TWO TOWERS TOUGHER THAN I REMEMBER!
HOLCOMBE TWO TOWERS
Momentum gained of late hit the buffers here, but it was by no means disastrous. If you can say to yourself that you turned up with the right attitude and have given everything, then self criticism ought to be kept to a minimum, even for me. I last ran this race in 2010 and whilst my grey matter recollected the venue and parts of the course reasonably well, I had forgotten just what a tough little bugger of a four miler this really is. From the almost immediate steep scramble through the woods to the open moorland, the legs and lungs were burning up and there was absolutely no respite as the incline drags upwards and onwards to the iconic Peel Tower. A brief opportunity to get some wind back in the sails across Holcombe Moor comes to an end with another little pull up Harcles Hill. From there it's a testing flagged route up and down along the western slopes of the moorside before one final long slog back up to the tower, Peel Tower that is. By Two Towers, the race refers to the same tower, twice.
I knew I'd put a shift in and really needed a race like this to scrape the bottom of my resolve. I soon found myself pocketed alone between two groups. The bunch ahead were scrapping for top ten places and gradually got further away from me. But aware that behind me the nearest threat was maybe half a minute in my wake, I was determined to at least consolidate my place and stick everything I had left in to the descent towards the finish. Literally, there was just no section of this race to gain a bit of recovery, it was eyeballs out, tongue out, teeth out, the whole lot. It's a cracking descent from the tower with a bit of everything underfoot and when thundering down to the base of the woods for the final surge to the finish, a quick watch check revealed I had just surpassed my finishing time of seven years ago. Rather than be disillusioned though, I was spurred on to try and clock in within a minute or so of that previous time. But a spark from my memory jogger facility then recalled the finish being a little further on than where we started. So it wasn't terrific but not terrible either as I crossed the line two minutes and eighteen seconds behind my own shadow of yesteryear.
Holcombe Two Towers is a proper little blow-out of a fell race which served as good practice for short, high intensity races like this of which there are quite a few of similar ilk ahead on the summer evening calendar. It was also a sensual reminder of the pain involved!

Wednesday 14th June 2017
HOLCOMBE TWO TOWERS   Holcombe Brook, Ramsbottom, Lancs   4m/1312ft
1st Man - Ben Coop (Bury) 33:54
1st Lady - Donna Cartwright 45:05
My Stats - 38:31   12/109    

BLENCATHRA BLISS BLOWS AWAY HARROCK HELL 
BLENCATHRA
Blencathra has always been one I wanted to tick off and despite the 168 mile round trip on a Wednesday evening, sometimes you've just got to go and do these things. I wasn't to be disappointed. What a midweek beauty this is. I thought nothing could better the Tebay race for a proper middle distance fell race on a midweek evening, but I think this one may just top it. This post-race euphoria is sugar coated by what I considered to be another encouraging performance, but even if I had completely bombed and ran a stinker, this tough course rewarded with some magical views would have still pinched at my heart strings and guaranteed some satisfaction regardless.
So I opted for discovering something new again as this week's choice of race. I also decided to raise the bar of the challenge, despite some reservations that the carry-over feel-good factor from Ingleton could be mind over matter. But another consistent week of varied running sessions had left me feeling even stronger and confident I had more to offer.
Blencathra, at 2847 feet is the most northerly Lakeland fell of prominence. From my first peek that evening of it's distinctive saddleback skyline approaching Penrith on the M6, I couldn't wait to get there and crack on with scaling a summit that I had last trodden over a quarter of a century ago.
Even the starting point of this race is impressive. Ever so slightly off the beaten track through tiny Mungrisdale, the aptly named Fellgate reveals a valley that suddenly opens up like a vast and wonderful theatre for the evening's performance. It is from here that one hundred and sixty odd runners lined up silently as the race organiser remembered fell runners no longer with us and then recited some choice words of the great Alfred Wainwright over the loud speaker. Blencathra was one of the fells AW enjoyed with the most affection. Hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention and had they not, I had no right to be there.
Then for a few seconds the only sound was that of race numbers flapping in the strong breeze before we were off. After a brief boggy squelch with diagonal intentions across the valley base, the course picks up a steep single file trod through the thick bracken up on to the immediate skyline from where a strong headwind accompanied an arduous but runable sequence of false summits which finally reaches Bowscale Fell. I got caught in traffic up that initial climb so it felt, dare I say it, a little bit too easy. I thought that not to be a bad thing however at this early stage and so only until the hillside opened up did I begin to pick off a few places and realise pretty quickly that my positive mentality was being partnered by positive physicality. The old legs were feeling lightweight and pliable, so I knew I could be on for quite a decent run despite having done no serious fell work for some time.
From the summit of Bowscale, a spectacular view of the main event comes in to the frame. From a north eastern aspect, Blencathra's dark jagged ridges leaned almost obtusely. From here I can see the leaders scaling the north ridge and there was a descent to come first, however I found myself still gradually picking away through the field and climbing Blencathra itself quite fluently and really able to put in a good rate of effort. I was racing. Not just surviving, but racing again and up here where it's at. I was a touch disappointed that the route didn't scale the northerly tip of the mountain and run along the saddle, instead we approached the southerly tip and Blencathra summit by a lesser spectacular traverse behind it, but what an incredible view to the West opened up as sunlight bled through pockets of hefty cloud upon the valley between Great Calva and Skiddaw.
I think the endorphines got to me at this point when initially descending Blencathra as if the finish was in sight. I shot past one of the leading ladies from Howgill Harriers and an Ellenborough guy, both of whom had been just ahead of me for some time. I was starting to wonder if I was getting a little giddy and whether or not there was an uphill sting in the tail to come and sure enough I could see it way down in the distance. The descent veers off in to the rougher stuff of bilberry bushes and longer grasses before a climb up and along Souther Fell ensues and it was on this next section of descent that I squeezed on the breaks realising there was still some work to be done. Some damage was already done as I'd smacked my quads up quite a bit and when that relatively short climb began, the black and yellow vests of Howgill and Ellenborough came back at me. However, I had the reserves to dig in and grit my teeth through a few more little undulations before the big drop down to the valley where it all began and managed to keep tabs on that Howgill runner, Heidi Dent. As the steep drop to the finish begins, an Ambleside veteran comes bounding along making light weight of both the terrain and of gravity itself to pick up probably ten places or more in this section. I may have picked back a place or two but my quad muscles were really numbing now. I hit the valley floor just behind Heidi and after two knee deep bogs followed by a paddle across the River Glenderamackin, I was still just hanging on to her shadow. A twelve yard but nevertheless killer incline from river bed to the farm track sees the finish in sight and probably less than two hundred yards to the line, but I just couldn't reel her in and in fairness I think the Howgill lass had a bit more left in the tank than I did. I just missed out on a top forty finish but was well satisfied with the manner in which I had run it more than times or positions. I enjoyed every single minute of it and this felt like a major breakthrough. Who was that plodder wondering why the the bloody hell he bothers at Harrock Hill just a couple of weeks ago? What a difference a fortnight can make.

Wednesday 7th June 2017
BLENCATHRA   8.1m/2707ft   Fellgate, Mungrisdale, Cumbria 
1st Man - Ben Mounsey (Calder Valley) 1.04:28
1st Lady - Lou Roberts (Ambleside) 1.16;19
My Stats - 1.18:44   41/164

''This is a mountain that compels attention, even from those dull people who are not habitually lifted to the hills. To artists and photographers it is an obvious subject for their craft; to sightseers passing along the road or railway at it's base, between Keswick and Penrith, it's influence is magnetic; to the dalesfolk it is the eternal background to their lives, there at birth, there at death. But most of all it is a mountaineers' mountain. - Alfred Wainwright

