NOT A FAN OF COE-OPERATIONS
From day one in the month of March, I have marched on without interruption. Good training has been had and this has been without a doubt the best period of solid running and the best I have felt since the beginning of last Autumn. That said, I'm under no illusions of expecting too much when I put myself back on a racing line at Liver Hill next Tuesday night. But I need a race and I'm ready for a race. Time to get a few under the belt and see where I'm really at.
Last weekend camping overnight at Silverdale, the Saturday night sunset was just about the most incredible I have ever seen. Sights like this are probably ten-a-penny to the locals of Morecambe Bay, but it stopped me in my tracks heading back along the coastline of sands and rock having nipped out for a cheeky three miler. This - despite telling myself all day I was long overdue a rest day from running - but now so glad I defied my own orders. For ten minutes or so as oranges bled in to pinks, reflecting off the partially drained estuary of an outward tide, the colours, the light... it was a spectacle I have never quite seen the intensity and beauty of before. At first I cursed not having my phone with me to snap some images, but then considered it to be more liberating without and that my obligation was to soak up the moment for everything that it was and capture the memory as strongly as possible.
It's time I got on to the subject of my page heading though and so from the wonderous beauty of our star dropping off the horizon to the ugly spectacle that is the treatment of South African track runner Caster Semenya by the International Association of Athletics Federations. Ok, so I said I was done ranting for a while. But I genuinely do not consider this as some self-opinionated rant one bit. Yes I feel strongly about the matter, but yes I am absolutely convinced I am right about it too!
Caster Semenya has dealt with the indignity of proving her biological femininity in a most dignified manner, when in fact you could easily excuse the lass of a good old rant herself at the powers that be. But still, years later, proving you are a woman is not enough to be a woman it would seem in the eyes of the IAAF and some bitter individuals who back up the organisation's stance.
The disgraceful campaign to sexually disqualify an Olympic and World champion rolls on, seemingly until the overlords of athletics legislation finally force through their own aberrant agenda. If this sounds like the familiar stubborn trait of a UK Conservative government, then it can be no coincidence that sat in the big chief's presidential chair at the IAAF right now is former Tory MP, now Tory peer in the House of Lords, Sebastian Coe.
The massive irony is that Coe and the IAAF want to medically intervene with Semenya's body chemistry and similarly developed female athletes who are naturally higher in testosterone levels. Through Coe's goggles, this would create 'a level playing field' with other female athletes.
So let's get this right then. The world governing body revolts at the use of drugs in athletics. If performance enhancing drugs are banned, how can they paradoxically condone and lobby for performance restricting substances? That's one big contradictory policy right there. So drugs in sport? Yes or no, Coe and Co? Surely any performance altering medicinals have no place in athletics. What a bunch of frigging hypocrites.
Caster Semenya is currently fighting the IAAF's policy through the necessary legal channels and it goes without saying I hope with a passion that she wins emphatically.
To me, Coe has always come across as quite arrogant with traits of a narcissist and sociopath never far from the surface. Probably why his contemporary track rival Steve Ovett wasn't that keen on him either. But more recently I recall Coe's smug demeanour and self-appraising soundbites when helping bring the Olympics to London in 2012. Yes he helped and one could say he was instrumental at times. But to me it felt like Coe had created this pedestal for himself upon which he did it all on his own and without anybody else. He brought the Olympics back to London and for this we should all laud the Lord.
In more recent waffle from Sebastian, the politician from within has been cunningly at work, deliberately fudging the Semenya situation with transsexual athletes again - a completely different kettle of fish - by saying only last week, "The reason we have gender classification is because if you didn't, then no women would ever win a medal or break another record in our sport". It's the timing of those comments, knowing full well he can say he's only referring to the transgender debate, but as Semenya responded, "Digging up old wounds". An attempt to try and rattle her cage whilst these legal proceedings are under way is what it looks like.
Coe has been there at the very top as a track athlete and should know better. Hard work and natural talent got him there. Semenya has done the same. To claim her naturally higher testosterone levels are a significant reason for that does the girl such an offensive disservice in my opinion. If they did reduce her testosterone levels, then by how much? How accurate could the medication be? Would it serve as an actual disadvantage?
If her testosterone levels are indeed advantageous, then lets remember it's a natural one.
There are advantageous genetic factors that aid the prominence and dominance of African distance runners, so do we medically induce them to take the edge off their game and give the white boys and girls a chance? No. And Mo Farah, do we contest his long list of European and British championship accolades because of his more favourable Somali genes? Of course not. That the overwhelming majority of top end sprinters are of Black African or Caribbean ethnicity, should we fiddle with the genetic and biological make-up of them too or should we have separate sprint contests for whites and Asians etc? Absolutely not and who would even go there? But then comparatively, that is what Caster is up against. Singled out and persecuted for genetic and biological credentials.
Sport is all about strengths and weaknesses and trying to play to your strengths to succeed. When we have a special league for short footballers so they have a more reasonable chance of winning a header, or leg length categories for long jumpers, or rugby for skinny people, then lock me up and throw away the key.
That Caster Semenya has reached the top of her sport is part of the issue here too. A punishment for hard work and dedication. If she wasn't anywhere near the medals then would this even be a talking point? Somebody who hasn't got in to the medals is British middle distance runner Lynsey Sharp. If her immediate post-race comments straight after the Olympic 800m final in 2016 weren't bad enough, she's still harping on about what she sees as an unfairness. Even if her own contorted opinion on the matter was heeded and Caster was made to take a form of performance suppression, mouthpiece Sharp would still not have made the podium at any major championships.
Let's also remember that 28 year old Semenya has yet to run a world record at either middle distance that she races so it's not as if her brilliance is so blatantly off the scale in the history books. She's talented, she works really hard and she has carried on doing that in the face of all this mud thrown at her over the years.
There could be a case that this all runs a bit deeper than these surface tensions about testosterone and deeper than even her legal team dare mention. Homophobia. Caster happens to be in a same sex marriage which she is rightfully proud and transparent about. But perhaps this fans the flames of scepticism even more for the strictly politically right heterosexual man's men and the likes who are trying to bring her down. To a man with very Conservative views such as Sebastian Coe for example, can we know for sure that he is entirely tolerant of homosexuality? We only have politically correct trite to the contrary which he has doubtless made a point of going on record about to cover his tracks.
However I look at it, all I can see is underlying discrimination of some sort or another. Sebastian Coe is at the very front of this persecution. It could be just because she wins medals, it could be sexuality, it could be racial, it could be more than all that and then all of those things put together, snowballed in to a storm of irritation within the IAAF establishment's corridors of deeply bigoted and hypocritical ideologies. Whatever is going on here, it's just not right.
If I had the highly unlikely and rather unfortunate opportunity to meet 'Lord' Coe, I would probably find myself so incensed by his presence that I would spit at the man's feet. The only time I have done that before (yes, I actually have) was at the feet of a retired police officer called Alan Mackay. Mackay, a Scot residing in the Chorley area of Lancashire, made highly offensive comments to me about a person in a wheelchair who was passing by the pool table in a pub many years ago. Mackay inferred there was no place for a wheelchair in that area and that it put him off his shot. It pains me to print what that pathetic old bigot actually said that night, but why should I cover for him? There was a bit more to it but, ''How can I get to see my shot properly with that f**king spastic in here...'' was the unforgivable jist of it. Mackay, Sebastian Coe and the IAAF... they are all stirring in the same sick and twisted pot. I have nothing but contempt for the lot of them.
Thursday, 28 March 2019
Friday, 22 March 2019
TEN GOOD REASONS FOR FISHWICK
One of the best known contemporary fell runners outside the notoriety of elite class is Chorley's Darren Fishwick. Everybody has a soft spot for Darren. He's a salt of the earth Lancashire lad. His much acclaimed race reports - which tend to be not much about the race really, but more cleverly written amusing stories of anything else mildly related - are a big hit with fellrunning followers of the online forums. There's barely a race on the calendar that Fishwick hasn't finished - or written about. Add to that, he's not a bad runner either.
Now we're certainly not best mates or owt, but Darren and I tend to exchange a few words whenever our paths meet. In recent times, whenever I've seen Darren I've made brazen attempts - although as yet unsuccessful - at persuading him to consider joining Ribble Valley Harriers. A big "No, no, no! No chance!..." was the response at the Tour of Pendle last November. But last time I saw him, in Vaughn's Cafe at Tockholes just over a month ago, his resistance had diluted down to , "Haha, I'm not quick enough for your lot". To which I retorted, "Give over. Look at me, what am I doing there then?".
I don't think I've planted the seed yet, but perhaps I've tidied up the soil and removed a few weeds and all good gardeners will tell you that perseverance pays.
Like Alex Ferguson's intuition that Eric Cantona was his man, I just know in my heart of hearts that DF and RVH would be a match made in heaven.
Unlike Daz F's musings, only one or two locals and a random Belgian inquisitor have been the consistent viewers of my written running ramblings over the last few years, so I might have to try and get this to him personally in some roundabout way as this message is especially for you, Darren Fishwick.
As a music lover, Darren will definitely recall 'Especially For You', which was a number one hit for Kylie and Jason. He's certainly the perfect age to have subconsciously absorbed and remembered all the lyrics too. (Takes one to know one) That was as big as it got for Jason's pop career, although his solo album Ten Good Reasons did Ok. A not so subtle Fishwickesque tangent twist there, for Ten Good Reasons are as follows why Darren should join Ribble Valley Harriers...
Reason 1... Another footballing analogy to get things started... Steven Gerrard stayed at Liverpool all his career and in these times of flakey fickle footballers, hats off to the scouse lad for a solid act of trend butting. But had the mighty reds merged with Everton and Tranmere to create a Merseyside United that messed with their traditional kit colours, I'm sure that his loyalty would not have been questioned had Stevie G decided to eventually move on. Gerrard won a few things and was a legend where he was, but what else could he have done and won? What horizons could have been broadened and enriched further by playing a few years elsewhere?
Reason 2... You've got the right personality for this small club. No heirs and graces, a bloke who just wants to get stuck in and race. (then write a report drifting off on to more splendid tangents than Ronnie Corbett did in his leather chair and Lyle & Scott sweater, near the end of the The Two Ronnies show)
Reason 3... RVH is predominantly a fell club and so your association would be entirely like minded.
Reason 4... You'd be a fine addition to a competitive men's vets team on the fells. In a mixed team you would get the chance to race with one of the club's brilliant lasses.
Reason 5... "If Fishwick joined, they can't be all that bad"... that's what they'll be saying about RVH when your transfer goes through! A Dazza in black (sometimes yellow, maybe even pink) would be a fantastic ambassadorial advert for a club that has undeservedly got a bad press in certain quarters. Charmian Heaton tried to find a way to ban the club, so come on in and find out just how ridiculously off the mark your apparently friendly FRA Chair really is. Wearing the black vest, you find out who your friends on the circuit really are.
Reason 6... You told me last year that since the Chorley clubs all merged, you wear the original Chorley Harriers vest as a protest because Chorley is traditionally just black and white only, like the football team. Now Chorley FC also have red in their strip. Nothing is sacred.
