seniority in an Up & Down t-shirt. A priceless garment of vintage fell running value. The Up & Down magazine dates back to the very early 1990's - a brilliant editorial labour of love by one of my favourite fell folk, Dave Woodhead. There can't be many of those t-shirts about anymore. It goes without saying the model in question was also wearing original Ronhill tracksters and a pair of Walsh PB's. Talk about keeping it real? The ultimate antidote to tech-t's, graphene grip and compression tights enhanced with muscle containment membrane. What a dude.
Saturday 18th May 2019
FAIRFIELD HORSESHOE Rydal, Cumbria 9m/3000ft
1st Man - Carl Bell (Keswick AC) 1.20:17
1st Lady - Kelly Roberts (Helm Hill) 1.31:54
My Stats - 1.48:48 */*
Sunday, 12 May 2019
HARSH REALITIES
PINHAW MOOR
It may not be politically correct and quite possibly offend some individuals that this statement could implicate; the fact of the matter is though that I've started getting done over by guys who aren't quite built like racing snake pillars of running athleticism.
It might be an overall lack of brawny definition, thick-set arms and shoulders, a larger bum than me... all sorts of similar details that can make me think during a race, "Oh shit, how's he running faster than me?".
There's absolutely no malice or disrespect intended here, it's just an observation. These are still very fit lads who can run up and down hills and that makes them way fitter and stronger than probably 99% of the population in my view. But in the heat of the contest of late, this observation leaves me scratching my head wondering why this is happening and why am I going backwards so quickly?
Running is my sport of choice, my hobby, my passion and with the time and effort invested, it's difficult to accept that this probably is the moment when I have to acknowledge my own standards have crashed so hard they are beyond repair.
Adding to the post-race frustrations, my little Citroen had been boxed in by some thoughtless hoon in a red Peugeot. After shuffling back and forth maybe ten times to finally squeeze a way out, once the drive home from Earby began that Friday night was when the devastation set in after another race that I'd rank in my bottom five performances. Maybe the worst ever. To go backwards when there doesn't seem to be any more room for regression is really hard to take.
Once again, I didn't set off like a nutter and yet struggled to get in to the race. I got picked off time and time again over the gradual incline to Pinhaw's trig point. I could only hope I had a decent descent in my legs to pick some back. But no. I'm still getting overtaken. I have no reply, no change of gear. Some chaps put over a minute in to me on the way back down who shouldn't be doing. That's not to take anything away from them, it's a condemnation of my own lack of ability.
Just lately, running and racing has been like trying to fill a teapot with a huge crack in it - the more you put in to it, the more seems to drain away. Or to finish off my analogy about the bathtub and the whirlpool forming at the plughole from a couple of weeks ago... this Pinhaw race was like the burp when the very last vortex of liquid slips away.
When I got home, Sara asked me how I'd got on. I apologised for completely wasting a Friday evening that we could have spent together and won't get back. ''Don't be daft'', she says, looking at me slightly puzzled. There was only one thing for it, three pint sized cans of very cold Stella Artois duly consumed within an hour and a half before bedtime. That didn't help though, I was awake for a long time in the night thinking about running.
My shop boss Ben Fish was in a class of his own at this race and won by a healthy margin. After throwing away victory in the first race of this Pendle & Burnley Grand Prix series last Sunday, that big navigational cock-up was appeased in style at Pinhaw. With navigational confidence clearly in tatters, The Fish followed me over to the race venue from work on his Royal Enfield motorbike. As it turned out, it would be me losing my way that evening and in more ways than one.
. . .
What now? Well I wasn't awake in the night for ages without good reason. Tuesday evening plans to race one of my favourite shorties, Mearley Clough, are now well and truly off the agenda. With grave doubts of performing any better, there seems little point. Instead, I'll be finding my own little patch of Pendle Hill where I do my morning loops to see what's left and race the clock over two or three circuits. Then Saturday, it's the real deal and the Fairfield Horseshoe. Fairfield was one of my first tastes of proper fell racing and even if I run poorly, I will still take pleasure from this epic route. If it turns out to be the last race I do for a while, then the perfect swansong.
Friday 10th May 2019
PINHAW MOOR
Earby, East Lancs. 5m/700ft
1st Man - Ben Fish (Blackburn Harriers) 29:56
1st Lady - Jacqueline Collins (Barlick FR) 37:32
My Stats - 35:39 32/255
PINHAW MOOR
It may not be politically correct and quite possibly offend some individuals that this statement could implicate; the fact of the matter is though that I've started getting done over by guys who aren't quite built like racing snake pillars of running athleticism.