RISE AT THE FALLS
INGLETON SCENERY
The only way was up after that personal worst at Harrock Hill last week. The time clocked there, unknown until publication of the results after accidentally stopping my watch, turned out to be much worse than I had even imagined! So it was with a sense of relief and satisfaction that I put that diabolical result to bed with a performance far better than I expected at the following week's trail race in Ingleton.
During the previous week that was, my stringent avoidance of saturated fats had shed a couple of pounds which was always going to be advantageous. But on the morning of race day, a precautionary ECG I'd been booked in for found something called a 'heart block' which isn't a condition as such, but refers to an occasional disruption of the electrical pulses that control the heart beat. At the moment I am assured it's nothing to worry about and is not uncommon amongst those of lowly pulse rates. Nevertheless I am being referred to a cardiologist. I can't seem to bloody well shake off medical appointments at the moment, but it's been well worth the visits so far as I would have otherwise been carrying on gorging on mascarpone cheese completely oblivious for who knows how long? Medical blab aside then, and to the race. The doctor didn't say I couldn't run so there was no doubt I was going to pin a number on that evening. With plenty of local racing options to choose from midweek, I had opted for something new and low key instead. There aren't many races Clitheroe postman and fell runner Alan Life hasn't done and once I got the course details from Alan, my choice of race this week was confirmed with excitement after learning it was the whole route around Ingleton Falls.
This fell in nicely with half term and my days off as well, so the race was preceded by a glorious leisurely family walk around the falls on a warm and sunny afternoon. This culminated in some very decent looking fish and chips being deservedly devoured on the village green by the river - but not for me. I'd already snacked out on a comparatively dull but needs-must chicken salad wrap to keep me going. I pinched a couple of chips and a bit of fish, but the salivation was too much and I had to just leave them to it so cleared off to go and get my kit on.
The route bottle necks after a few hundred yards so it was important to find my place in the race and just before things narrowed off, I made the brave decision to surge past six or seven ahead of me based on their pace clearly slowing as the path got more technical underfoot. I thought it was a risk with last week's performance in mind, but no such troubles this time around. Much of the climbing up to the head of Thornton Force is on unforgiving flights of steps which I thought would beat me up, but I seemed to find a decent enough rhythm to hold my place. Over the top of Thornton Force, I glimpsed the unusual sight of the leaders probably not much more than a minute and a half ahead. I was feeling like there was a race in me at long last and gaining a bit of confidence.
Descending down a beautiful short grass slope with the might of Ingleborough in full view I could hear company behind, but once we headed back in to the tight woodland trails of steps and limestone I sensed I had pulled clear of that threat and was now concentrating on the vest colours of Helm Hill and Trawden AC not far ahead. I started to believe these two guys were for the taking if I didn't make any rash advances. The afternoon's recce was much to my advantage having spotted a few off piste second-saving short cuts and soon enough the Helm Hill lad was behind me and Trawden's James McIlvenny right in front. I was happy sitting behind, but once the course levels out a bit and the path widens I found myself naturally, though reluctantly at first, overtaking again. So yes, I wasn't overtaken and in fact I did some overtaking. This was a modern day revelation. I fairly powered back to the finish from there, buoyed by this long lost feeling of having a good run. It turned out my relative stats were also going in the right direction, less than ninety seconds behind the leaner than ever racing machine that is Darren Fishwick. That will do me fine right now after Darren ran a tactically perfect race to pick off his way up to fourth place.
It was that same Chorley runner Mr Fishwick who summed this race up in the car park afterwards, telling me, ''That's got to be the best value race on the calendar - three quid, bottle of beer and a Mars bar - it costs twice that to walk it during the day''. (In fairness, £15 for a family ticket, including all day parking and much more time to take in the natural splendour) It's a walk I've enjoyed a few times over the years and definitely a cracking route to race. It's certainly different with the steps, but rewarding in the second half of the race chasing through tight twisting trails like a human rollercoaster.
Gratefully, I'd been saved a few cold chips, curry sauce and mushy peas for the journey home and a miniature cholesterol blowout was had - swilled down with a warm bottle of Keighley brewed ale - perfect! One for next year? I reckon so.

Thursday 1st June 2017
INGLETON SCENERY   4.7m/886ft   Ingleton Falls, North Yorks.
1st Man - Paul Webb (Settle) 30:48
1st Lady - Amie McAvoy (Garstang) 39:01
My Stats - 34:02  9/68 
  

STARTING AGAIN, YET AGAIN
HARROCK HILL RACE SERIES [1]
I don't like turning up for races when I'm not in racing fettle, which is precisely why I have been a rare sight at races in recent years. Listening to the usual pre-race excuses of others last night, I enjoyed sticking mine out there. Few people escaped from being told I have higher than normal cholesterol levels - I almost seemed to revel in it! A bit like these crazy folk who claim to have bespoke food allergies because it gives them a heightened, if deluded, sense of individuality, or even class. Of course, I wasn't claiming to be a special one. More a case of humouring myself and understandably, not everybody quite tunes in to that. Who was the crackpot banging on about cholesterol last night? That would be me.
Post-cholesterol diagnosis (there I go, mentioning it again - I am obsessed) I am implicating it in to my running like it is a new start again, yet again. Positive effects of diet tweaking will not be instant, if at all, but I have to give it a go. So what? I'm not in amazing racing shape but does that mean I don't race all Summer? Maybe I need to race regular to get back racing like I want to. Bizarrely, whilst regularly toying with this obvious idea the last couple of years, I have chickened out of doing it. I turn up for a race, get my ass kicked by guys who have never beat me before, don't like it, go back to the drawing board until I go and do it again when next I feel up to kidding myself. It's been a non-productive cycle which I thought I should go and break by dragging my sorry slow legs and partially clogged arteries over to West Lancashire for the first Harrock Hill race of the series - with a view to ticking off at least one race a week now during Summer, regardless of how pants a performance I can muster. Racing myself to race fitness is something not yet tried, so the bowls somehow still remain on hold until enough time has been had for the results of this latest experiment come to fruition.
Instantly I found myself off the pace in a race I used to regularly do very well in. Initially it was difficult in such familiar surroundings to accept this fate, but I did. There was no point trying to run against the tide on a course which I know only too well will bite you on the backside if you go out too fast in the first couple of miles without the confidence of good form behind you, especially on a muggy night such as this. So I settled down, ran it sensibly, tried to ignore who was immediately ahead and whether or not I thought they should be, but yet still had a sticky time on the dragging climb in the middle section of the course. However, the last two miles were a very small and yet important positive to grab on to in that my legs finally began to feel fluent, my breathing settled and I was pleased to remind myself that I am not so old that I can't jump a cattle grid with ease. I managed to gain a place back, fuelled in the closing stages by that runner ahead cutting a corner where the course is clearly marked in the right angle of a field. A petty cheating offence to which I shouted, ''nice one pal, saved a whole second there'', the reply ''any help I can get'' resigned me to think, 'good answer, but I'm really going to have to beat you now.' Spurred by this, I finished with a bit of a flourish which was, as I say, a flicker of light on a night when I smashed a personal worst time and lowest finishing position of my umpteen appearances at Harrock Hill. It's a yardstick of where I am right now, but I am looking to do much better at next month's meeting with a few more races in the tank and refraining from offending fats. Did I mention my higher than normal cholesterol levels?

Wednesday 24th May 2017
HARROCK HILL RACE SERIES [1]   5.2m/800ft   Bispham Green, West Lancs.  
1st Man - William Rawson (Leigh) 33:56
1st Lady - Jayne Taylor (Wigan H.) 43:18
My Stats - 39:02   16/197

TIME TO FACE FATS
No thanks to the reckless numpties behind these recent cyber attacks, my blood test results were initially unavailable as all systems were down in an even more chaotic period than usual for our National Health Service. But with a long overdue general medical check booked a week or so later I thought in the meantime I'd go with the general instinct of what folk have been telling me and take the iron tablet test. It surely can't be of pure coincidence that my game bucked up just a couple of days after taking Feroglobin capsules. I unexpectedly managed back-to-back runs of eight and nine miles and if not at a pace to get excited about, there was a capability of putting a bit of effort in. It must be stated though that I haven't continued to take these on a daily basis until I find out if I genuinely need them. A few days prior to the Feroglobin experiment, training hit rock bottom. Even in troubled times of poor form I have been able to fall back on the fact that I could still put in a decent track session on a Tuesday night. But this particular session of 6 x 1200m ended half way through as my split times dipped steeply in the face of an increasing effort rate to fight it. In the end I pulled out because I was so far adrift from my usual pack that it was going to be simply bad manners to the leading lads for whom I would be messing up their recovery times. A day or two later and it seemed effects of the tablets kicked in and whilst only for a few days did I feel so great, be it a placebo effect or a genuine boost to my iron storage, a first decent week of running since the Three Peaks has been had since popping those pills!
When finally checking in for that medical MOT and servicing, an advisory notice was attached. My bloods were absolutely fine and actually no iron deficiency at all as it turned out, but a test for cholesterol that morning proved to be on the high side which came as quite a surprise. OK, so I'm an athletical nobody in particular, but I'm a fit lad and I eat a balanced diet. Originally a Chef by trade, I know my onions now way more than I ever did when I was too busy surviving day to day in restaurant kitchens. I eat well and I eat fresh. Like all runners, I enjoy the occasional cake and biscuit binge when I feel it's justified, but this news about my cholesterol level was a bit of an eye opener. Whether predisposed to it or in denial about the amount of naughtiness I actually consume, action had to be taken. Aside from the cholesterol test, I proved to be a bit of an all round headache for the practice nurse. A resting pulse rate of 42 being the main head scratcher. The nurse was aware of my running activities but nevertheless sought a second opinion and now I am in the system and booked in for an electrocardiograph. Then I'm told my BMI was also just outside the desirable zone. On the one hand, this will justify George Davies' suggestion that I try and shed half a stone, whilst on the other hand, my other half Sara questioned the whole body mass index scale and it's relevance because she thinks I'm a bit on the thin side and could do with a pound or two more on my rack! Anyway, the bottom line is that I must face the facts of the cholesterol reading and try and do summat about it. I've immediately cut out any foods in which saturated fats are calculated as anything but low. It's reasonable to configure that this may be related to lacking the gusto to run hard. Quite close to the cholesterol levels required to take statins, that is definitely not a street I want to go down. Although some ambiguity remains because there's good and bad cholesterol and it's not clear to me yet which are responsible for the overdose, either way I'm aiming for a marked improvement in six months time when I am next checked out for a reading. In the meantime, my old summer favourite the Harrock Hill race tonight? Tempting...