Reason 10... Oh come on, just what the bloody hell's stopping you?! Get in touch with Barnes...
One of the best known contemporary fell runners outside the notoriety of elite class is Chorley's Darren Fishwick. Everybody has a soft spot for Darren. He's a salt of the earth Lancashire lad. His much acclaimed race reports - which tend to be not much about the race really, but more cleverly written amusing stories of anything else mildly related - are a big hit with fellrunning followers of the online forums. There's barely a race on the calendar that Fishwick hasn't finished - or written about. Add to that, he's not a bad runner either.
Now we're certainly not best mates or owt, but Darren and I tend to exchange a few words whenever our paths meet. In recent times, whenever I've seen Darren I've made brazen attempts - although as yet unsuccessful - at persuading him to consider joining Ribble Valley Harriers. A big "No, no, no! No chance!..." was the response at the Tour of Pendle last November. But last time I saw him, in Vaughn's Cafe at Tockholes just over a month ago, his resistance had diluted down to , "Haha, I'm not quick enough for your lot". To which I retorted, "Give over. Look at me, what am I doing there then?".
I don't think I've planted the seed yet, but perhaps I've tidied up the soil and removed a few weeds and all good gardeners will tell you that perseverance pays.
Like Alex Ferguson's intuition that Eric Cantona was his man, I just know in my heart of hearts that DF and RVH would be a match made in heaven.
Unlike Daz F's musings, only one or two locals and a random Belgian inquisitor have been the consistent viewers of my written running ramblings over the last few years, so I might have to try and get this to him personally in some roundabout way as this message is especially for you, Darren Fishwick.
As a music lover, Darren will definitely recall 'Especially For You', which was a number one hit for Kylie and Jason. He's certainly the perfect age to have subconsciously absorbed and remembered all the lyrics too. (Takes one to know one) That was as big as it got for Jason's pop career, although his solo album Ten Good Reasons did Ok. A not so subtle Fishwickesque tangent twist there, for Ten Good Reasons are as follows why Darren should join Ribble Valley Harriers...
Reason 1... Another footballing analogy to get things started... Steven Gerrard stayed at Liverpool all his career and in these times of flakey fickle footballers, hats off to the scouse lad for a solid act of trend butting. But had the mighty reds merged with Everton and Tranmere to create a Merseyside United that messed with their traditional kit colours, I'm sure that his loyalty would not have been questioned had Stevie G decided to eventually move on. Gerrard won a few things and was a legend where he was, but what else could he have done and won? What horizons could have been broadened and enriched further by playing a few years elsewhere?
Reason 2... You've got the right personality for this small club. No heirs and graces, a bloke who just wants to get stuck in and race. (then write a report drifting off on to more splendid tangents than Ronnie Corbett did in his leather chair and Lyle & Scott sweater, near the end of the The Two Ronnies show)
Reason 3... RVH is predominantly a fell club and so your association would be entirely like minded.
Reason 4... You'd be a fine addition to a competitive men's vets team on the fells. In a mixed team you would get the chance to race with one of the club's brilliant lasses.
Reason 5... "If Fishwick joined, they can't be all that bad"... that's what they'll be saying about RVH when your transfer goes through! A Dazza in black (sometimes yellow, maybe even pink) would be a fantastic ambassadorial advert for a club that has undeservedly got a bad press in certain quarters. Charmian Heaton tried to find a way to ban the club, so come on in and find out just how ridiculously off the mark your apparently friendly FRA Chair really is. Wearing the black vest, you find out who your friends on the circuit really are.
Reason 6... You told me last year that since the Chorley clubs all merged, you wear the original Chorley Harriers vest as a protest because Chorley is traditionally just black and white only, like the football team. Now Chorley FC also have red in their strip. Nothing is sacred.
Reason 7... You could look at your current club vest as an unsolved crossword puzzle... the black bits are already there, the white bits just need filling in.
Reason 8... Sutty needs a few inter-club connections over West and Central Lancs to do some club group sessions closer to home.
Reason 9... Hastle free. These days you can go online and change running clubs as easy as buying a pair of kecks off eBay. Give it a year initially, they're good sorts at Chorley and wouldn't hold a grudge. In fact you know they would have you back in a flash if things didn't work out. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.Reason 10... Oh come on, just what the bloody hell's stopping you?! Get in touch with Barnes...
Monday, 18 March 2019
ONE LAST RANT AND READY TO RACE
It all seems to be coming together now. Something has changed. I'm not tiring as much, I'm recovering quicker, I can run fairly hard on consecutive days, I can actually clock up some reasonable mileage and get stuck in. This is how it's meant to be! A few weeks ago I thought it might be much deeper in to Spring before getting anywhere near some sort of shape to race, but on the back of this month's training so far I think within the next couple of weeks I ought to get myself on a starting line somewhere and find out where I'm really up to.
For the sake of these Running Ramblings of Nobody In Particular, being in better running fettle will bring a welcome return to the tedious accounts of my racing performances, so hopefully less moaning and groaning and a backburner for the rants - related and unrelated to running - that have filled some blank spaces since last pinning a number on back in November.
But one last rant for now please if I may, because off road cyclists are getting on my wick. I know of a few actually, but it's nowt I wouldn't say to their faces. I'm not condemning every single individual but feel I am about to make a fairly reasonable generalisation. I'm trying not to be a killjoy either, but in any case, where landowners and leaseholders do not prohibit the use of mountain bikes then who the hell am I to persuade otherwise?
But my beef is that I'm not convinced many of these cyclists are particularly sensitive or empathetic to the environment through which they're big wheels wade. Certainly on the moors of Pendle and West Pennines, upon which I frequent the most, an ever increasing amount of aggressive tyre markings through the peatlands not only cuts up the existing paths and trods, but breeds deviation from the original line and so further scarring these vulnerable areas of natural habitat and beauty. In my view, these cyclists that find the proper right of way too technical or difficult to ride over should find a hobby that they're actually competent at.
Essentially, it's about respecting the environment in which you find your fun and showing a conscientious approach to the damage it may be doing. In Wheelton Plantations - a dense woodland of mature pines and conifers near the village of Brinscall, for those not in the know - off piste downhill bike tracks are cutting through swathes of previously untouched forest floor. Bluebells that are starting to show have been churned up and crushed. Ok, so maybe I should go and catch some real criminals I suppose. But what remaining wild country we have at our disposal to explore and enjoy, can we not do so respectfully?
It looks like local walkers, ramblers and the like are busy trying to blockade these bike runs by placing bits of fallen branches and logs in strategic places. At least I know it's not just me then who is getting uppity about them. But on a stretch towards Great Hill from White Coppice, some overzealous bike saboteurs have been displacing large stones from the remains of centuries old wall boundaries and dropping them upon any trod with a bike tyre print on it. This in itself is a ruinous act and will a biker come across one and think, "Ooh, what's this big stone doing here? I'll carefully place it back where it looks like it came from"? Unlikely. Steering around it to start cutting up even more ground would be the more probable scenario.
It's fair to say walkers, ramblers, hikers, fellrunners all leave a footprint on the landscape over time. But folk on foot tend to stick to the well worn line and I'm pretty sure the overwhelming majority wouldn't dream of indiscriminately flattening flora and fauna.
This particular grievance has stewed within me for some time and particularly as some organisations purporting to take care of our countryside's welfare have had a hand in the bans and restrictions of fixtures on the fell racing calendar. Erosion and land sensitivity are the common reasons forwarded, but I consider this to be extremely misdirected and making fell racing the scapegoat. A hundred and odd studded shoes hammering it once a year takes the wrath, meanwhile the far more erosive impact of mountain bike tyres are free to cut up the land on a daily basis without any sort of restrictions whatsoever. It's a crazy world in which we live.
It all seems to be coming together now. Something has changed. I'm not tiring as much, I'm recovering quicker, I can run fairly hard on consecutive days, I can actually clock up some reasonable mileage and get stuck in. This is how it's meant to be! A few weeks ago I thought it might be much deeper in to Spring before getting anywhere near some sort of shape to race, but on the back of this month's training so far I think within the next couple of weeks I ought to get myself on a starting line somewhere and find out where I'm really up to.
For the sake of these Running Ramblings of Nobody In Particular, being in better running fettle will bring a welcome return to the tedious accounts of my racing performances, so hopefully less moaning and groaning and a backburner for the rants - related and unrelated to running - that have filled some blank spaces since last pinning a number on back in November.
But one last rant for now please if I may, because off road cyclists are getting on my wick. I know of a few actually, but it's nowt I wouldn't say to their faces. I'm not condemning every single individual but feel I am about to make a fairly reasonable generalisation. I'm trying not to be a killjoy either, but in any case, where landowners and leaseholders do not prohibit the use of mountain bikes then who the hell am I to persuade otherwise?
But my beef is that I'm not convinced many of these cyclists are particularly sensitive or empathetic to the environment through which they're big wheels wade. Certainly on the moors of Pendle and West Pennines, upon which I frequent the most, an ever increasing amount of aggressive tyre markings through the peatlands not only cuts up the existing paths and trods, but breeds deviation from the original line and so further scarring these vulnerable areas of natural habitat and beauty. In my view, these cyclists that find the proper right of way too technical or difficult to ride over should find a hobby that they're actually competent at.
Essentially, it's about respecting the environment in which you find your fun and showing a conscientious approach to the damage it may be doing. In Wheelton Plantations - a dense woodland of mature pines and conifers near the village of Brinscall, for those not in the know - off piste downhill bike tracks are cutting through swathes of previously untouched forest floor. Bluebells that are starting to show have been churned up and crushed. Ok, so maybe I should go and catch some real criminals I suppose. But what remaining wild country we have at our disposal to explore and enjoy, can we not do so respectfully?
It looks like local walkers, ramblers and the like are busy trying to blockade these bike runs by placing bits of fallen branches and logs in strategic places. At least I know it's not just me then who is getting uppity about them. But on a stretch towards Great Hill from White Coppice, some overzealous bike saboteurs have been displacing large stones from the remains of centuries old wall boundaries and dropping them upon any trod with a bike tyre print on it. This in itself is a ruinous act and will a biker come across one and think, "Ooh, what's this big stone doing here? I'll carefully place it back where it looks like it came from"? Unlikely. Steering around it to start cutting up even more ground would be the more probable scenario.
It's fair to say walkers, ramblers, hikers, fellrunners all leave a footprint on the landscape over time. But folk on foot tend to stick to the well worn line and I'm pretty sure the overwhelming majority wouldn't dream of indiscriminately flattening flora and fauna.
This particular grievance has stewed within me for some time and particularly as some organisations purporting to take care of our countryside's welfare have had a hand in the bans and restrictions of fixtures on the fell racing calendar. Erosion and land sensitivity are the common reasons forwarded, but I consider this to be extremely misdirected and making fell racing the scapegoat. A hundred and odd studded shoes hammering it once a year takes the wrath, meanwhile the far more erosive impact of mountain bike tyres are free to cut up the land on a daily basis without any sort of restrictions whatsoever. It's a crazy world in which we live.