It might be an overall lack of brawny definition, thick-set arms and shoulders, a larger bum than me... all sorts of similar details that can make me think during a race, "Oh shit, how's he running faster than me?".
There's absolutely no malice or disrespect intended here, it's just an observation. These are still very fit lads who can run up and down hills and that makes them way fitter and stronger than probably 99% of the population in my view. But in the heat of the contest of late, this observation leaves me scratching my head wondering why this is happening and why am I going backwards so quickly?
Running is my sport of choice, my hobby, my passion and with the time and effort invested, it's difficult to accept that this probably is the moment when I have to acknowledge my own standards have crashed so hard they are beyond repair.
Adding to the post-race frustrations, my little Citroen had been boxed in by some thoughtless hoon in a red Peugeot. After shuffling back and forth maybe ten times to finally squeeze a way out, once the drive home from Earby began that Friday night was when the devastation set in after another race that I'd rank in my bottom five performances. Maybe the worst ever. To go backwards when there doesn't seem to be any more room for regression is really hard to take.
Once again, I didn't set off like a nutter and yet struggled to get in to the race. I got picked off time and time again over the gradual incline to Pinhaw's trig point. I could only hope I had a decent descent in my legs to pick some back. But no. I'm still getting overtaken. I have no reply, no change of gear. Some chaps put over a minute in to me on the way back down who shouldn't be doing. That's not to take anything away from them, it's a condemnation of my own lack of ability.
Just lately, running and racing has been like trying to fill a teapot with a huge crack in it - the more you put in to it, the more seems to drain away. Or to finish off my analogy about the bathtub and the whirlpool forming at the plughole from a couple of weeks ago... this Pinhaw race was like the burp when the very last vortex of liquid slips away.
When I got home, Sara asked me how I'd got on. I apologised for completely wasting a Friday evening that we could have spent together and won't get back. ''Don't be daft'', she says, looking at me slightly puzzled. There was only one thing for it, three pint sized cans of very cold Stella Artois duly consumed within an hour and a half before bedtime. That didn't help though, I was awake for a long time in the night thinking about running.
My shop boss Ben Fish was in a class of his own at this race and won by a healthy margin. After throwing away victory in the first race of this Pendle & Burnley Grand Prix series last Sunday, that big navigational cock-up was appeased in style at Pinhaw. With navigational confidence clearly in tatters, The Fish followed me over to the race venue from work on his Royal Enfield motorbike. As it turned out, it would be me losing my way that evening and in more ways than one.
. . .
What now? Well I wasn't awake in the night for ages without good reason. Tuesday evening plans to race one of my favourite shorties, Mearley Clough, are now well and truly off the agenda. With grave doubts of performing any better, there seems little point. Instead, I'll be finding my own little patch of Pendle Hill where I do my morning loops to see what's left and race the clock over two or three circuits. Then Saturday, it's the real deal and the Fairfield Horseshoe. Fairfield was one of my first tastes of proper fell racing and even if I run poorly, I will still take pleasure from this epic route. If it turns out to be the last race I do for a while, then the perfect swansong.
Friday 10th May 2019
PINHAW MOOR
Earby, East Lancs. 5m/700ft
1st Man - Ben Fish (Blackburn Harriers) 29:56
1st Lady - Jacqueline Collins (Barlick FR) 37:32
My Stats - 35:39 32/255
Thursday, 2 May 2019
ON THE ROCKS
ORCHAN ROCKS
Set in the steep valley that winds in to Todmorden from the Burnley end, what a cracking little race this turned out to be. I could easily have stayed at home and sulked, but I'm glad I made the trip and took another spanking. Fellow Ribble Valley member Ste Hall is one of the first faces I recognise in The Staff of Life pub as we scribble out our entries, so at least I had somebody to whinge to both before and after the race.
A few hours earlier I was walking Connie on the park and I couldn't stop yawning. I'd felt rubbish all day - the moaning and groaning ramble typed out here on her earlier walk that morning testifies.
By the height of that afternoon, the atmosphere had got quite warm and stuffy and I'm still in the land of the semi-conscious wondering why and just how I'm going find what it takes to race shortly. But I don't let the demons take over. I'm still racing.