     

SUMMAT'S DEFINITELY NOT REET
THREE PEAKS RACE
Not exactly a specific medical term as yet, but in Lancastrian layman's, summat is most definitely not reet at all. As such, it's now boiled down to finally swallowing the stereotypical reluctance of the male persona by booking an appointment at the local surgery. That's not to say that I ignored the pre-race diagnosis of Dr Barnes on Saturday. Having listened to my moans about poor performance and general lethargy, Chris Barnes prescribed some heavy duty iron tablets as a likely remedy and he's not been the only one to suggest the same since. But post-race, considering the complete lack of capability to complete the course this year, I'm going down the official route for a blood test. Whilst I tick plenty of boxes for some signs of anaemia, googling the subject relates it to the likes of stomach ulcers and much, much worse so I've spared myself reading in to too much detail for now! As much as Chris Barnes loves being right, I really do hope he is right on this one and there is nothing more sinister lurking. It would all make sense, and it seems iron deficiencies are fairly common place to distance runners.      
Back to Saturday then, and so the big long runs hadn't been done to bolster my staying power, but running decent weekly mileage over a four month period was in the storage tank and a steady two hours around Kentmere Horseshoe ten days prior to the Three Peaks suggested to me that it wasn't ridiculous to believe I could tootle around the course in a similar fashion and time to last year. But if most races I have done this year have ended up much worse than I had projected, I really wasn't ready for being faced with the reality of actually pulling out. I knew it would get messy at some point, but not finishing was not even a pre-race fleeting thought. This was my seventh appearance at the race and at no point before had I even needed to toy with the idea. I had got as far as approaching the Hill Inn checkpoint at just over 16 miles when I realised the game was up. I'd never truly felt like I had got going, or that I could get going. Yet even without really testing myself, the body seemed to be bereft of energy and my leg strength totally disintegrated. Coming off the second peak of Whernside, knee-bend felt restricted, the suspensions had gone, balance was wonky and I was descending in a ridiculous fashion. Where this steep and awkward descent begins to tame, I took a tumble and it was then that I realised I really wasn't fit to carry on with eight miles and Ingleborough still on the agenda. Fortunately I was never going at all fast enough to inflict much more than scrapes and  bruises. As I lay face down for a few seconds there, I was overcome with a submissive calm. I could have stayed there longer. Feeling shattered, pathetic and out of my depth, but yet somehow happy that I had consolidated with reality. With about a mile or so of shuffling towards the Hill Inn checkpoint, pulling the plug was now a necessity rather than a consideration. lt was strange because although I had pretty much decided it was the sensible thing to do, when actually approaching the checkpoint I had to really concentrate on sticking to that decision because I was getting bombarded with thoughts about just carrying on, calling myself a soft arse, feeling some kind of guilt and indignity. It was only once I had stopped and electronically dibbed myself out of the race that I realised I really had done the right thing. Wounded pride aside, the end came as a massive relief.
Early on I had taken it very steady up the first summit of Pen-y-Ghent. I took it easy coming down as well and maintained my composure despite all and sundry overtaking - some just overzealous in displaying their descending skills at this early stage - some with more serious intentions. But not long off there at five miles I could sense trouble and already feel some running in my legs, even at that moderate distance. So I dipped off the pace a little more to see if I could run through it. At around six miles, or quite possibly a more strategic ten kilometre mark given his otherwise entirely random positioning, that Ribble Valley Harrier in Chief Chris Barnes was out there like some subliminal apparition, arm stretched out pointing to tell us our projected finishing time based on current pace, which he somehow calculated from this very particular point on Horton Moor. "3:49 pace!".... "That'll do", I replied. But deep down I knew that the engine wasn't going to live up to the maths. Up until this point I had the regular company of Craig Stansfield who I should point out is hard as nails. Road running is by no means his pedigree, but on the back of a 2.59 London Marathon six days earlier, here he was on his way to a 3.51 Three Peaks. Next news, a few days later he's in Scotland doing twelve miles and five Munroes. Nuts, but incredible. He was whinging earlier on, but I knew he'd come through and he did. Iron deficiency is not a problem for the Stanners - he's made of the stuff.
Ten minutes or so later and Whernside begins to loom, and in the light of that day, cast in the partial shade with a slight haze fuzzing out the detail of it's contours, she looked like one bloody big vertical wall. By the time I got on to the road section down to Ribblehead, I realise that there isn't much more to offer than this very conservative pace, but that it should still be enough to get me back to Horton in one piece. My Blackburn clubmate Andy Heys came by, so based on my assertion Andy was on for a better run than his debut last year and the fact I was never going to have as good a second half to the race as 2016, I concluded we may well be in the same sort of projected finishing time today so I didn't really want to let him out of my sights if I could help it. Then Andy did get out of sight immediately after Ribblehead, but I nudged ahead again half way up Whernside. Off the top of there though, it's normal to take a minute or so to adjust to a regular running pattern after that long beast of a climb, but I felt worse than ever and it didn't get any better. My descending felt like a joke, my arms and legs were all over the place. Andy eventually came by as the gradient evens out for the run down to the Hill Inn and it was just moments later that a clumsy clip on the limestone track sent me to the deck and ultimately to the land of DNF. Nevermind Did Not Finish, I was then worried it was going to be a case of DNGH (Did Not Get Home) as this narrow section of the B6255 was at a standstill with cars backed up as far as one could see. I didn't want to hang around for the race bus which was another hour away awaiting the cut-off time and at this rate, the bus could neither get in or out anyway. I started walking up the road to see what all the fuss was about and think what I was going to do. It seemed a section had got single filed due to double-parking and there was a stubborn stand-off to determine whether East or Westbound were the ones to start the reversing convoy that would put an end to the chaos. I'd also been fishing around for a familiar face to scavenge an eventual lift back to Horton and although felt really cheeky, it was a case of needs-must as I recognised Lisa Stansfield. Most people of my generation could instantly put a face to that name, but this one is more Rossendale endurance runner than Rochdale diva and Craig's other half. Despite not knowing who the hell I was, she was happy enough to ferry me back for which I am eternally grateful indeed. No sooner had I successfully hitchhiked, when all of a sudden the cars on the left began to move and we were off. Probably boring Lisa and her son Charlie on my running doldrums during the journey back to base, uncannily she suggested I take up bowls - perhaps this was my calling!
The following morning, a lovely recovery walk with Sara and the Connie dog in Tockholes where more uncanniness came my way when bumping in to Andy Heys of all people. I was glad to hear Andy got back in to the race after Whernside beat him up and then went on to take a ten minute slice off his 2016 effort.
I hope I'll be back strong enough to have another go one day. My PB from just four years ago of 3.44 feels light years away at the moment and more than likely now set in stone. I was never really satisfied with that at the time and always thought if I could sort my climbing out there was a 3.30 for the taking. Now I'd settle for just being able to get around the bloody thing!

Saturday 29th April 2017
63rd THREE PEAKS RACE   Horton-in-Ribblesdale, North Yorks.
1st Man - Murray Strain (Hunters Bog Trotters) 2.49:38
1st Lady - Victoria Wilkinson (Bingley Harriers) 3.09:19 (CR)
My stats - DNF

TEN DAYS TIL PEAKS
So the Three Peaks race has come around once again. I really cannot call how it's going to pan out this year. Current race form suggests there is no point whatsoever of getting hung up about chasing anything close to a PB. On the one hand training has been very solid and consistent for months, but on the other hand without a single long run much over thirteen miles and not enough mileage done on the big fells it's difficult to gauge what's really in the tank for a 23 miler. I'm starting to think more about my condition after the Peaks rather than the race itself. I've taken an off-road-only stance and not running at all when I don't feel like it with the aim of generally edging towards getting some freshness back in the legs. Having had a look at what I was doing when I was hitting much better form a good few years ago, the truth is that sustained mileage was never the key.
Post-Darwen Half and after a really disappointing run, mentally I couldn't be arsed and physically I was feeling weary so a week of very tentative training and some rest days were chucked in to the mix to help recharge a sense of willing and stave off the threat of falling in to an injury hole. I'm fairly certain too much tarmac pounding during Winter has recently taken it's toll, so with the Three Peaks looming and if only to maintain a state of basic running capability to still take part in the race, it's no more junk miles and especially so on the hard stuff.
The last week or two has seen the return of some enthusiasm and some decent quality runs in the bag. A distinct lack of tarmac has certainly helped get those niggles back under control and a few more non-running days is helping to see through the murk of mileage and towards the light of freshness. Last night saw a return to strong running in the weekly interval session on the track, solidly averaging 73 seconds for 16 x 400 metres with one minute recoveries. I'd planned to do twenty, but sixteen quality ones felt enough as tomorrow it's a long awaited run in the Lake District with my old favourite, the Kentmere Horseshoe, to get under the belt. So yes, the Three Peaks is on my mind and I'd like to do as well as I possibly can on the day. But it's all about my race performances thereafter. I cannot continue to train hard and feel like crap most of the week only to then race like a sack of spuds before publicly self deprecating in this diary. If it's not depressing me, then it must be depressing my tiny circle of readers that recent blog statistics show to be ever decreasing! There are many ways, more positive ways in which to spend spare time and other avenues to seek sporting endorphin. I've not given up on competitive running yet, but I need to be realistic. This year really is the year of do or don't.