Tuesday, 5 March 2019
HARD CORE, LOW PROFILE, HIGH HOPES
February did not turn out like it was supposed to at all. Having jumbled a meagre eighty miles together, the month did at least end on a positive spin. Some progressive runs on the road and my first outing on the fell in twelve long weeks. It wasn't pretty, but importantly the capability of being able to dig in and hurt myself a bit had finally returned. With that, a sense of enjoyment also.
At one point in the middle of last month, the recurring dream I have of being in a race and not being able to turn my legs over as if they are stuck in treacle... well it came true as I could barely ten-minute mile with the dog on the park.
I look up to elder statesmen and stateswomen who I notice still running around, well in to their seventies and yet undeterred and having a go. Hats absolutely off to them, shuffling down the roads, stooped slightly forward with arms appearing to be working harder than their legs... but this was me at just 45.
I was aching everywhere, my body seemed to keep packing up at about two miles in and there was no energy to try and force the issue. Tired all the time, sleeping like a log but not feeling the benefit... I wasn't well. I mean, I wasn't exactly unwell either, but if you're a runner or in to some other regular physical activity that requires a certain amount of exertion and endurance, then the otherwise subtle symptoms of an underlying virus or similar can feel much more heightened.
As previously proclaimed though, rolling up to February's finale there seemed to be a genuine chink of light at the end of this latest running tunnel. The one thing I have managed to be consistent with this year is Pilates. Initially, although at the expense of some soreness for a day or two, the classes felt like they had certainly straightened me out a bit and restored some verticality (no such word, but I like the sound it) to my posture. A couple of months of it now and dare I say it - me who continually over-enthuses at discoveries that I believe will make me run like I'm ten years younger - but the whole core strengthening thing, I think I finally get it! A few short regular jaunts on the fells again now and I have to say that this morning in particular, I was descending really smoothly and without my knees feeling any sort of battering or buckling, during or after. There's something in this Pilates lark for me, I'm absolutely convinced.
Another twist towards better running fortune was my decision to trial running on the road in low profile racing shoes again. I didn't know any different for many years until I got Achilles trouble. But just recently I've been monitoring the return of infrequent right side strains from glutes, to hip, down to the knee. This seems to recur only after wearing cushioned running shoes, but no backlash from going low profile when going for it on the treadmill, no problems after running in my off-roaders. So it's been back to the old school, feeling the ground underneath again. I even did a nine miler in them to start the month of March off as I mean to go on - and without repercussions.
As ever, I may be building my hopes up to fail again, but just lately that light seems to chink that little bit brighter after every outing.
February did not turn out like it was supposed to at all. Having jumbled a meagre eighty miles together, the month did at least end on a positive spin. Some progressive runs on the road and my first outing on the fell in twelve long weeks. It wasn't pretty, but importantly the capability of being able to dig in and hurt myself a bit had finally returned. With that, a sense of enjoyment also.
At one point in the middle of last month, the recurring dream I have of being in a race and not being able to turn my legs over as if they are stuck in treacle... well it came true as I could barely ten-minute mile with the dog on the park.
I look up to elder statesmen and stateswomen who I notice still running around, well in to their seventies and yet undeterred and having a go. Hats absolutely off to them, shuffling down the roads, stooped slightly forward with arms appearing to be working harder than their legs... but this was me at just 45.
I was aching everywhere, my body seemed to keep packing up at about two miles in and there was no energy to try and force the issue. Tired all the time, sleeping like a log but not feeling the benefit... I wasn't well. I mean, I wasn't exactly unwell either, but if you're a runner or in to some other regular physical activity that requires a certain amount of exertion and endurance, then the otherwise subtle symptoms of an underlying virus or similar can feel much more heightened.
As previously proclaimed though, rolling up to February's finale there seemed to be a genuine chink of light at the end of this latest running tunnel. The one thing I have managed to be consistent with this year is Pilates. Initially, although at the expense of some soreness for a day or two, the classes felt like they had certainly straightened me out a bit and restored some verticality (no such word, but I like the sound it) to my posture. A couple of months of it now and dare I say it - me who continually over-enthuses at discoveries that I believe will make me run like I'm ten years younger - but the whole core strengthening thing, I think I finally get it! A few short regular jaunts on the fells again now and I have to say that this morning in particular, I was descending really smoothly and without my knees feeling any sort of battering or buckling, during or after. There's something in this Pilates lark for me, I'm absolutely convinced.
Another twist towards better running fortune was my decision to trial running on the road in low profile racing shoes again. I didn't know any different for many years until I got Achilles trouble. But just recently I've been monitoring the return of infrequent right side strains from glutes, to hip, down to the knee. This seems to recur only after wearing cushioned running shoes, but no backlash from going low profile when going for it on the treadmill, no problems after running in my off-roaders. So it's been back to the old school, feeling the ground underneath again. I even did a nine miler in them to start the month of March off as I mean to go on - and without repercussions.
As ever, I may be building my hopes up to fail again, but just lately that light seems to chink that little bit brighter after every outing.
Sunday, 17 February 2019
GOOD WEEK, BAD WEEK... JUST WEAK
After my last whinge on here, a good week's training followed and I wondered what all that whining was actually about. But then, true to form, a bad week ensued a good week and I was reacquainted once again with that mindset of the moaner and groaner.
Just ten days ago in the gym I had hopped off the treadmill from an 18:50 5K, grit my teeth for 15 minutes on the bike, showered and then came out of an hour of Pilates feeling pretty damn wonderful I have to say.
Today though, muscles ache needlessly despite barely any running in more recent days. My head feels heavy and seems to be operating on a time delay of a few split seconds to what is happening in actual real time (Although Sara might say that's business as usual with me) My chest feels tight, there's an annoying cough not justifying it's nuisance value by actually bringing anything up... basically, I don't feel that well again and way too weak and lethargic to contemplate running. Earlier in the week I ploughed on regardless hoping I could sweat it out or something, but this just made matters worse.
So in to perspective I go, for I am not on my death bed and obviously grateful for that. I'm just not feeling my usual self. Even this morning's dog walk with Sara and Connie took it out of me and I was flailing behind when we went uphill, thinking and worrying to myself just how the hell am I going to get in to a fit state to run properly again when I feel like this?
Yesterday was meant to be the comeback race at Parbold Hill, next Saturday a crack at the Cross Country Nationals in Leeds. Realistically, I'm probably looking as far ahead as May now before I can even consider the prospect of being fit, well and tough enough to turn up for a race.
After my last whinge on here, a good week's training followed and I wondered what all that whining was actually about. But then, true to form, a bad week ensued a good week and I was reacquainted once again with that mindset of the moaner and groaner.
Just ten days ago in the gym I had hopped off the treadmill from an 18:50 5K, grit my teeth for 15 minutes on the bike, showered and then came out of an hour of Pilates feeling pretty damn wonderful I have to say.
Today though, muscles ache needlessly despite barely any running in more recent days. My head feels heavy and seems to be operating on a time delay of a few split seconds to what is happening in actual real time (Although Sara might say that's business as usual with me) My chest feels tight, there's an annoying cough not justifying it's nuisance value by actually bringing anything up... basically, I don't feel that well again and way too weak and lethargic to contemplate running. Earlier in the week I ploughed on regardless hoping I could sweat it out or something, but this just made matters worse.
So in to perspective I go, for I am not on my death bed and obviously grateful for that. I'm just not feeling my usual self. Even this morning's dog walk with Sara and Connie took it out of me and I was flailing behind when we went uphill, thinking and worrying to myself just how the hell am I going to get in to a fit state to run properly again when I feel like this?
Yesterday was meant to be the comeback race at Parbold Hill, next Saturday a crack at the Cross Country Nationals in Leeds. Realistically, I'm probably looking as far ahead as May now before I can even consider the prospect of being fit, well and tough enough to turn up for a race.
Sunday, 3 February 2019
WHEN RUNNING SPOILS A GOOD WALK
The sun shone bright in sub-zero temperatures upon the snowy Winter wonderland of Roddlesworth Woods with Connie the dog. What was not to love about that for a morning training run? Connie loved it, that's for sure. But for me it was a struggle and that summed up the rest of this third week of the comeback of nobody in particular.
No depth of lung capacity, no spring in my stride. American writer Mark Twain takes the credit for famously observing that, ''Golf is a good walk spoiled''. More a case of running spoiling a good walk in this instance. A hopeless plod around potentially fast trails did spoil what would have been a very beautiful walk indeed. The thought of rearing up to walking pace did seriously cross my mind at about mile three, but the onset of moderately damp perspiration under just thin layers of running gear would have allowed the Arctic breeze to get the better of me. I had to plod on regardless just to keep warm.
I don't know if it's this cold snap of weather, a backlash from man flu, or just some other underlying bug going around, but I'm just not feeling it. Persisting to train most days just to see out a meagre low octane thirty mile week has been a considerable battle in itself. Mentally more than anything, because runs have been chores and I've not felt well enough to run hard enough to get a single endorphin circulating.
All runners have many a reason why they run and some of those reasons will be more important than others. What this particular outing around Roddlesworth did highlight for me was that the simple practice of just being out running is not always enough. If it ever was, it isn't any more. I need some exhilaration from it and when there is none in supply, I seriously question what the hell I'm doing. So I didn't feel at my best and certainly at my age accept I can't go out and smash every run at a pace to thrill, but I was tired and fed up of running out here when I shouldn't have been. It really did spoil a good walk.
A high point in more ways than one was sucking in an incredible view to the North that spanned from Black Combe rising out of the Irish Sea on Cumbria's South Western tip, from which eastwards the whole of the snowy Lakeland mountain range was on show, the southern face of the Bowland Fells, a distant Ingleborough, a closer Pendle and then the immediate hillsides of Darwen Tower and Cartridge Hill to complete an impressive left to right panorama. Aside from that moment, I didn't really have a great time and limited what should have been a longer run to just over six and a half miles. I was relieved to get back to the car. It shouldn't have been like this, but it was.
At least the day after, oxygen supply improved and allowed the legs to get more of a wriggle on. But again, it wasn't quality and I didn't get much of a buzz from it. All I can do is carry on and wait and see if things come together at some point. Being a bit down in the dumps already with my running this year doesn't bode well. The pessimist within is saying, ''Face it Sutty, time's up''. The optimist tells me, ''Keep on keeping on, the tide will turn eventually''. The realist is saying, ''It could go either way''.
The sun shone bright in sub-zero temperatures upon the snowy Winter wonderland of Roddlesworth Woods with Connie the dog. What was not to love about that for a morning training run? Connie loved it, that's for sure. But for me it was a struggle and that summed up the rest of this third week of the comeback of nobody in particular.
No depth of lung capacity, no spring in my stride. American writer Mark Twain takes the credit for famously observing that, ''Golf is a good walk spoiled''. More a case of running spoiling a good walk in this instance. A hopeless plod around potentially fast trails did spoil what would have been a very beautiful walk indeed. The thought of rearing up to walking pace did seriously cross my mind at about mile three, but the onset of moderately damp perspiration under just thin layers of running gear would have allowed the Arctic breeze to get the better of me. I had to plod on regardless just to keep warm.