Fortunately it had freshened up by early evening. The tropics of the Western Lancashire flatlands in the afternoon were quite some contrast to the comfortably cool conditions on arrival at what was once an outpost of East Lancashire. Yorkshire-fied since 1974, Todmorden suffered under the act of indiscriminate Delancastrianisation - otherwise known as the county boundary changes.
Hall was strong, running a fine second place and out of sight, then it was some of the same old surnames of Holt, Gilbert, Barrett, then a couple more places on was Fishwick... and once again I'm seriously well off the pace from these guys. Not too far behind either, one of my few regular blog ramble and rant readers Alan Life will be thinking I'm for the taking soon. The long time Clayton-le-Moors Harrier has got the pedigree from his younger days and might just be plotting an Indian Summer of his own. On the plus side I did manage to take back a couple of places on the final descent, but climbing felt hopeless and that's undoubtedly where it all went wrong here. The future outlook for my racing remains very much on the rocks.
Ste was quoted with precise accuracy as ever on the Ribble Valley Harriers social media newsreel saying, ''Sutty turned up and looked like Big Bird off Sesame Street'', with reference to my stand-out all-yellow Spring and Summer club kit. (Well, hopefully Summer) Post-race the yellow vest came off and I put it up to Darren Fishwick to see how it suited him. Despite the fact I had rudely interrupted his conversation, the force of his resistance had lessened once again. Perhaps he has just got rather bored of me now. He's still not joined yet, that's for sure and he's still not even read my 'Ten Good Reasons' why he should, either.
Tuesday 30th April 2019
ORCHAN ROCKS
Lydgate, Nr. Todmorden 3.4m/919ft
1st Man - Martin Howard (Calder Valley FR) 22:31
1st Lady - Amy Freeman (Darwen Dashers) 28:18
My Stats - 26:26 11/78
ORCHAN ROCKS
Set in the steep valley that winds in to Todmorden from the Burnley end, what a cracking little race this turned out to be. I could easily have stayed at home and sulked, but I'm glad I made the trip and took another spanking. Fellow Ribble Valley member Ste Hall is one of the first faces I recognise in The Staff of Life pub as we scribble out our entries, so at least I had somebody to whinge to both before and after the race.
A few hours earlier I was walking Connie on the park and I couldn't stop yawning. I'd felt rubbish all day - the moaning and groaning ramble typed out here on her earlier walk that morning testifies.
By the height of that afternoon, the atmosphere had got quite warm and stuffy and I'm still in the land of the semi-conscious wondering why and just how I'm going find what it takes to race shortly. But I don't let the demons take over. I'm still racing.
Fortunately it had freshened up by early evening. The tropics of the Western Lancashire flatlands in the afternoon were quite some contrast to the comfortably cool conditions on arrival at what was once an outpost of East Lancashire. Yorkshire-fied since 1974, Todmorden suffered under the act of indiscriminate Delancastrianisation - otherwise known as the county boundary changes.
Hall was strong, running a fine second place and out of sight, then it was some of the same old surnames of Holt, Gilbert, Barrett, then a couple more places on was Fishwick... and once again I'm seriously well off the pace from these guys. Not too far behind either, one of my few regular blog ramble and rant readers Alan Life will be thinking I'm for the taking soon. The long time Clayton-le-Moors Harrier has got the pedigree from his younger days and might just be plotting an Indian Summer of his own. On the plus side I did manage to take back a couple of places on the final descent, but climbing felt hopeless and that's undoubtedly where it all went wrong here. The future outlook for my racing remains very much on the rocks.
Ste was quoted with precise accuracy as ever on the Ribble Valley Harriers social media newsreel saying, ''Sutty turned up and looked like Big Bird off Sesame Street'', with reference to my stand-out all-yellow Spring and Summer club kit. (Well, hopefully Summer) Post-race the yellow vest came off and I put it up to Darren Fishwick to see how it suited him. Despite the fact I had rudely interrupted his conversation, the force of his resistance had lessened once again. Perhaps he has just got rather bored of me now. He's still not joined yet, that's for sure and he's still not even read my 'Ten Good Reasons' why he should, either.
Tuesday 30th April 2019
ORCHAN ROCKS
Lydgate, Nr. Todmorden 3.4m/919ft
1st Man - Martin Howard (Calder Valley FR) 22:31
1st Lady - Amy Freeman (Darwen Dashers) 28:18
My Stats - 26:26 11/78
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)