DELUSION, DENIAL AND DOWN IN THE DUMPS AT DARWEN HALF
DARWEN HERITAGE HALF MARATHON 
So where do I start after this latest racing calamity? The process of head scratching and soul searching is now tiresome. I can only conclude that I must have been seriously kidding myself leading up to this race. Perhaps I've been kidding myself all year. As far as racing was concerned, Sunday's Darwen Half Marathon descended in to little more than a decent training run as the gear shift to something like race pace would not and could not engage. Only the obligation of my pre-entry for the Three Peaks will keep me running with any sort of intent now, at least until the end of this month. Only the reassuring voices of one or two club mates urging me to give it more time is what staves off the easy option of walking away. As well as delusion, I must also confess denial. I try not to whinge too much about niggles because they are part and parcel of running, but I've fallen in to the trap of trying to hide them from myself and being too tight to go for treatment. The foam roller is preventative, but not a cure.
That's not to excuse Sunday's lack of performance one bit though. Regardless of aches and pains, training and race form once again showed a complete lack of compatibility out there on the hilly roads of Turton Moor. I had run it sensibly for the first four miles when Dave Almond rocked up from behind. Without any disrespect to Dave, he wasn't a competitor I was expecting to get too far ahead of me. On the start line I cheekily put to Dave, a former Blackburn Harrier who recently switched allegiance to the town's Road Runners club, ''what's with the away strip?''. As he nudged ahead of me looking very business like and focused on the job in hand, I pondered if what I had said had given him even more incentive and certainly plenty enough to let his running do the talking which proved to be the case. The next two miles are essentially downhill to Chapeltown and I was feeling fairly comfortable at this point, whilst Dave sounded like he was putting a bit more effort in than myself so I had reason to believe that I could turn the screw on both he and other runners jostling around us when the course heads for the sky again on the long drag through Edgworth and beyond. Wrong.
The Almond got stronger and stronger and I got left behind. I couldn't find any sort of push or thrust whatsoever. If physically my race never got going, then mentally it was now certainly over as Dave and Co became dots in the distance and then a few more places went begging to whom I had no response. The last few miles were seen out with a dummy spitting rant to Harriers legend and coach George Woodburn about this being my last race and to Mrs Woodburn, our membership secretary, about the pointlessness of paying my UK Athletics levy when I feel I can't even compete anymore. As you do.
It's all pretty negative stuff from me at the moment, so some words of a positive nature should be hereby stated at least as far as my club Blackburn Harriers is concerned; firstly for the form of race winner Ben Fish who smashed out a 69 minuter on a course which is certainly demanding if nothing else. There are, albeit a minority, of elite runners who may have the upper hand on Ben. But on this course, on that day, I'm not sure who in the country could have beaten him. It was a truly first class performances. Young Jack Hindle also showed what he's made of to come third and there is much more to come from him. Chris Davies' enviable and unwavering high level of consistency continued for fourth, much the same could be said of Shaun Livesey in seventh whilst the golden boys Guinan and Nuttall were back punching their weight in tenth and eleventh. If I was having a bad time, it wasn't as bad as fellow blue and white Ben Costello. Costello is making excellent progress and was a key figure in the club's superb eighth place in the Northern 12 Stage Road Relays the previous weekend, but this one got the better of him and I finally passed him when bringing up his breakfast against a wall. Every credit to him to for ploughing on and seeing it through.
These are some of the guys with whom I share the Witton Park track on a Tuesday night and whilst it's unpleasant that I seem to be the only one going in the wrong direction, it's a cracking group. Finally, before returning to some self-bashing negativity, a congratulatory mention to Dave Almond who was indeed in great form, winning the Vet50 category and finishing nineteenth overall with a result that would have got my nod of approval even if I'd only seen it on paper.
So back to the negativity and as much as I feel I'm doing summat right in training, I'm clearly doing something wrong. I had the legs for the distance on Sunday but the pace was stuck in monotone. With said niggles to get ironed out and a general low level of enthusiasm for running at the moment it's difficult to see where it's all going. There's a fear rather than excitement about what shape I'll be in for the Three Peaks race. Just over three weeks to get mind and body strong again for that one. If it wasn't for my pre-entry, then www.secondhandbowls.co.uk would have already received an order from me.

DARWEN HERITAGE HALF MARATHON
Sunday 2nd April 2017
1st Man - Ben Fish 1.09:17 (Blackburn Harriers)
1st Lady - Julia Hartley 1.38:49 (Ribble Valley Tri)
My Stats - 1.29:24   28th/311  

GOOD ENOUGH TO CARRY ON
RODDLESWORTH ROLLER
As the main title to these pages of ramblings suggest, I am indeed a nobody in particular. But that does not exempt me from heaping self induced pressure upon myself as if I was actually a somebody. I was certainly getting a bit twitchy leading up to Roddlesworth. Despite easing the training volume a little, a feeling of freshness was in slow supply and I never felt spritely all week. This culminated in to the very real underlying fear that this weekend could produce another poor race and with it a complete pointlessness to the whole notion of running to compete.
A performance anything less than reasonable would not only indicate a cold front frosting those green shoots of the forecasted Indian Summer, but in fact the beginning of an Ice Age as far as racing is concerned. As such, this year's Roddlesworth Roller had become a race of ridiculous self importance. I suppose this could be perceived as a bit dramatic, the dummy ready to be spat from the pram, the towel dangling in to the ring. But as far as competing goes, I need to feel like I am actually competing or what's the point? It's black and white when it comes to racing. Sometimes I wish I could relax and just turn up at races for pure pleasure, but that's never really going to happen!
In addition to being billed as this do or don't race, I was to be joined at the line by my Thursday night run chum Johnny Horrocks. I don't think either of us knew how it was going to pan out and I think both of us were a little nervous at going head to head. Moons ago I challenged John to beat me in a race before I turned forty, this never happened and, all be it having rarely raced against each other for years, I retained these bragging rights.
At the perfect age of 26, with natural running ability and the genetic advantages from his father Mark Horrocks who was a top class fell runner in his time, Johnners has it all to come. At the athletically degenerative age of 43, of little pedigree and having bashed my body with football, drink and smoke until eleven years ago, I knew the tide was to turn eventually.
Although clubbed with Chorley, John has been consistently joining our track sessions at Blackburn over the Winter and has been gaining yardage on me since the turn of the year, getting himself in really good nick. He races most weekends and I knew I was going to have to rely on, or hope for a one-off day of feeling great to keep him behind me. Once the race was underway, tension elapsed and I got myself off to a sensibly paced first couple of miles. Johnners had nipped ahead of me, which was something of a relief after feeling much of the first half mile with him on my left shoulder. I held back on an early descent to let him by where I could see him and just concentrate on my own pace, meanwhile his young club mate George Norris passed the pair of us with a full-on surge of descending skills. As far as the Horrocks was concerned, the rest of the race simulated a Tuesday night track session as all I could see was his backside five to ten yards ahead of me and it was a view I couldn't alter. On the brow of the main climb to just past the half way mark, Horwich veteran Rob Jackson puffed by to stake a claim for a higher position, but I was comfortable doing what I was doing and recovered well on the following road section to pass George and get tucked in just a few strides behind John again. Jackson was also close at the top of the final uphill section, these two were well within the realms of catchabilty but I felt restricted to biding my time, I certainly didn't have the confidence in my legs to attack with over a mile to go. In any case, the pair of them got away from me with an extra gear once we hit the road to the finish. Less than ten seconds separated us in the end and importantly, the time clocked was reasonable. A minute quicker than last year, a minute shy of my course best. A fair to middling run and good enough to carry on and fight another day.
So the day after, I set out for a seven miler from work and was surprised to feel great, stronger than I had felt for a few weeks and really enjoyed running hard. Maybe I needed that race in my legs. Running really can be a funny old game.