I don't know if it's this cold snap of weather, a backlash from man flu, or just some other underlying bug going around, but I'm just not feeling it. Persisting to train most days just to see out a meagre low octane thirty mile week has been a considerable battle in itself. Mentally more than anything, because runs have been chores and I've not felt well enough to run hard enough to get a single endorphin circulating.
All runners have many a reason why they run and some of those reasons will be more important than others. What this particular outing around Roddlesworth did highlight for me was that the simple practice of just being out running is not always enough. If it ever was, it isn't any more. I need some exhilaration from it and when there is none in supply, I seriously question what the hell I'm doing. So I didn't feel at my best and certainly at my age accept I can't go out and smash every run at a pace to thrill, but I was tired and fed up of running out here when I shouldn't have been. It really did spoil a good walk.
A high point in more ways than one was sucking in an incredible view to the North that spanned from Black Combe rising out of the Irish Sea on Cumbria's South Western tip, from which eastwards the whole of the snowy Lakeland mountain range was on show, the southern face of the Bowland Fells, a distant Ingleborough, a closer Pendle and then the immediate hillsides of Darwen Tower and Cartridge Hill to complete an impressive left to right panorama. Aside from that moment, I didn't really have a great time and limited what should have been a longer run to just over six and a half miles. I was relieved to get back to the car. It shouldn't have been like this, but it was.
At least the day after, oxygen supply improved and allowed the legs to get more of a wriggle on. But again, it wasn't quality and I didn't get much of a buzz from it. All I can do is carry on and wait and see if things come together at some point. Being a bit down in the dumps already with my running this year doesn't bode well. The pessimist within is saying, ''Face it Sutty, time's up''. The optimist tells me, ''Keep on keeping on, the tide will turn eventually''. The realist is saying, ''It could go either way''.
Friday, 18 January 2019
RISING FROM THE ASHES OF A MONTH'S INACTIVITY: WEEK ONE
DAY TO DAY...
Wednesday 9th... Pilates! I come away with the brutal realisation of core weaknesses, but doing this for an hour every week can only help matters and I promptly book myself in again for next Wednesday.
Thursday 10th... Pilates has made me feel half an inch taller and with a body as tight as David Beckham's. Then again, the midriff is letting the side down. It's like the body of Becks with Wayne Rooney's belly.
Friday 11th... First run since the 11th of last month. I've done absolutely Charles de Gaulle apart from walkies with the dog in that time, so just over two miles before work was enough for today. Again, I don't half feel thick-set around my middle. It's going to take some shifting.
Saturday 12th... Two miler out and back in the morning with a bit more intention, then an easier paced 2.5 in the evening.
Sunday 13th... After three days in a row and despite the modesty of those efforts, a few muscular aches and pains pop up as if only just starting running for the first time. A steady two miler today.
Monday 14th... Off road again at last with a muddy morning run of 4.8 miles up to West Bradford on the banks of the River Ribble and back to Clitheroe. More intense in the evening with my debut in the gym and a sweaty 5K on the treadmill in 19:43.
Tuesday 15th... Back running with Connie the dog at last for some cross country and trail on Worden Park. Got nearly five miles in at better than plod pace. With diversions chasing squirrels and black headed gulls, Connie did more like five and a half.
Wednesday 16th... A bit sore and jaded, but perked up with a quick two mile blast on the running machine before pilates.
Thursday 17th... A four mile out and back on the road with the introduction of some slight inclines.
REVIEW OF THE WEEK...
Gently back in to the swing with just over 25 miles in the bag and thankfully no nuisance knees to report. This old crock ain't quite done yet. The 70% reduction of beer intake was always going to be an over-ambitious target, but I'd say figures of at least 50% have been achieved - the contents of our recycle bin is mainly pet food tins and milk cartons - and I've not been to the pub. Feeling just a little bit tighter around the middle now, which is always a good sign - just two Pilates classes seem to have helped make a difference already. That Wednesday night routine is here to stay.
Preparing to get running again last Friday morning, I heard on the radio Andy Murray announcing an inevitable retirement on the horizon. This put things in to perspective, for I may be a running nobody in particular and back to square one, but I felt a gratefulness for the basic ability to go out and give it a go. A luxury this tennis champ may no longer have. None comparable you may think, a former world number one tennis player in his early thirties to a was-not-never-will-be fellrunner at the mid-forties mark? But if I really was finally forced to retire to the bowling green or something more sedate before I felt my time was up, then I'm sure I'd feel upset and gutted about it too.
In sport, any sport and at any level, actively competing at something you love is addictive and clearly Murray won't be getting that fix anymore. Worst of all for him, it's really not his decision. His hip is knackered. He's wrecked himself to get where he has got and although I doubt he will regret a single minute of that, being forced to down tools at an age when he has plenty more to give must be heartbreaking.
I've heard some unsympathetic nonsense from a critical minority such as, ''Poor Andy, how's he going to cope? He's only got a hundred million in the bank.'' That must be nice mind you, but then that's just it, Murray is already minted (pardon the pun) so this emotional outpouring could only have been about the love. His love for the game and his love for competing. Fighting back the tears during his announcement before the Australian Open started, I felt there was something very genuine about it. As well as addressing the rest of the tennis world with this news, perhaps he was admitting it out loud to himself for the first time.
A very dim view was taken of professional sportsperson's sobbing at press conferences last year when cheating Australian cricketers Steve Smith and Cameron Bancroft pleaded forgiveness in a pathetic act of public cry-baby theatrics. Expressing their sincerely insincere sorrow for what they had done was merely the consequence of being even more sorry that they had got caught.
There seemed not a jot of insincerity or pretence when Murray's voice broke. I think it's fair to say Andy Murray got to the very top of his sport with graft - a fair share of ability - but mainly graft. No cheating, no suspecting clouds hovering that he ever might have done. They don't make many like Murray anymore.
DAY TO DAY...
Wednesday 9th... Pilates! I come away with the brutal realisation of core weaknesses, but doing this for an hour every week can only help matters and I promptly book myself in again for next Wednesday.
Thursday 10th... Pilates has made me feel half an inch taller and with a body as tight as David Beckham's. Then again, the midriff is letting the side down. It's like the body of Becks with Wayne Rooney's belly.
Friday 11th... First run since the 11th of last month. I've done absolutely Charles de Gaulle apart from walkies with the dog in that time, so just over two miles before work was enough for today. Again, I don't half feel thick-set around my middle. It's going to take some shifting.
Saturday 12th... Two miler out and back in the morning with a bit more intention, then an easier paced 2.5 in the evening.
Sunday 13th... After three days in a row and despite the modesty of those efforts, a few muscular aches and pains pop up as if only just starting running for the first time. A steady two miler today.
Monday 14th... Off road again at last with a muddy morning run of 4.8 miles up to West Bradford on the banks of the River Ribble and back to Clitheroe. More intense in the evening with my debut in the gym and a sweaty 5K on the treadmill in 19:43.
Tuesday 15th... Back running with Connie the dog at last for some cross country and trail on Worden Park. Got nearly five miles in at better than plod pace. With diversions chasing squirrels and black headed gulls, Connie did more like five and a half.
Wednesday 16th... A bit sore and jaded, but perked up with a quick two mile blast on the running machine before pilates.
Thursday 17th... A four mile out and back on the road with the introduction of some slight inclines.
REVIEW OF THE WEEK...
Gently back in to the swing with just over 25 miles in the bag and thankfully no nuisance knees to report. This old crock ain't quite done yet. The 70% reduction of beer intake was always going to be an over-ambitious target, but I'd say figures of at least 50% have been achieved - the contents of our recycle bin is mainly pet food tins and milk cartons - and I've not been to the pub. Feeling just a little bit tighter around the middle now, which is always a good sign - just two Pilates classes seem to have helped make a difference already. That Wednesday night routine is here to stay.
Preparing to get running again last Friday morning, I heard on the radio Andy Murray announcing an inevitable retirement on the horizon. This put things in to perspective, for I may be a running nobody in particular and back to square one, but I felt a gratefulness for the basic ability to go out and give it a go. A luxury this tennis champ may no longer have. None comparable you may think, a former world number one tennis player in his early thirties to a was-not-never-will-be fellrunner at the mid-forties mark? But if I really was finally forced to retire to the bowling green or something more sedate before I felt my time was up, then I'm sure I'd feel upset and gutted about it too.
In sport, any sport and at any level, actively competing at something you love is addictive and clearly Murray won't be getting that fix anymore. Worst of all for him, it's really not his decision. His hip is knackered. He's wrecked himself to get where he has got and although I doubt he will regret a single minute of that, being forced to down tools at an age when he has plenty more to give must be heartbreaking.
I've heard some unsympathetic nonsense from a critical minority such as, ''Poor Andy, how's he going to cope? He's only got a hundred million in the bank.'' That must be nice mind you, but then that's just it, Murray is already minted (pardon the pun) so this emotional outpouring could only have been about the love. His love for the game and his love for competing. Fighting back the tears during his announcement before the Australian Open started, I felt there was something very genuine about it. As well as addressing the rest of the tennis world with this news, perhaps he was admitting it out loud to himself for the first time.
A very dim view was taken of professional sportsperson's sobbing at press conferences last year when cheating Australian cricketers Steve Smith and Cameron Bancroft pleaded forgiveness in a pathetic act of public cry-baby theatrics. Expressing their sincerely insincere sorrow for what they had done was merely the consequence of being even more sorry that they had got caught.
There seemed not a jot of insincerity or pretence when Murray's voice broke. I think it's fair to say Andy Murray got to the very top of his sport with graft - a fair share of ability - but mainly graft. No cheating, no suspecting clouds hovering that he ever might have done. They don't make many like Murray anymore.
Tuesday, 8 January 2019
A FRESH START TO PUT UP OR SHUT UP
I've been doing that thinking thing again. But this time my loyal five readers, you will may be relieved to hear that it's about my running rather than a self-righteous rant about world affairs.
It's put up or shut up this year. Race results need to bare a least a reasonable reflection on time and effort spent training. A few tweaks will hopefully make the difference. For a start off, I can see what worked for me and what didn't last year. Then Sara got me a top Christmas prezzie of a year's gym membership at the local leisure centre, so it's hello pilates, yoga, cross training and treadmill sessions. Add to this a proposed 70% reduction of beer intake and that is the 'put up' part of the deal.
But, if all that doesn't bare fruit and I'm just chasing my own shadow again all year, then not only will this particular rambling of this nobody in particular draw to it's natural ending, but I would need to look at whether I'm at the right club - or even if I should be with a club at all. Ribble Valley Harriers is quite a unique set up. It's small and it's all about winning things. Team wins, individual wins, age category wins... it's loaded with international runners and some of Lancashire's top veterans, which begs the question: What the frig am I doing there? I'm not going to win owt, but I need to be racing well with regularity at the very least - to me that seems a bare minimum requirement to justify the possession of that black vest... and there you have the 'shut up' parts, should push come to shove.