Sunday 12th March 2017
RODDLESWORTH ROLLER   5.5m    Abbey Village, Lancs.
1st Man - Tommy Harrison 32:23 (Bolton Utd Harriers)
1st Lady - Lindsey Brindle 38:08 (Horwich)
My Stats - 35:36   9/218       

PENDLE ROUND GOES PEAR SHAPED
STAN BRADSHAW PENDLE ROUND
There have probably been a few too many race post mortems scrolled on here searching rhyme, reason and excuse for why things have gone wrong. But in this instance I am genuinely at a loss as to what happened and why. I felt immediately compelled to let George Davies know of my stinker to somehow validate my excuse, or the actual lack of one, to the public domain of our club's website news. In hindsight, this was an act of narcissistic spin doctored desperation which I regret, but brought about by the magnitude of shock and disappointment I felt with myself. I've dreaded being asked how I got on since Saturday, enduring that sceptical look from quite a few people this week... the look that says, "bull shit, Johnny boy". But I sleep tight knowing I told it as it was; fine after four and a half miles and then the wheels fell off without much warning. That's what happened.
I certainly didn't go off too hard, I recovered quickly from the early slog up to the Pendle Hill trig and had settled down to a decent enough pace heading West to the Scout Cairn checkpoint and then South towards Churn Clough reservoir. These sections of the route are boggy and rough but not enough to stifle momentum. The engines were now firing fully after that sticky first climb and I was cruising along nicely. I distinctly remember thinking to myself that there was plenty in the tank for later in the race when the jostle for positions heats up. Consolidation at this point was no bad thing as I was inside the top thirty, breathing and running easily with big ideas of gaining places. But down at Churn Clough, something went wrong. I suddenly drained. If this had been mile fourteen or something similar I could have at least half expected and dealt with it. But this was less than mile five. My daily average this year is over six miles so this wasn't exactly outside the comfort zone.
I tried to run through it on the short flat section along the reservoir, unable to accept what was happening, but as Accy's Graham Morris slipped by casually, asking me if I was OK. Graham always seems to be around when I've having a rough time these days! I slurp up all own drink as we hit a short scramble back up on to the moorland, but it wasn't enough to revive me and in fact I got a mouthful of plastic shards from one of those mod collapsable flasks. In desperation I bit the end trying to get some juice of it. Then I totally lost it here on steep little embankment back on to the fell. My hamstrings and calves clenched up, momentum completely lost and conceding more than half a dozen places. It got worse from there, on a side of the Pendle mass I'm not familiar with, I could see the arduous climb out from the penultimate checkpoint and I knew this was going to be an ungraceful shuffle to the finish. Now the head had totally gone too. More and more runners came by as I dropped through the field faster than I was going forwards. Club mate Shaun Livesey was out and about on the course spectating. He must have wondered if I really have done any training lately as I walked up the climb to Spence Moor effing and jeffing to him about my plight. It was walkies again up the final sting in the tail to Buttock Gate. Barely capable of even that in the cut up cross country pasture on those lower slopes. Then oddly, at the Gate, a chap spectating who I don't know or have even seen before says to me with a wry smile, ''Your always walkin' at t'end o'races you. Every time.'' He got a glare in return. A very quick a, b and c sprung to mind... a) It's easy being a fell running expert when you're leaning on a fence scratching your genitals from within your pocket. b) When do I race much these days for you to see me 'walk'? And more to the point... c) Who the bloody hell are you anyway?
Realising I wasn't particularly amused as I negotiate the gating system, the chap reveals to me ''I'm a mate of Matt's, we go out on't bike Friday's''. Bizarre. I think I know which Matt, but we aren't exactly bezzies or owt, so even a secondary license to banter me when in this fragile state of low sporting ebb was neither warranted or appreciated!
There was at least still time for one last incident to put a smile back on my face and reiterate why one should never follow a Clayton Harrier on their own turf. Tucked in behind Dominic Carr through the finishing fields, I follow him over an awkward ladder stile only for him to then point out aghast that the gate just beside it was actually left open to run through! Comical. Dominic then tried encouraging me with a challenge to the finishing line with extra discount at the shop at stake if he beats me. But I couldn't get going again.
No idea where I finished and not really interested in looking just yet. This week I'm going to drop the mileage a little, be careful not to slap the track session too hard, stretch the hamstrings out and put it right at the Roddlesworth Roller this Sunday. If it's another clanger again this weekend though, then it's hello www.secondhandbowls.co.uk for sure.
Logic says that should not be the case, but logic said I should have been fit enough to see the job out properly at Pendle.

Sat. 4th March 2017
STAN BRADSHAW PENDLE ROUND   (9.3m/1900ft)   Barley, Lancs.
1st Man - Rob Hope 1.07:15 (Pudsey & Bramley)
1st Lady - Rebecca Patrick 1.30:17 (Todmorden)
My stats - Not good, haven't looked yet    

COURSE REVIEW
The last and only time I did this race was in it's former guise of the Half Tour of Pendle in 2009. That year it was an English champs race and I ran well to finish 61st in 1.14:06. I'd say the Stanley Bradshaw Round version is tougher, certainly the terrain is choppier across the moor to Churn Clough than it was when formerly following decent trods to a checkpoint at the Nick. I think the back end is tougher too, the climb up Spence Moor is significant and in soggy ground, the final little drag up to Buttock Gate is nastier than the gradual and more easily runable route from Ogden Clough.

AIMING FOR AN INDIAN SUMMER
Quietly going about my running business this month, maintaining the mileage, stepping up a notch at track sessions and clipping another sixteen seconds off the four miler time trial from work - these are all micro-signs of improvement which collectively breed a quiet confidence going in to March with some races now firmly on the agenda. Just the basic liberty of going out running is something I am enjoying right now and savouring the moment rather than looking too far ahead and worrying about things like... the Three Peaks. I'm not sure if I'm doing enough long stuff to give myself a chance of running something near a decent Peaks time anyway, but these last couple of weeks I seem to have genuinely switched off about it and concentrated on the present. On recent form, I ought be in decent condition by the end of April anyway. Average weekly mileage this year has been just over forty so far which is quite high for me, but not really substantial enough for Peaks training. If I do force myself to look ahead to the rest of the year then this quadragenearian is aiming for an Indian Summer of racing. To turn back the clock and start achieving a satisfactory level of competition. The Three Peaks and it's unique profile of long distance and climbs is a one-off and actually not really what I am training for, even though I actually am! Possibly a flawed experiment, time will tell.
So to the races I have now committed myself to and officially penned in rather than just faintly pencilled; The Stan Bradshaw Round on Pendle, the Roddlesworth Roller and the Darwen Half Marathon. Fell, trail and tarmac in that order. I take a dim view of the well used expression 'using a race as a training run', nothing but poorly veiled camouflage to make an excuse for projected physical deficiencies in my opinion. But what I will say about the Stan Bradshaw race and my own albeit insignificant participation is that it will tell me where I am up to outside my own little training bubble. With little running on the actual fells in recent times and just one race under the belt this year, a number will nonetheless be pinned upon me and if I don't run well, then that's where I am and I will have to accept I've been immersed in my own misleading little mindset, patting myself on the back too much.
These races booked in will of course be hinged on the fortune of barring injury. Aches and pains have been managed quite well of late, but it's accidents which one needs to look out for sometimes, striking when you least expect them. I consider myself a very lucky boy not to be sidelined last week when visiting friends in West Wales. Stubbing my toes on the slight step up to their kitchen sink was excruciating! I feared the worst and like a life before me, I saw this year's miles and sessions flash by and the devastation of invested time and effort being shattered in that split second of clumsy misfortune. Luckily just a bit of blood and a black middle toenail to report, then fit enough to crack a seven mile beach to coastal path run from New Quay along the Ceredigion shores the following day. That really was one of those thankful runs when you are not only enjoying the bliss of beautiful country and unknown routes, but pondering that I might well have fractured a toe and not even been capable of joining the rest of the gang to walk the dogs on the beach.

JANUARY GRIND PUTS A SOLID BASE IN PLACE
That was a tough month of running on the quiet. So no record distances notched and only one race under the belt which didn't go too great, but certainly the art of running tired was tried and tested if nowt else. I've set my stall out for running a minimum forty mile week this year - at least until going in to the Three Peaks race at the end of April - it's not been pretty so far, but the month ended feeling more conditioned to the mileage stipulation and with a bit of poke back in the legs.
The roughly run routine in January has been a steady ten miler off road, sometimes with Connie the dog as pacer, a couple of eight milers on the road, track session Tuesday and some other bits around that. 180 miles in all and much of it has been a bloody grind to be quite honest. Hip to knee down my right hand side has started giving me bother, although some foam rolling has managed to suppress further infringement. Track sessions have been run on empty... in fact I barely recall a single day when I actually felt really up for a run! I perceive to myself and others that I do all this for pleasure, but the real reasons can only lie much deeper, requiring a separate and more soul searching thesis on the subject if I was to go in to more detail. Thankfully, I will refrain from that for now.
As I get older, more and more I find the effects of training a bit of a paradox. I'm having to work much harder to get where I want to be again (and I've definitely still not got there!) meanwhile recovery doesn't come around quick enough, if at all and it's difficult to balance everything when my mileage is uncontrollably preoccupied by hardening up for the Peaks race.
Some shorter distance effort runs on the hills seemed to push me through a barrier and back on song though. The last track session of the month on the last day of January also revealed cause for encouragement, running a tough pyramid session well within recent pace and finishing strong. It must be said that Blackburn Harriers have a really good group down at Witton Park track on Tuesday evenings, in fact two good groups. But the smaller endurance group which I run with is growing in quality and depth which is pushing every one of us on.