Two main boxes to tick this year then and firstly, can I finally find some consistency? To generally finish around top ten at local level fell races and top twenty in some on Lakeland scene would suffice. The second box to tick is to dip under seventeen minutes for 5K on the road - yes, that old chestnut again. I'm adamant I have absolutely no potential whatsoever to redeem any sort of form of old in road racing. But I know that I could still grind out a decent 5K without wrecking my body. Do I really believe I can do these things? Yes. But I accept it's against the odds.
First things first though, I'm still not running at all yet. Day 28 and probably a few more days still to go until I finally feel well enough to get out for a jog. But then it's all systems go and I'm really looking forward to cracking on with a fresh start to be quite honest. It's a month until the Parbold Hill Race which I pre-entered a while back. Something to aim for.
I've been doing that thinking thing again. But this time my loyal five readers, you will may be relieved to hear that it's about my running rather than a self-righteous rant about world affairs.
It's put up or shut up this year. Race results need to bare a least a reasonable reflection on time and effort spent training. A few tweaks will hopefully make the difference. For a start off, I can see what worked for me and what didn't last year. Then Sara got me a top Christmas prezzie of a year's gym membership at the local leisure centre, so it's hello pilates, yoga, cross training and treadmill sessions. Add to this a proposed 70% reduction of beer intake and that is the 'put up' part of the deal.
But, if all that doesn't bare fruit and I'm just chasing my own shadow again all year, then not only will this particular rambling of this nobody in particular draw to it's natural ending, but I would need to look at whether I'm at the right club - or even if I should be with a club at all. Ribble Valley Harriers is quite a unique set up. It's small and it's all about winning things. Team wins, individual wins, age category wins... it's loaded with international runners and some of Lancashire's top veterans, which begs the question: What the frig am I doing there? I'm not going to win owt, but I need to be racing well with regularity at the very least - to me that seems a bare minimum requirement to justify the possession of that black vest... and there you have the 'shut up' parts, should push come to shove.
Two main boxes to tick this year then and firstly, can I finally find some consistency? To generally finish around top ten at local level fell races and top twenty in some on Lakeland scene would suffice. The second box to tick is to dip under seventeen minutes for 5K on the road - yes, that old chestnut again. I'm adamant I have absolutely no potential whatsoever to redeem any sort of form of old in road racing. But I know that I could still grind out a decent 5K without wrecking my body. Do I really believe I can do these things? Yes. But I accept it's against the odds.
First things first though, I'm still not running at all yet. Day 28 and probably a few more days still to go until I finally feel well enough to get out for a jog. But then it's all systems go and I'm really looking forward to cracking on with a fresh start to be quite honest. It's a month until the Parbold Hill Race which I pre-entered a while back. Something to aim for.
Wednesday, 2 January 2019
AND THAT WAS THE YEAR THAT WAS BUT WASN'T
The running year ended twenty days short and the longest period without a run of any description for many years rolls over in to this next one. Ok, so this run of runlessness has brought to the surface a little grumpiness and frustration at times, not to mention broader underlying tensions with the world and some of it's undesirable humanoid inhabitants - I didn't even touch the sides with my depressing vision of the present and the future last month! - but generally I've been enjoying the break and over-indulging in good food and beer during the festive period like most normal folk do.
I was just revving up to naming a date to go out there and run again when I got bogged down with illness. Man flu to be precise. Once it took hold on the chest as well, that was that so far as running in 2018 was concerned and also the foreseeable short term whilst still in the grips of this pesky germ fest. Trying to dig out a positive spin on the situation, it could all be a blessing in disguise - I feel like I've got a new pair of knees to test out when I finally get my kit back on again.
Looking back over last year at a glance, it was successful in terms of being fit and able to just get out there and enjoy racing regularly. That is the main thing of course and I would never lose perspective of this. But in terms of performance, there was very little to get excited about. I'd worked up to some good racing form by September and October, but then I blew it by testing the water of longer distance. Experimenting with a return to the longer stuff actually broke me, so the next time I start exhuming unfinished business and thinking about the Three Peaks Race, I would be wise to bury the idea again with immediate effect.
2019 is going to be a juggle of what's left in the competitive bank and ultimately what remains within the restrictions of physical capability. The older I get, the more difficult it is to find a training routine that works consistently over a long period. The goalposts remain in the same place, but the ball keeps blowing away from me in the wind.
2018 Mileage Total: 1298.6
I was just revving up to naming a date to go out there and run again when I got bogged down with illness. Man flu to be precise. Once it took hold on the chest as well, that was that so far as running in 2018 was concerned and also the foreseeable short term whilst still in the grips of this pesky germ fest. Trying to dig out a positive spin on the situation, it could all be a blessing in disguise - I feel like I've got a new pair of knees to test out when I finally get my kit back on again.
Looking back over last year at a glance, it was successful in terms of being fit and able to just get out there and enjoy racing regularly. That is the main thing of course and I would never lose perspective of this. But in terms of performance, there was very little to get excited about. I'd worked up to some good racing form by September and October, but then I blew it by testing the water of longer distance. Experimenting with a return to the longer stuff actually broke me, so the next time I start exhuming unfinished business and thinking about the Three Peaks Race, I would be wise to bury the idea again with immediate effect.
2019 is going to be a juggle of what's left in the competitive bank and ultimately what remains within the restrictions of physical capability. The older I get, the more difficult it is to find a training routine that works consistently over a long period. The goalposts remain in the same place, but the ball keeps blowing away from me in the wind.
2018 Mileage Total: 1298.6
Wednesday, 19 December 2018
PERSONALITY DISORDER
There could be something in this not running malarkey, it's been great so far... less rushing around to fit the daily run in, eat when I feel like it rather than around runs, not having to hose down or stand in a freezing cold stream to pre-wash my legs, the relief of an annual angry eczema flare up which sores my wasteline during Winter, oh and no huge pile of running gear accumulating for what's known in our household as a 'selfish wash' or minging socks hanging around in various states of pre-soaks either. Even my car smells fresher without having cleaned it.
There could be something in this not running malarkey, it's been great so far... less rushing around to fit the daily run in, eat when I feel like it rather than around runs, not having to hose down or stand in a freezing cold stream to pre-wash my legs, the relief of an annual angry eczema flare up which sores my wasteline during Winter, oh and no huge pile of running gear accumulating for what's known in our household as a 'selfish wash' or minging socks hanging around in various states of pre-soaks either. Even my car smells fresher without having cleaned it.
Actually, missing it already really. But importantly, knees welfare? Well, not so much healed but certainly feeling freshened up after seven days of abstention.
There has been a downside of course, mainly that this potentially rather (Ok, very) grumpy middle-aged man has found himself getting some practice in for those tormented years ahead. A lack of running time has had me thinking too much - which is always a dangerous passtime - about things like the detrimental impact to nature of human evolution for example... as you do, in these idle moments of walking the dog.
This race, species or whatever sort of collective one could categorise ourselves as, appears to be abusing the Earth's natural resources, habitat, other creatures and ultimately ourselves at a more alarming rate than ever before.
I'm lucky in a sense that I will be no more than well dispersed microscopic particles of ash by the time us bipedal hybrids literally self destruct. But it could be a close call. At the current rate of human scourge, it's difficult to envisage a better world in any sort of short term. One would think an allegedly intelligent hybrid mammal would be doing something radical as a whole to counterbalance the damage already done? But that couldn't be further from the truth it would seem. Decades of huffing and puffing between world leaders at environmental summits hasn't really got anywhere. Warfare and unsettlement is as rife as ever, driven by religious and racist extremists whose consciences are bereft of any decency.
There has been a downside of course, mainly that this potentially rather (Ok, very) grumpy middle-aged man has found himself getting some practice in for those tormented years ahead. A lack of running time has had me thinking too much - which is always a dangerous passtime - about things like the detrimental impact to nature of human evolution for example... as you do, in these idle moments of walking the dog.
This race, species or whatever sort of collective one could categorise ourselves as, appears to be abusing the Earth's natural resources, habitat, other creatures and ultimately ourselves at a more alarming rate than ever before.
I'm lucky in a sense that I will be no more than well dispersed microscopic particles of ash by the time us bipedal hybrids literally self destruct. But it could be a close call. At the current rate of human scourge, it's difficult to envisage a better world in any sort of short term. One would think an allegedly intelligent hybrid mammal would be doing something radical as a whole to counterbalance the damage already done? But that couldn't be further from the truth it would seem. Decades of huffing and puffing between world leaders at environmental summits hasn't really got anywhere. Warfare and unsettlement is as rife as ever, driven by religious and racist extremists whose consciences are bereft of any decency.
Some sort of radical, new wave of political thinking needs to gain populism to help save the whole planetary demise. You could argue such a political turn of tradition has taken place in the USA with an unhinged character like Donald Trump in power, but it's very much the polar opposite to Trump's version of radical that is required. His absolute ignorance and disregard for issues green and conservationist says it all about this dangerous sociopath. Over here, Labour Party leader Jeremy Corbyn appears to offer something different and at least he is a gentleman. Some of those scared of his Socialist values have continued to slur him with all sorts of unfounded accusations. Anti-semetism being the latest. Corbyn speaks out against an Israeli government persecuting Palestine which is twisted in to an antisemitic narrative for those with their own appalling agendas.
As things stand on the political front, dialogue doesn't seem to get anywhere or even work anymore. Threats and counter-threats are the way to bargain for power and policy, yet the biggest threat of all - atmospheric and planetary destruction - is continuously over-looked by a worldwide collective of live-for-today, ideological career politicians who steamroller anything through that makes money or makes them look good for five minutes, regardless of broader consequences of any kind.
Religion also has a part to play in teaching humanity to respect it's home. A useful place to start could be leading religious figures of all denominations strongly condoning more toleration of each other and using their influence to persuade some much needed worship and respect for the planet, preferably with as much gusto as their belief in various guises of supernatural beings. Hinduism could be exempt from my considerations here though, for were this the only religious channel created, then the need for peace, harmony and respect for all living matter might not be such the critical issue that it is.
The biggest challenge of all is for religions, politics, commerce and every individual to come together and take a sense of responsibility. A worldwide consensus to put dealing with the problems humanity has already created - and problems to face in the future - high on the priority list. The world couldn't be more far removed from that fantastical scenario right now. Somehow I don't think the current rise of the far right, the Conservative right or indeed any political wing other than something new or collaborative is going to deal with green issues and population as a matter of priority. Population is the one big taboo subject that simply has to be addressed at some point soon.
Hardly an epiphany these thoughts then, more the glaringly obvious. But more so, my upper sanctum seems much more bewildered and burdened by the stark reality of world affairs since inducing this onset of endorphin starvation by not running.
What flipped my lid the other night though, wasn't so much the repugnant excuse for human existence that dumped his rank MacDonald's packaging out of his car window - although that did make me feel like following the scrotbag with the sole intention of wringing his neck - but no, it was the BBC Sports Personality of the Year.
Also on the BBC, quiz show Only Connect recently revealed the distinction that BBC Plumber of the Year happens to be the one that stood out for me from a connecting sequence of four annual awards that were only ever awarded once. It seems to me completely criminal that such an award was scrapped when this dated act of pomp and ceremony that is Sports Personality of the Year is continually resuscitated and churned out for the sake of its own misguided sense of self importance. Besides, everyone needs a decent plumber now and again.