UPHILL STRUGGLE
SOREEN STANBURY SPLASH
Yesterday's Stanbury Splash on the Bronte Moors completed 84 miles for the year so far and the first weeks of back-to-back forty milers since the tail end of last Winter. Not bad mileage for me. That was the good news. The bad news was that it surmounted to nothing in my first race of 2017. I seek only small increments of improvement, enough to satisfy my appetite which in turn justifies the commitment made. But this performance has done nothing but cast doubt and insecurity, reminding me that there is still time to step aside and practice for the forthcoming Crown Green season instead. The big problem at Stanbury was my lack of speed and strength on the hills. Upon virtually every incline, I might as well have had that highway code sign attached to my backside of two white arrows in a blue circle stating 'pass either side'. Sticking to highway analogies, I felt like a chugging heavy goods vehicle hogging the middle lane every time I hit a gradient of note. I can easily suspect reasons for this weakness; I don't knuckle down to hill rep sessions and for all the miles ticked off in recent times, there has been a substantial lack of proper tough ascent. So it's about incorporating more climbing now and trying to race with more regularity. This will hopefully squeeze out that much sought after positive increment and toughen up the competitive edge. Compared with my last visit to the home of Woodentops back in October at Withins Skyline, this was a step backwards and a bit of a dampener in one of my favourite Winter fell races. Crawling out of Ponden Valley from the last climb, I was a spent force over the final mile or so back to Penistone Hill and couldn't pick up any leg speed. Nothing there at all apart from an outpouring of ludicrous breathing noises. At least from that point I did enough to lose only one more place to a young pup from Skipton. But the harsh reality was that a minute or more ahead were a cluster of guys, including the usual suspects like Fishwick and Barnes, whom I felt I ought to have been mixing it with. It's clear that to go onwards in 2017, things must go upwards, literally.

Sunday 15th January 2017
SOREEN STANBURY SPLASH (7.5m/1300ft)  Penistone Hill, Haworth, West Yorks.  
1st Man - Tom Adams 43:52 (Ilkley)
1st Lady - Louisa Powell-Smith 52:40 (Clayton)
My Stats - 55:27   32/330

END OF YEAR HIGH
I thought my self indulgent ramblings were done for this year until yesterday's training run shaped itself in to an unexpected course best. A cynical overview would point to me being rather easily pleased by my own exploits here, but when there's been nowt much to shout about for a long period of time, getting a little giddy about a decent run cannot be harmful when it's warranted. After a couple of weeks feeling flat, a bit of zing has been slowly returning this last week. But the speed and strength felt in this particular little outing took me by a very satisfying surprise.
Running from the workplace, a four mile time trial has evolved which Lord Fish and I like to have a pop at when we feel the need for a blowout. From the shop near Clitheroe Castle, this route follows the drag up to Whalley Road's highest point, then left across the quiet country lane leading to Pendle Road before dropping back in to Clitheroe. It's fast going at times, but not altogether flat with about 250 feet of rolling inclination. My previous best times were within a couple of seconds of each other, dipping just above or below the 25:30 mark. A commitment to running this route in an anti-clockwise direction is basically drawing a sword upon myself to run hard. I thought about turning left from the shop door instead and just running steady and spontaneous elsewhere around the town, but then I thought let's just see how I get on with the four miler and make it a progressive run at the very least. A mile in though and I was feeling good. Quick time check and I thought I might as well press on and see what gives. By the two mile mark I had given myself a challenge to keep my next mile split on the progressive side, but I was well up again and so it dawned on me with a mainly downhill mile to go that I could just cruise the descent now and still beat my time. This was a nice feeling and gave me the psychological boost to then attack that last mile and aim for a sub-25. It was like every speed session I've done since returning to track work was finally kicking in. After a time penalty of fiddle-faddling trying to stop my watch, I still clocked in at 24:49 which was well worth the clenched fist and a little ''yessssss'' to myself. Forty seconds knocked off and I think big Ben's best time is currently 21:09, so relatively speaking this was definitely training run of the year if nothing else.
Easily pleased perhaps, but the year ends on a bit of a high.

2016 mileage total: 1627

NO MORE TALKING BOWLS
These are possibly the final running ramblings of 2016 from this particular nobody in particular. Reflecting on the year that was, if there was such a thing as a 'Johnny Progress Graph', it would
display a steady rise from the run every day mentality up until early May when the Summer slump then kicked in. From September however, with injury on the mend, form and fortune was quickly on the rise again until this recent December plateau. Plateau apart, the year ends on a positive running note, for just being able to return to the format of running normality again has been the biggest joy in recent times. Track sessions and hard runs back on the agenda, even a couple of races in the bag without the nag of achilles trouble stalling progress. It's a liberating feeling after eighteen months or so of stuttering malfunction.
Compared to this time last year, the running is in a far better place and the outlook a little more ambitious. It was all about the beckoning bowling green back then and whether or not a set of woods were destined to replace the running shoes going in to 2016. The idea of crossing over to Crown Green bowling is, for now, on a very dimly lit backburner. But there are underlying fears as always. Fear that for all the wonderment of normal running service resuming, the shifts put in could amount to nothing. Currently lodging on that aforementioned plateau, is this as good as it will be able to get again? Or is it just an adjustment period after finally getting a spell of more intensive training in?
Time will tell, although time isn't particularly on my side in this game. Yet with that decent platform of progressive training now stretching out over the last three months, hope still overrides the fear. The search goes on for that satisfactory level of consistency in training to go out and race more regularly, but it feels closer than it has been for a few years. Key word there is consistency which is the main focus for 2017. In the end, it turns out a good thing that I'm not committed to the Ribble Valley 10K next week. I'd just lost that bit of spring in my stride the last week or two and it's culminated in another bloody cold of sorts. Thankfully though, this one is just of sniffly nuisance value and shouldn't knock me on to the sidelines altogether.

TTOTTALLY TTOP RACE WITTH A BITT OF EVERYTTHING
HURST GREEN TURKEY TROT
Following the first forty mile week for some time and much of that at a decent rate of effort, battered legs and aching knees have been the story this week. Tuesday's track session pretty much broke me as I called it quits after ten of a proposed fourteen 500 metre reps. It was one of those nights when the one minute recovery was offering absolutely no recovery whatsoever and so I opted out before I started going backwards. Since then it's been easier on the mileage between a couple of rest days to try and retain some sort of freshness for Saturday's race.
The Hurst Green Turkey Trot has a short but distinguished history, already engraining itself in to East Lancashire running folklore. The boundaries broken to win the fancy dress competition are stretched beyond reasonable imagination of what somebody can possibly run in, whilst the race also attracts some top end athletes with much more serious aspirations. As the brainchild of maverick Ribble Valley Harrier Chris Barnes, anything is possible at the Turkey Trot.
This was my TT debut and it's fair to say that I now wished I'd chanced racing previous ones. Sadly I didn't have time to stick around much before, or after the race when the presentation reputedly gives the Woodentops original version a run for it's money. But I got enough of a vibe to wish that I had. The only complaint I had was that the Barnes would not wait for my GPS signal to connect and rudely started the race regardless. The thick Ribble Valley clag may have been blocking out the satellite signal. I have a fraught relationship with technology at the best of times. I normally settle for the simplicity of the good old stopwatch on a Casio from Argos for racing in, but with rushing around I'd forgotten it. I don't even know if this fandangled Polar watch of mine has basic stopwatch facility, I don't know what I was thinking.
Despite that distraction, I settled down to a comfortable pace and was going along fine without busting myself. The legs were certainly feeling better than I had feared. However, the sight of Dave Motley's bum cheeks flashing through thin black tights from beneath his bespoke Trawden AC cape was enough to push me on a little harder than I wanted to. But the only reward for that little surge ahead was Craig Stansfield's tight buttocks for company in his gingerbread man outfit. There was only one thing for it - push on towards raceaholic Darren Fishwick who had standard black running shorts on that thankfully left much more to the imagination. I'd just got tucked in behind Darren as we approached the 'elephant trap' -  a refreshing deep water hole through which we wade - but a few yards on from there I tripped in a clumsy fashion and slid my right knee in to some shrubbery roots. Nowt major, but enough to put me out of my stride. The Stansfield immediately took advantage and cruised past whilst I was on the deck and it took a good few minutes to run my knocked knee back in to some sort of comfort. Unfortunately that happened to be over probably the most testing section of the race which leads up to the highest point and I started to lose a bit of ground. No excuse though for slouching here, there's still work to be done on my uphill game. Darren and Stanners had already lost me on this section before Mr Motley soared past and was looking strong. Next came the unmistakable toe sprung running action of Clayton's Matt Duckworth, but as the descent started, so did my second wind and I set about regaining some places. I caught and passed Matt just before exiting the woods and then it was another Matt who I was closing in on next, the Nuttall variety and my Blackburn Harrier club mate who himself had been passed by the battling trio of Fishwick, Stansfield and Motley. Those three were also getting a little closer once again, but pushing each other hard and I quickly realised that they were to remain uncatchable. So it was all about Mr Nuttall, looking his usual ten years younger and attired as a Roman soldier. He had threatened me with his sword before the race if I dared to pass him. 'Not much chance of that', said I, even though I knew he wasn't firing anywhere near his full cylinders at present. But it was a close call in the end. If I'd known where the finish was then I would have put in a challenge on the little gradient leading up to it. As Matt attacked it, I thought, 'I'll save a bit for the finish instead', only to realise at the brow of that little pull that essentially that was the finish!
Oh well. Not a bad day at the office and a much needed race under the belt. I certainly ran the latter half of the race strong. The TT is a cracking course with a bit of everything. Some quality ladies in this one with three inside the top nine whilst the quality right at the very front was ridiculous. The ever improving Chris Farrell of Horwich smashing under 27 minutes on this course is outstanding. Nothing less was ever going to beat Ilkley's man of the moment Tom Adams who had to settle for a rare second spot.