Last year's winner Mo Farah couldn't even be arsed turning up for the ceremony despite being in the country. Mo is very much a sportsman in a competitive sense, no question. Even if there may be a slightly grey area when he went to train in the USA and made a giant leap of class at a level where there is normally little room for so much manoeuvre, the guy can run. He can run quick and run hard. But personality? Not sure.
As things stand on the political front, dialogue doesn't seem to get anywhere or even work anymore. Threats and counter-threats are the way to bargain for power and policy, yet the biggest threat of all - atmospheric and planetary destruction - is continuously over-looked by a worldwide collective of live-for-today, ideological career politicians who steamroller anything through that makes money or makes them look good for five minutes, regardless of broader consequences of any kind.
Religion also has a part to play in teaching humanity to respect it's home. A useful place to start could be leading religious figures of all denominations strongly condoning more toleration of each other and using their influence to persuade some much needed worship and respect for the planet, preferably with as much gusto as their belief in various guises of supernatural beings. Hinduism could be exempt from my considerations here though, for were this the only religious channel created, then the need for peace, harmony and respect for all living matter might not be such the critical issue that it is.
The biggest challenge of all is for religions, politics, commerce and every individual to come together and take a sense of responsibility. A worldwide consensus to put dealing with the problems humanity has already created - and problems to face in the future - high on the priority list. The world couldn't be more far removed from that fantastical scenario right now. Somehow I don't think the current rise of the far right, the Conservative right or indeed any political wing other than something new or collaborative is going to deal with green issues and population as a matter of priority. Population is the one big taboo subject that simply has to be addressed at some point soon.
Hardly an epiphany these thoughts then, more the glaringly obvious. But more so, my upper sanctum seems much more bewildered and burdened by the stark reality of world affairs since inducing this onset of endorphin starvation by not running.
What flipped my lid the other night though, wasn't so much the repugnant excuse for human existence that dumped his rank MacDonald's packaging out of his car window - although that did make me feel like following the scrotbag with the sole intention of wringing his neck - but no, it was the BBC Sports Personality of the Year.
Also on the BBC, quiz show Only Connect recently revealed the distinction that BBC Plumber of the Year happens to be the one that stood out for me from a connecting sequence of four annual awards that were only ever awarded once. It seems to me completely criminal that such an award was scrapped when this dated act of pomp and ceremony that is Sports Personality of the Year is continually resuscitated and churned out for the sake of its own misguided sense of self importance. Besides, everyone needs a decent plumber now and again.
Last year's winner Mo Farah couldn't even be arsed turning up for the ceremony despite being in the country. Mo is very much a sportsman in a competitive sense, no question. Even if there may be a slightly grey area when he went to train in the USA and made a giant leap of class at a level where there is normally little room for so much manoeuvre, the guy can run. He can run quick and run hard. But personality? Not sure.
He's not overly popular with his rivals which speaks a few volumes. In interviews he plays dumb - which is actually very boring indeed - rambling on like a scratched record about how he does it for his family at every opportunity.
We never hear from Farah, ''I busted my balls with a 60 x 400's session off half a minute jog recovery recently and that gave me the edge today...''. It's always, ''I done it for my faaamily...'' I'm sure you did Mo, but you told us that last time.
Surely by description, contenders for the best sports personality should tick two boxes. Not only for having achieved at the top of their sporting game, but shown us a genuine personality that everyday folks can not only warm to, but engage with and also be inspired by?
So back to this year's BBC Sports Personality of the Year then. Now I may open myself up for criticism here by saying we only tuned in to watch the final of The Apprentice and caught the end of this year's awards show by default. The Apprentice is what it is though at least it makes for more entertaining television!
As if the Sports Personality show wasn't dire enough, they had the nerve to overrun it by fifteen minutes. It's fair to say I got on my high horse about this. The Apprentice final was already billed ten minutes longer than usual and we're up at six bells tomorrow taking Connie the dog out! Sir Alan should be stood with Claude and Karen at some iconic business location in London giving his finalists the lowdown when we are still awaiting the result of this almighty sporting tribute of tributes.
Third place... Harry Kane. OK, fair enough he bagged a few goals and won plenty of free kicks by cunningly collapsing in a heap whilst actually backing in to his marker in what was a brilliant World Cup effort for not only Harry, but the whole England squad. Personality though? Hmm, nice lad, inoffensive and he does seem genuine at least.
Second place... Lewis Hamilton.
Surely by description, contenders for the best sports personality should tick two boxes. Not only for having achieved at the top of their sporting game, but shown us a genuine personality that everyday folks can not only warm to, but engage with and also be inspired by?
So back to this year's BBC Sports Personality of the Year then. Now I may open myself up for criticism here by saying we only tuned in to watch the final of The Apprentice and caught the end of this year's awards show by default. The Apprentice is what it is though at least it makes for more entertaining television!
As if the Sports Personality show wasn't dire enough, they had the nerve to overrun it by fifteen minutes. It's fair to say I got on my high horse about this. The Apprentice final was already billed ten minutes longer than usual and we're up at six bells tomorrow taking Connie the dog out! Sir Alan should be stood with Claude and Karen at some iconic business location in London giving his finalists the lowdown when we are still awaiting the result of this almighty sporting tribute of tributes.
Third place... Harry Kane. OK, fair enough he bagged a few goals and won plenty of free kicks by cunningly collapsing in a heap whilst actually backing in to his marker in what was a brilliant World Cup effort for not only Harry, but the whole England squad. Personality though? Hmm, nice lad, inoffensive and he does seem genuine at least.
Second place... Lewis Hamilton.
That's it, I've had enough! I can't watch. I'm off in to the kitchen. Sports and personality? I'd argue the case of whether motor racing is actually a sport when some guys have much faster cars than others. Personality? Lewis Hamilton? Well if we are comparing wet dish cloths and drying paint, then yes, for me Hamilton fits the bill.
I find the man a bit creepy, exceedingly dull to listen to and he just grates on me as somebody who even takes taking themselves too seriously, too seriously. I can't detect a microgram of humility about the man. Never a decent word to say about his opponents, a sociopath so immersed in his own hype, so up his own backside that the bizarre enormity of his fan base brings me back to concerns about humanity again!
For flawed also-rans like me, it's easy to dislike successful people. After all, it's just a public persona upon which we judge them and we can't claim to know them at all personally. But my antennae just tells me there's something not right about Lewis Hamilton. I'm not keen on Jose Mourinho either, but I could sit and have a coffee with Jose to see if he could change my mind. I think much of Mourinho's arrogance is just bluster, whilst Hamilton's seems ingrained in his DNA.
I'm back in the room and catch the winner... Tour de France champion Geraint Thomas. No idea about him to be honest. Fair play for winning the Tour, but I'm done with this ridiculous contest and the pimped up glitz and glamour of a large arena in which it's staged these days to paper the cracks of it's pointlessness.
I rub my hands in readiness, ''Apprentice now, surely...'', but no. To add insult to injury, they run even later than late with the not so long ago intriguing sound of George Esra. Talented lad that he is, this latest song is awful dumbed down cheesey pop... AAAAAGH!!! Back to the kitchen.
I find the man a bit creepy, exceedingly dull to listen to and he just grates on me as somebody who even takes taking themselves too seriously, too seriously. I can't detect a microgram of humility about the man. Never a decent word to say about his opponents, a sociopath so immersed in his own hype, so up his own backside that the bizarre enormity of his fan base brings me back to concerns about humanity again!
For flawed also-rans like me, it's easy to dislike successful people. After all, it's just a public persona upon which we judge them and we can't claim to know them at all personally. But my antennae just tells me there's something not right about Lewis Hamilton. I'm not keen on Jose Mourinho either, but I could sit and have a coffee with Jose to see if he could change my mind. I think much of Mourinho's arrogance is just bluster, whilst Hamilton's seems ingrained in his DNA.
I'm back in the room and catch the winner... Tour de France champion Geraint Thomas. No idea about him to be honest. Fair play for winning the Tour, but I'm done with this ridiculous contest and the pimped up glitz and glamour of a large arena in which it's staged these days to paper the cracks of it's pointlessness.
I rub my hands in readiness, ''Apprentice now, surely...'', but no. To add insult to injury, they run even later than late with the not so long ago intriguing sound of George Esra. Talented lad that he is, this latest song is awful dumbed down cheesey pop... AAAAAGH!!! Back to the kitchen.
I put a slice of toast on to kill a bit more time. What a load of nonsense that whole sports personality hoo-hah really is.
And......... breathe.
Just reading back on what I have written and, oh well, it feels better out than it did still in. My four - occasionally five - regular blog readers will be spitting their tea out.
And......... breathe.
Just reading back on what I have written and, oh well, it feels better out than it did still in. My four - occasionally five - regular blog readers will be spitting their tea out.
I think I need to get back running fairly soon.
Thursday, 13 December 2018
TIME TO GIVE IT A REST
Just for a week or so it seemed like building up to the County Cross Country Champs in early January was definitely on. But this situation with the knees just isn't going away. Reigning in that long distance stuff may have aided a moderate recovery and some days made me genuinely believe I can carefully run through it all. But this perseverance, heedless hope and ignorance has got to stop. It's time to take action with an indefinite period of no running action whatsoever.
The old leg benders need a break. Even to the most remote cavities of my brain where the act of denial is most fervently processed, this has now become the blatantly obvious truth.
The last week or two have been so up and down with my running it's been impossible to follow any routine or structure. One day I can bash out an interval session on the grass and mud or do a strong paced road run without any problems, yet another day I can barely stumble three or four miles out at plod speed. The latter seems to have been the story of the past few days. Couple tired knees with a general knackeredness, triple it with recurring backache... stepping off the hamster wheel of training has got to be for the best - if only to stop me moaning on about it as well. I'm actually really starting to bore and irritate myself by going on about my knees all the time. Give it a rest, John. Shut the frig up and do summat about it.
Ultimately the big question is whether I want to compete on the fells next year? Well of course I do. My running head remains young and hungry, despite the decaying bodywork. Let's see if some rest can patch up the rust and rot.
Just for a week or so it seemed like building up to the County Cross Country Champs in early January was definitely on. But this situation with the knees just isn't going away. Reigning in that long distance stuff may have aided a moderate recovery and some days made me genuinely believe I can carefully run through it all. But this perseverance, heedless hope and ignorance has got to stop. It's time to take action with an indefinite period of no running action whatsoever.
The old leg benders need a break. Even to the most remote cavities of my brain where the act of denial is most fervently processed, this has now become the blatantly obvious truth.
The last week or two have been so up and down with my running it's been impossible to follow any routine or structure. One day I can bash out an interval session on the grass and mud or do a strong paced road run without any problems, yet another day I can barely stumble three or four miles out at plod speed. The latter seems to have been the story of the past few days. Couple tired knees with a general knackeredness, triple it with recurring backache... stepping off the hamster wheel of training has got to be for the best - if only to stop me moaning on about it as well. I'm actually really starting to bore and irritate myself by going on about my knees all the time. Give it a rest, John. Shut the frig up and do summat about it.