HURST GREEN TURKEY TROT (5m)   Hurst Green, Lancs.
1st Man - Chris Farrell 26:54 (Horwich RMI)
1st Lady - Julie Briscoe 32:59 (Wakefield & Dist. H.)
My Stats - 33:56   14/265        

FLAT OUT FLAT 5K FALLS A BIT FLAT!
So inside my head I had bigged myself up for this solo 5K time trial on the Witton Park track. Firstly let's deal with the actual physicality of my head. It's a fair sized cranium, only an inch short in circumference of the largest 'normal' head in the world and thus room aplenty for false confidence and misconception. I rocked up yesterday afternoon with the genuine belief I could knock out a standard 17:40 at worst and if I was running well on the day then edge much nearer the 16 minute zone. This was based on both an excellent eleven days of training performances since resuming normal service after 'Nigel' and also the marked improvements I had made before 'Nigel' came along to upset my apple cart of fitness. I've never run a 5K on the track before, least of all on my own, and in fact whilst nearing eleven years of running, 5K races could be counted on three hands and only one which I recall being particularly flat. My PB stands at a seemingly untouchable 16:35 at a far from flat road course in Littleborough back in 2007. I think the nearest I have come to that was 17:21 at the said flat one in Lancaster three years ago.
Seed firmly planted in my head, the scene was set at an eerily desolate Witton Park arena. It was just me and my ageing £10 Casio for company (I'm not one for that Strava palaver and obviously didn't need my GPS for this one) Conditions were perfect with little or no wind whatsoever. I shuffled out a mile warm up and didn't feel fantastic, but that's not unusual so I thought I might as well just get down to the main event of twelve and a half laps. I've been running various interval sessions at giddy paces so I thought I should at least hold down three successive 5:45ish miles without too much pain and have a surge in reserve for the remaining one tenth. We know what 'thought' did; 'followed a muck cart and thought it was a wedding', so Sara constantly reminds me.
I seemed to be blowing a quite bit leading up to my first mile split and the legs still felt heavy. Even so, I was expecting to be running faster than forecasted, so the sight of 5:53 on my watch at that point sent alarm bells ringing. It was pretty grim from there. The upper body contorted more and more, arms flapping around to compensate for the dragging legs. Counting down the last few laps was torturous. There was nothing else to give, even in the final 200 metres I couldn't find an extra stride and I clocked in at a very disappointing 18:44.
Negative thoughts as I tottered around the track for a cool down evolved around depressing comparisions with much better times in the not so distant past - over slower courses, during periods of lesser fitness levels - and even both. The way I felt during this run certainly belied and undermined some strong outings in training recently. I finished this time trial some 300 metres or more behind my projected virtual self out there. I couldn't understand it. If that had been an actual race, then without doubt my worst performance at that distance.
Inside that big cranium of mine during the fifteen minute drive home, the big inquest took place. As  a runner you can't be on the top of your game all the time, but the extent of that very lack of a performance there came as a bit of a shock. Lame excuses came to the fore; I just didn't feel light and springy that afternoon, perhaps the effects of some decent quality efforts in to training lately had left me feeling flat, maybe the track session from Tuesday night was still lingering in the legs, the previous evening I ran a fairly spritely seven and a half miler with the Horrocks... I'm 43...I used to be a pothead... the excuses went on and on. But a more considered conclusion was that it was just another training session. No need to beat myself up too hard.

NIGEL'S GONE SO NOW I CAN MAKE PLANS
The Met Office are naming 'storms' these days, or should I say they are naming seasonal Mid-Atlantic depressions which are quite typical for the time of year. With that in mind, if I was to name this recent cold, man flu or whatever it was, then trending towards current affairs and all this Brexit nonsense I would have to name it 'Nigel' with a certain Mr Farage in mind. The thing just wouldn't go away, hanging around for the sake of it despite having served it's purpose. Other comparable traits to Nigel Farage and my cold included making a brief comeback after threatening to step aside. Finally though, a persistent Nigel (the cold, that is) did fade away. I'm glad I didn't call it Boris or I suspect I would never have got rid of the bloody thing.
Last week I finally got back to some sort of training normality with 33 miles banked and much of that at a decent tempo. It was a bit disappointing to miss races such as the big one at Pendle and then another old favourite of mine, the David Staff Memorial race at Darwen which also passed me by. But now 'Nigel' has gone, I'm feeling ready and looking for a race.
Ribble Valley 10k is a possibility later in the month, although I've yet to commit - still not sure if I'll be quick enough to avoid disappointment and still unable to accept that it's a whopping £15 to enter - I'm sure it was under a tenner the last time I did it?! I've considered a Parkrun as a quick fix in the meantime, but two things have put me off Parkruns in the past; the 9am kick off is a bit of a bruiser for a slow morning person like me and secondly, two of my only four Parkruns at my local venue Cuerden Valley were marred by the discovery of the 'Parkrun snobbery' syndrome. Examples of this bizarre misuse of all things Parkrun were founded when Horwich runner Gareth Booth, along with a few other familiar faces that I couldn't put a name to, most definitely took part in the race and yet vanished without trace in the results listings. The Cuerden course is far from flat and certainly not the fastest. It seemed to me like these guys were avoiding the scanning of their number at the finish because it wouldn't look flattering on their 'Power of Ten' stats? If that was indeed the case, then certainly from my point of view they are taking themselves a little too seriously to say the least. Surely they have the sufficient self motivation to just go and smash a 5K out on their own, or even do a proper race somewhere without using and then snubbing the efforts of the Parkrun volunteers and it's registered patrons?
So speaking of which and with rant subsiding, although work blankets the whole of this weekend, the motivation to do a horrible run just won't go away and so I've set myself a solitary time trial this Friday. Against the clock on Witton Park track, twelve and a half laps, five kilometeres. Let's see what happens...

THIS BUG REALLY BUGS
Two full weeks have now passed being fit for nowt. This flippin' bug just won't bugger off. An attempt at some jogging earlier in the week seemed to be going fine until the cold symptoms worsened again. This slammed the brakes on hopes of even crawling to some sort of comeback.
In too much haste to get back to normal service, fuelled by the paranoia of fitness loss, I'd actually sent myself backwards. I never learn. As such, no venturing out to try and train again until this thing has properly gone away. The plug is now most definitely pulled on the Tour of Pendle race. Ambitions are primitive again, to slowly trying to get back to where I was just a fortnight ago.

MAN FLU SETS BACK TOUR HOPES
Another tasty track session under the belt was 6 x 1200m off two minute recoveries, run in an average time of 4:02 - all run solidly within four seconds of each other - only a few seconds shy of the halcyon track nights of 2009/10 when I could bang out sub four minute 1200's with time to spare. A steady seven miles on the Thursday was followed by eight cross country miles on the local park on the Friday. I felt great, running at a reasonable pace with ease. But sometimes you just know that feeling of an underlying tightness in the breathing tackle which, although not enough to hinder performance that afternoon by any means, nevertheless aroused suspicion that a cold was coming.
I could only hope it wasn't going to be enough to put me completely out of action, but the day after as I set off to East Devon on a family break, so the germicidal intruder began to inflict it's full wrath.
A croaky throat became a crackling chesty hollow. The sinuses were squeezed to absolute overflow and the nose has streamed continuously for two days. Combine this with a general feeling of total lacklustre and self diagnosis points to a well known affliction to the male of the species... man flu. Fortunately it didn't spiral in to proper flu and spoil my time away, but it did scrape icing off the holiday cake a little and probably more so for Sara who had to put up with me.
What was certain was that my running shoes were to be left redundant. This was frustrating indeed with a maze of quiet hilly roads to tackle near the village of Colyton and the chance of a session or two upon the coastal cliff paths. I have yet to run since that Friday on the park. As any male of the species can testify, man flu drags on and it's probably going to be another two or three days at a very optimistic best before I can gently start running again. This would leave me less than a fortnight until the seventeen mile toughie that is the Tour of Pendle. Not ideal, not even realistic. I've entered the race but there is no point speculating that I might be back and well enough to actually do it. Irritating as a bad cold may be, perspective prevails and I wouldn't swap it for an injury.

BACK ON TRACK
Last night completed a sixth week in succession down at the Witton Park track and I felt strong. 12 x 600m runs with a 90 second recovery was on this week's menu and another tough session was bashed out with consistency and more signs of improvement. Regular speed sessions of some description have always been an important factor in raising my racing game to somewhere that I feel is decent. The legs and the lungs seem to work better as a team and with the legacy of that Achilles trouble now seemingly under control, I feel as if I am the ascendancy. In fact training has gone brilliantly well lately, a tough fell run on Pendle thrown in with some decent tempo work of various distances on the road. The positive effects of these Tuesday night track sessions are starting to kick in and it's been two and a half years since I felt anything like this. Almost confident to race, enjoying training, a spring in my stride... where the hell is a Podium 5K on the calendar when you really need one?!
Wondering where I might be with another six weeks like this under my belt, there's even thoughts of a shot at a road race and the Ribble Valley 10K in December. First things first though and the small matter of the Tour of Pendle next month. Certainly being down at the club again each week has further inspired me to believe I can get some decent results again. The Blackburn Harriers lads are enjoying a successful time of it just now and I would quite like to muscle in on the party if I can.

FORM IS BACK WITHIN REACH   
WITHINS SKYLINE
It was great to be back at a Woodentops race last Sunday. Organisers Dave and Eileen Woodhead are living legends to the sport of fell running. I've rambled on enough about my endearment for this couple in previous scriptures, but it's always a pleasure to take part in their races. There is something unique, a special feeling from lining up with a few hundred Tykes and the odd fellow Lancastrian in the quarry at Penistone Hill. This was my sixth appearance at the Withins Skyline, but I really cannot believe that it has been six long years since my last showing back in 2010. A five race absence followed five years of solid Withins loyalty. Hopefully this can be the first of another five or more in succession.
The weather conditions were excellent and whilst obviously heavy going as always on the open moor, the rarely forgiving microclimate upon Penistone Hill and the surrounding Bronte country was  exceedingly generous for the time of year. Thanks to yet more improvement in the achilles department, I felt I could go fairly minimal again with my footwear. This in itself is a massive breakthrough and testimony to finally doing some effective exercises. Wearing in some new inov8 x-talons to race in for the first time in probably five years would be deemed a dubious source of great excitement to the many, but not for me. I was looking forward to giving them a run out.
Quite relaxed before the start, I'd come here to enjoy the race and I was confident that whilst I won't be raising eyebrows - not even my own - I wasn't going to have a complete howler. I felt pretty sharp for the first mile or so and seemed to be well up in the pecking order, but the messy climb up to the Stoop trig point took the wind from my sails. I was disappointed to lose ground on the pack ahead and more so to lose up to a dozen or so more places. It didn't get better over the rugged moorland skyline as the rarity of a stitch set in. There could be a case here for a lack of proper hard hill work on the fells recently, but in fairness I did also go a little overboard with the porridge at breakfast and perhaps that toasted bagel took me over the edge! Anyway, abdomen pain didn't so much stop me in my tracks but it wasn't comfortable, disrupted my breathing and certainly felt it cost me an opportunity to gain back ground on some of those ahead before it got too late. As the gradual descent begins from Withins Ruins, the stitch was subsiding and I was able to start building up a bit more speed. A couple of Calder Valley lads came surging past intent on showing their downhill skills and an Ilkley runner whom I recognise from these races of yesteryear had also nipped ahead. The tenacity of the Calder lads in descent wasn't matched when things began to plateau and undulate again and it was like I had yanked them straight back to me on a rope. With those two picked off, I set my sights on that Ilkley man Steve Turley and was pleased to reel him in back on Penistone Hill near the finish to take 24th place. I'd had that one man band of a Ribble Valley Harrier that is Chris Barnes in my sights after he started to drop back through the pack from his insanely fast start, but he seemed to equal if not better my efforts in the last couple of miles and maintain the distance. I finished strong though which is always a good sign and I feel some decent form is now back within reach. Comparative times are difficult to call in fell races, but at least this one was not my slowest. For the record, back in 2010 I was just over two minutes quicker which took 14th place and would have got me 12th today. Up at the front, Tom Adams was in a complete class of his own. His own course record eclipsed, four minutes clear of second place and over ten minutes ahead of myself. Some going.

WITHINS SKYLINE  7m/1000ft    Penistone Hill, Haworth. West Yorks.
Sun. 9th October 2016
1st Man: Tom Adams 38:32 (Ikley)  
1st Lady: Nichola Jackson 47:52 (Preston)
My Stats - 48:45   24/290

REHAB, REPS AND RELAYS
It's not that running has come to a halt over the past month or so, far from it, but more a case of having very few negatives to report for a change. A reminder that these pages can actually be an outlet for positive musings as well.
So I've just been getting my head down training and the great story behind that is that I have been able to. The Achilles continues to feel stronger. The swelling is reducing and is starting to look more like it's slender counterpart on the right heel. Last night was also the fourth week in succession down at the Witton Park track for a tough speed session under John Chaplin's watch. Around those rep sessions I am mixing it up, the only thing missing is a long run every week. I think if I could chuck that in to the agenda with some regularity then things might start to come together. Anyway, a really decent month of consistency has given me the confidence to go over to Haworth this Sunday for the Withins Skyline fell race. Dave Woodhead's races are fantastic and you can't beat a bit of Woodentops to get back in the groove. This will be the second time in a few weeks of pinning on a race number again after running for Blackburn Harriers at the Northern Road Relays...

NORTHERN SIX STAGE ROAD RELAYS
It was a proud day for Blackburn Harriers both in terms of quantity and quality with five teams out in force at Manchester's Sportcity and a top ten spot for the men's 'A' team. The club's big guns all turning out on the day has been long overdue and it was good to see the talent at the club finally registered with some sort of validation at a major team event. As for myself in team 'C', with a couple of track sessions under my belt at least a bit of race pace was not going to be such a leap in to the painful unknown - as was the case in my last appearance at Podium back in July. But I don't make things easy for myself even when they should be. Due to some kind of electrical fault in the brainwave department I decided I was running after, rather than before, Sean Proctor and as such kept checking to see where he was up to. This was after Sean had been in the shop where I work the previous day and I had even uttered the words myself that I was handing over to him. Back to the relays and as I was casually chatting away at trackside, suddenly our coach George Woodburn interrupts and asked me what I was doing? "Uh? I'm after Sean aren't I?", "No, you're on now!" says George urgently. Shiiiiit!!! Ffff....The airwaves turned blue. It was my own ridiculous fault of course. I had now denied myself a chance to warm up and there wasn't even room to stretch a limb in the waiting pen, besides it wasn't long before I was off and running. If preparation wasn't ideal, the course was the most contrived I have ever run, u-turning four times alongside the Etihad Stadium and at it's most ambitious, branching out to the far reaches of an empty car park twice.
Maybe Tuesday's track session was still tightening things up or maybe the lack of immediate preparation didn't help, but I was a bit deflated not to have had an extra kick in the last half mile and instead found myself hanging on in desperation. I averaged just under six minute miling though, so as far as my own modest expectations went it was a satisfactory outing.
It was unfortunate that in some sort of mix up our 'D' team was disqualified and were one of ten teams to experience the same fate as some runners pulled back in to the athletics track a lap short. Sportcity might have offered easy and ample parking as well as a great base for teams with legs starting and finishing in the impressive former Commonwealth Games warm-up arena, but as I touched on a few sentences earlier, I thought the course was contrived, disappointing and also poorly marked in places. As a venue for the relays, some boxes remained unticked in my opinion. Sara might have joined me to watch that afternoon had there been some evidence of greenery and doggy friendliness. But this was a bloody awful concrete jungle and I'm glad she and the Connie dog didn't risk it. For me, you can't beat a good old fashioned proper city park for these type of contests.

Sunday 25thg September 2016
NORTHERN SIX STAGE ROAD RELAY CHAMPIONSHIPS  Sportcity, Manchester.
My Stats - Blackburn Harriers 'C' Leg 4  (5.5K)  20:05

THROUGH THE FOG I SEE HOPE
A conversation with fellow Blackburn Harrier Brian Fogarty might prove to be the most poignant of my running year. Brian placed an incredible seventh at the Ironman UK contest last month, but it's not so much his awesome results and athletic stature of recent times that has had such a positive influence. He's had a bit of Achilles trouble himself at the turn of the year and recommended more weight bearing to my exercises. I've persevered with standing stretches and manipulation for a year and it has brought some relief, but it's not really addressed the problem long term and I've been plodding again this month without any foreseeable goal.
But the Fogarty's suggestion of cracking on with more aggressive exercises seems to be doing the trick for me. In his experience at least, the problem seemed to fade away quite quickly. I've always respected Brian's opinion, even when I was faster than him!
Well I have nothing to lose and will really try anything now. Despite some worrying discomfort at first, I can feel more flexibility and less aggravation after running as I now increase the exercises. This was a eureka moment, I feel foolish not to have clicked on to this long ago and that time has been wasted. Completely my own stupid fault. Simply bothering to read up on the subject for myself in more detail would have led me to this solution, but I'm lazy with stuff like that, even if it's self helping. I don't know what's wrong with me sometimes.
It was conversation time with myself again and although the Achilles job was looking up, I had lost the love a bit and decided to take a short break from running. I didn't know for how long, just until I really felt like I wanted to go out running again. During this time I spent five days away with Sara in the fine city of Budapest. A city that could teach any British government of modern times exactly how public transport ought to be. Their system is an impressive, slick, well oiled, efficient machine that puts the chaos in this country to shame.
I did take a pair of running shoes, but there was simply too much to do and see to be bothered chucking in some junk miles for the hell of it.
In all I had nine days off from running and have just got back on it with a fresh frame of mind. The Achilles problem is easing and I've completed a few off road speed sessions without a subsequent flare-up. Now there is real hope. Hope that I can get back down to the club's track sessions after an eighteen month absence, hope that on the back of those track sessions comes that turn of speed, that the speed combines with endurance and... of course I ought not to get ahead of myself. But there's nowt wrong with a bit of hope.