Ultimately the big question is whether I want to compete on the fells next year? Well of course I do. My running head remains young and hungry, despite the decaying bodywork. Let's see if some rest can patch up the rust and rot.
Monday, 3 December 2018
TARMAC - A NECESSARY EVIL
Post-Tour of Pendle, if thinking I could recover to a fit enough state and find some fast enough legs to plunge in to the Podium 5K two weeks later was over-ambitious, then thinking I could return to Pendle for the morning circuit run just a few days on was utter stoic stupidity. The reality was that it took a week to even descend a staircase in some sort of orderly fashion, so a premature venture back up the fell three days after the race was a knee-knocking plunder that served only to remind me of how bad it felt in those last few miles again.
Subsequent runs have ironically felt much better on a road surface with a reduction of lateral knee movement on the smooth and hard stuff proving not to be as irritating. This tarmac hater has had to dance with the devil in order to keep some training up.
After a frustrating week of lumbersome road and parkland plodding, last Monday I felt compelled to just go out and do a hard effort road run in some sort of shit or bust time trial. The Clitheroe four miler route from work is my modern day gauge for such experiments and it did get a bit ugly from around two miles. The effects of a lack of quality running at some sort of speed kicked in. The knees weren't overly impressed either, but I persevered and in the end was not much more than half a minute outside the best time I've done on that route. The result was neither shit, or bust. It was in fact just the tonic to get back in to some sort of proper training mentality for the rest of that week, and to date. The four miler blast certainly proved that sessions needed to make a hasty return as a weekly must-do, so with my next longer term goal geared towards making amends for that shocker of a run at the Lancashire Cross Country Championships at the beginning of the year, I've had a couple of really good sessions in the parkland slop that have restored a bit of belief and helped fire up some focus again.
The situation with the knees remains a concern though. Stretching, manipulating and staying off the fells seems to have stabilised the problem for now. If it doesn't fade away in the foreseeable future, then I have to unwillingly accept the prospect of taking some time out. After all, what's really at stake here? These are my knees, I only get one real pair. Should I be privileged enough to grow much older, the foolish pride that drives me to try and race to some sort of standard today ought not to cost me the ability to do other active stuff tomorrow.
Post-Tour of Pendle, if thinking I could recover to a fit enough state and find some fast enough legs to plunge in to the Podium 5K two weeks later was over-ambitious, then thinking I could return to Pendle for the morning circuit run just a few days on was utter stoic stupidity. The reality was that it took a week to even descend a staircase in some sort of orderly fashion, so a premature venture back up the fell three days after the race was a knee-knocking plunder that served only to remind me of how bad it felt in those last few miles again.
Subsequent runs have ironically felt much better on a road surface with a reduction of lateral knee movement on the smooth and hard stuff proving not to be as irritating. This tarmac hater has had to dance with the devil in order to keep some training up.
After a frustrating week of lumbersome road and parkland plodding, last Monday I felt compelled to just go out and do a hard effort road run in some sort of shit or bust time trial. The Clitheroe four miler route from work is my modern day gauge for such experiments and it did get a bit ugly from around two miles. The effects of a lack of quality running at some sort of speed kicked in. The knees weren't overly impressed either, but I persevered and in the end was not much more than half a minute outside the best time I've done on that route. The result was neither shit, or bust. It was in fact just the tonic to get back in to some sort of proper training mentality for the rest of that week, and to date. The four miler blast certainly proved that sessions needed to make a hasty return as a weekly must-do, so with my next longer term goal geared towards making amends for that shocker of a run at the Lancashire Cross Country Championships at the beginning of the year, I've had a couple of really good sessions in the parkland slop that have restored a bit of belief and helped fire up some focus again.
The situation with the knees remains a concern though. Stretching, manipulating and staying off the fells seems to have stabilised the problem for now. If it doesn't fade away in the foreseeable future, then I have to unwillingly accept the prospect of taking some time out. After all, what's really at stake here? These are my knees, I only get one real pair. Should I be privileged enough to grow much older, the foolish pride that drives me to try and race to some sort of standard today ought not to cost me the ability to do other active stuff tomorrow.
Monday, 19 November 2018
LONG WAY IS THE WRONG WAY
TOUR OF PENDLE
So the big question then... has this old goat still got any long distance potential?
No. Not the answer I was looking for, but a definitive answer nonetheless. The Tour of Pendle is a tough bugger of a fell race and certainly as tough a fixture as it gets inside the boundaries of Lancashire's moderate precipitations. A satisfactory effort here would give the green light to training towards another bash at the Yorkshire Three Peaks Race next Spring. But with about three and a half miles remaining off the top of Mearley Clough, the lights turned to red and I knew there and then that I am done with this distance stuff.
It was all about the knees and how far could I go before they inevitably buckled. I'd been moving along fine until reaching the cairn at the top of Ashendean Clough - the first of three tough climbs squished in to the final six or so miles. Stiffness was just starting to creep up on my leg bending mechanisms, but even at the top of the next climb along upon Mearley, I was still feeling positive and only just outside the top thirty with some energy levels still in reserve. However the following plateau towards 'Big End' became a big struggle and then descending to the next checkpoint at the bottom of the hillside there... well that was just a complete joke. My knees didn't want to play any more, my right knee in particular was giving me a good bit of discomfort. Unable to flex either with any sort of efficiency, technique went out of the window and so did my chances of salvaging a respectable finish.
Dragging along dysfunctional leg parts, I tried several times to just press on through it as if mind over matter could magic a temporary reprieve. But in the end I finished a forlorn figure, hobbling hopelessly and losing over forty places. Pain and suffering is par for the course in fell racing, but the key to the pointlessness of me engaging in any future attempts at long distance is that I was never really competitive in this race. Up until twelve miles I had cut the balance quite well of running cautiously whilst keeping in touch with potential rivals. But then at the business end, when I wanted to get stuck in and have a go, a fired up engine proved useless when the wheels were knackered.
I shared the journey to base camp Barley with John Horrocks and ironically we were in each other's pockets for much of the race until those latter stages. Johnners probably thinks I'm hard on myself and refuses to believe that my shelf life for longer races has expired. Well he would do, he's heard me spitting my dummy about packing in altogether before now. But genuinely, the game is surely up for anything much beyond twelve miles. I could pick holes in my race preparations, but who couldn't? The bottom line is that even during long training runs - of which there probably weren't enough - my knees have protested at being asked to work beyond the two hour mark.
It's time to focus on what I still can do, rather than try and keep some slippery grip on what I clearly can't. Such an outlook would be beneficial towards the broader spectre of my life in general as well! My only conceivable hope of long distance again would be a big lottery win to buffer the time and finance required for treatment and to train and recover like a professional athlete... so ridiculous pie in the sky aside and to the scientific reality of mathematics and gerontology; I've just turned 45 and as such, the art of simply listening to the body is the best tool in my box right now. That's the tool being selected when I say I'm done with distance.
Out on the course, previous winners of this race were duly scattered both as spectators and competitors. John's Dad Mark Horrocks, winner in 1996, was all over the course supporting his lad. Winner in 1989 and 1994, Shaun Livesey was present to give his Ribble Valley club mates a shout. Winner in 2003 and 2004, the well known figure of Andrew 'Scoffer' Schofield is still batting hard. The Borrowdale man was blowing heavily when I was near him five miles in, but that proved deceptive as he climbed through the pack to finish 19th and easily take the V50 prize. Last year's winner Chris Holdsworth repeated his success, beating 2016 victor Jack Wood to second. Another defending champion on the course to retain her ladies crown was Vic Wilkinson. She's so good, only the very top end men can get the better of her. I feel a mention for the first placed veteran is also in order, which was Julian Goudge who now runs for Horwich. Julian was briefly a rival of mine on his way up. He's a triathlete first and foremost, but when he dips his hand in to the sole discipline of running - and on any terrain - it's normally with success. He finished a superb 13th here. Iain Duncan-Smith's political career may have been riddled with talking twaddle at times, but when he said ''never underestimate the quite man'', it would turn out that in Julian's case those would be very sage words indeed.
The Tour of Pendle is an illustrious race with a great history. In the hands of Kieran Carr, the race is organised by an old school fellsman who keeps things wonderfully plain and simple. Prior to race day, my most recent sighting of this multiple veteran fell champion was of him zipping down the A59 on a training run. At 74, Kieran's running form is that of a man more than half his age. It was incredible to see.
Post-race, Barley Village Hall's busy little kitchen is banging out soup, brews, cakes and scones. Johnners and I take a well earned pew and are joined at our cosy four-seater table by... Charmian Heaton no less, Fell Runners Association Chair and chief conspirator of the lobby to get the club status of Ribble Valley Harriers expunged. I kept a lid on things somehow. Part of me regrets not challenging her and finding out exactly what her beef is. The other part says I did right, that she's not worth raising my blood pressure over. More to the point, it isn't really my own personal battle to fight no matter how much I disagree with her.
Initially, I was desperately disappointed about how the race panned out. Lady Charmian's close proximity at the dining table sort of summed up the day, really. I even thought I could plant a seed in Darren Fishwick's fiercely loyalist Chorley head to take a turn towards Ribble Valley, but he wasn't having any of it - then I discover it looks like he's very chummy with Charmian, so I really was on a hiding to nothing there it would seem. Epic fails on all fronts, but I still think Daz is missing a trick.
On the bright side though, part of me feels a huge sense of relief that chasing the Three Peaks is now out of bounds. I need to get back to just doing what I was doing, geared towards trying to stay sharp for the middle and shorter distances. The crumpled remains of my legs right now may beg to differ, but prior to the Tour I really had been going quite well, feeling strong and just enjoying my running. With a Podium 5K on the calendar in early December, an opportunity perhaps to prove to myself that everything's not lost.
Saturday 17th December 2018
TOUR OF PENDLE 16.8m/4830ft Barley Village, East Lancs.
Ist Man - Chris Holdsworth (Ribble Valley Harriers) 2.15:08
Ist Lady - Vic Wilkinson (Bingley Harriers) 2.29:08
My Stats - 2.57:46 76/461
FOR THE RECORD...
This was my fifth and final (probably) Tour of Pendle. As such, I decided to dig out the stats of my previous four appearances.
2010 - 2.45:52 8/310 Innocence was bliss on my debut. Ran strong off the top of 'Big End' and took two notable scalps out near the finish of Mark Russell and Tim Edward to claim a very lofty 8th place.
2011 - 2.40:18 16/363 A little further down the field, but another strong finish and over five minutes quicker. In retrospect one of my best efforts in a longer distance fell race.
2013 - 2.56:07 107/421 If ever a case of piss poor preparation makes for piss poor performance, this was it. I thought I could blag it, but the back three climbs hung me out to dry.
2014 - 2.56:05 56/372 The wheels came off unceremoniously once again. It would be another four years of licking my wounds before having another go at this race, only to open them all up again last Saturday with an even slower time!
TOUR OF PENDLE
So the big question then... has this old goat still got any long distance potential?
No. Not the answer I was looking for, but a definitive answer nonetheless. The Tour of Pendle is a tough bugger of a fell race and certainly as tough a fixture as it gets inside the boundaries of Lancashire's moderate precipitations. A satisfactory effort here would give the green light to training towards another bash at the Yorkshire Three Peaks Race next Spring. But with about three and a half miles remaining off the top of Mearley Clough, the lights turned to red and I knew there and then that I am done with this distance stuff.
It was all about the knees and how far could I go before they inevitably buckled. I'd been moving along fine until reaching the cairn at the top of Ashendean Clough - the first of three tough climbs squished in to the final six or so miles. Stiffness was just starting to creep up on my leg bending mechanisms, but even at the top of the next climb along upon Mearley, I was still feeling positive and only just outside the top thirty with some energy levels still in reserve. However the following plateau towards 'Big End' became a big struggle and then descending to the next checkpoint at the bottom of the hillside there... well that was just a complete joke. My knees didn't want to play any more, my right knee in particular was giving me a good bit of discomfort. Unable to flex either with any sort of efficiency, technique went out of the window and so did my chances of salvaging a respectable finish.
Dragging along dysfunctional leg parts, I tried several times to just press on through it as if mind over matter could magic a temporary reprieve. But in the end I finished a forlorn figure, hobbling hopelessly and losing over forty places. Pain and suffering is par for the course in fell racing, but the key to the pointlessness of me engaging in any future attempts at long distance is that I was never really competitive in this race. Up until twelve miles I had cut the balance quite well of running cautiously whilst keeping in touch with potential rivals. But then at the business end, when I wanted to get stuck in and have a go, a fired up engine proved useless when the wheels were knackered.
I shared the journey to base camp Barley with John Horrocks and ironically we were in each other's pockets for much of the race until those latter stages. Johnners probably thinks I'm hard on myself and refuses to believe that my shelf life for longer races has expired. Well he would do, he's heard me spitting my dummy about packing in altogether before now. But genuinely, the game is surely up for anything much beyond twelve miles. I could pick holes in my race preparations, but who couldn't? The bottom line is that even during long training runs - of which there probably weren't enough - my knees have protested at being asked to work beyond the two hour mark.
It's time to focus on what I still can do, rather than try and keep some slippery grip on what I clearly can't. Such an outlook would be beneficial towards the broader spectre of my life in general as well! My only conceivable hope of long distance again would be a big lottery win to buffer the time and finance required for treatment and to train and recover like a professional athlete... so ridiculous pie in the sky aside and to the scientific reality of mathematics and gerontology; I've just turned 45 and as such, the art of simply listening to the body is the best tool in my box right now. That's the tool being selected when I say I'm done with distance.
Out on the course, previous winners of this race were duly scattered both as spectators and competitors. John's Dad Mark Horrocks, winner in 1996, was all over the course supporting his lad. Winner in 1989 and 1994, Shaun Livesey was present to give his Ribble Valley club mates a shout. Winner in 2003 and 2004, the well known figure of Andrew 'Scoffer' Schofield is still batting hard. The Borrowdale man was blowing heavily when I was near him five miles in, but that proved deceptive as he climbed through the pack to finish 19th and easily take the V50 prize. Last year's winner Chris Holdsworth repeated his success, beating 2016 victor Jack Wood to second. Another defending champion on the course to retain her ladies crown was Vic Wilkinson. She's so good, only the very top end men can get the better of her. I feel a mention for the first placed veteran is also in order, which was Julian Goudge who now runs for Horwich. Julian was briefly a rival of mine on his way up. He's a triathlete first and foremost, but when he dips his hand in to the sole discipline of running - and on any terrain - it's normally with success. He finished a superb 13th here. Iain Duncan-Smith's political career may have been riddled with talking twaddle at times, but when he said ''never underestimate the quite man'', it would turn out that in Julian's case those would be very sage words indeed.
The Tour of Pendle is an illustrious race with a great history. In the hands of Kieran Carr, the race is organised by an old school fellsman who keeps things wonderfully plain and simple. Prior to race day, my most recent sighting of this multiple veteran fell champion was of him zipping down the A59 on a training run. At 74, Kieran's running form is that of a man more than half his age. It was incredible to see.
Post-race, Barley Village Hall's busy little kitchen is banging out soup, brews, cakes and scones. Johnners and I take a well earned pew and are joined at our cosy four-seater table by... Charmian Heaton no less, Fell Runners Association Chair and chief conspirator of the lobby to get the club status of Ribble Valley Harriers expunged. I kept a lid on things somehow. Part of me regrets not challenging her and finding out exactly what her beef is. The other part says I did right, that she's not worth raising my blood pressure over. More to the point, it isn't really my own personal battle to fight no matter how much I disagree with her.
Initially, I was desperately disappointed about how the race panned out. Lady Charmian's close proximity at the dining table sort of summed up the day, really. I even thought I could plant a seed in Darren Fishwick's fiercely loyalist Chorley head to take a turn towards Ribble Valley, but he wasn't having any of it - then I discover it looks like he's very chummy with Charmian, so I really was on a hiding to nothing there it would seem. Epic fails on all fronts, but I still think Daz is missing a trick.
On the bright side though, part of me feels a huge sense of relief that chasing the Three Peaks is now out of bounds. I need to get back to just doing what I was doing, geared towards trying to stay sharp for the middle and shorter distances. The crumpled remains of my legs right now may beg to differ, but prior to the Tour I really had been going quite well, feeling strong and just enjoying my running. With a Podium 5K on the calendar in early December, an opportunity perhaps to prove to myself that everything's not lost.
Saturday 17th December 2018
TOUR OF PENDLE 16.8m/4830ft Barley Village, East Lancs.
Ist Man - Chris Holdsworth (Ribble Valley Harriers) 2.15:08
Ist Lady - Vic Wilkinson (Bingley Harriers) 2.29:08
My Stats - 2.57:46 76/461
FOR THE RECORD...
This was my fifth and final (probably) Tour of Pendle. As such, I decided to dig out the stats of my previous four appearances.
2010 - 2.45:52 8/310 Innocence was bliss on my debut. Ran strong off the top of 'Big End' and took two notable scalps out near the finish of Mark Russell and Tim Edward to claim a very lofty 8th place.
2011 - 2.40:18 16/363 A little further down the field, but another strong finish and over five minutes quicker. In retrospect one of my best efforts in a longer distance fell race.
2013 - 2.56:07 107/421 If ever a case of piss poor preparation makes for piss poor performance, this was it. I thought I could blag it, but the back three climbs hung me out to dry.
2014 - 2.56:05 56/372 The wheels came off unceremoniously once again. It would be another four years of licking my wounds before having another go at this race, only to open them all up again last Saturday with an even slower time!
Monday, 5 November 2018
KNEE DEEP IN PRE-RACE UNCERTAINTY
Next race up is the Tour of Pendle. Just shy of seventeen miles and taking in just about every conceivable climb on Pendle Hill's range. I've got the climbs in the bag, I've done a couple of long runs up there last month, I feel strong enough and fit enough to run it to a standard I can be reasonably satisfied with. The question is whether or not the old knees will take it?
In all honesty, they've been aching since the beginning of summer. Initially I put it down to the hardness of continually dry ground, but even since a bit of wet returned to put some give back, tendonitis is getting noticably worse and there is no point pretending anymore that it's going to magically fade away. Note the self diagnosis there and selective pretending - I'm way too ignorant to be prepared to investigate the possibility of loose cartilage, the onset of arthritis or anything else on the more severe side just yet - or at least not until after this race.
Something which certainly went under the radar of these pages at least, which are generally running specific, was that Sara and I were married at the end of last month. Chris Barnes predicted that would be it for my running, but on the contrary, my new wife is always happy for me to pop out and do a few miles! I ran on each of our full three days on Minimoon - start as you mean to go on. We had a fantastic time to follow a fantastic wedding day.
On the Amalfi Coast, there's nowhere to hide from steps. One of the routes I did a couple of times up to Le Torre dello Ziro takes in a climb of at least 1500 steps - and the rest. (I counted to 1200 once on the way back down, but then got bored) It was a tough slog, but I loved it. In hindsight though, I wonder if I've made my knees even worse climbing and descending the hard surface and unnatural repetition of all those steps? Only out for up to forty minutes at a time, I beasted myself on all three occasions to 'make it count'. I should never underestimate my own naivety, but who knows if I'll ever be there again so I wanted to enjoy it
These niggly knees are fine over shorter and middle distances. But once I get to the nine or ten mile mark on a proper up and down fell run back home, an aching stiffness slows me down significantly. The normal service of running becomes complicated, steep descents become juddery, awkward and painful. These two weeks leading up to the Pendle Tour are going to be key now, balancing keeping going whilst giving my knees some relief to recover. That's a bit like waiting for paint to dry in the rain.
But I've entered the race, I'm going to have a crack and this always was just an experiment to see if the Yorkshire Three Peaks Race is a realistic possibility. If I'm not convinced this old dog's bodywork can hack the major mileage these days, no doubt the jury (in this case, my knees) will decide for sure at about mile twelve on November 17th!
Next race up is the Tour of Pendle. Just shy of seventeen miles and taking in just about every conceivable climb on Pendle Hill's range. I've got the climbs in the bag, I've done a couple of long runs up there last month, I feel strong enough and fit enough to run it to a standard I can be reasonably satisfied with. The question is whether or not the old knees will take it?
In all honesty, they've been aching since the beginning of summer. Initially I put it down to the hardness of continually dry ground, but even since a bit of wet returned to put some give back, tendonitis is getting noticably worse and there is no point pretending anymore that it's going to magically fade away. Note the self diagnosis there and selective pretending - I'm way too ignorant to be prepared to investigate the possibility of loose cartilage, the onset of arthritis or anything else on the more severe side just yet - or at least not until after this race.
Something which certainly went under the radar of these pages at least, which are generally running specific, was that Sara and I were married at the end of last month. Chris Barnes predicted that would be it for my running, but on the contrary, my new wife is always happy for me to pop out and do a few miles! I ran on each of our full three days on Minimoon - start as you mean to go on. We had a fantastic time to follow a fantastic wedding day.
On the Amalfi Coast, there's nowhere to hide from steps. One of the routes I did a couple of times up to Le Torre dello Ziro takes in a climb of at least 1500 steps - and the rest. (I counted to 1200 once on the way back down, but then got bored) It was a tough slog, but I loved it. In hindsight though, I wonder if I've made my knees even worse climbing and descending the hard surface and unnatural repetition of all those steps? Only out for up to forty minutes at a time, I beasted myself on all three occasions to 'make it count'. I should never underestimate my own naivety, but who knows if I'll ever be there again so I wanted to enjoy it
These niggly knees are fine over shorter and middle distances. But once I get to the nine or ten mile mark on a proper up and down fell run back home, an aching stiffness slows me down significantly. The normal service of running becomes complicated, steep descents become juddery, awkward and painful. These two weeks leading up to the Pendle Tour are going to be key now, balancing keeping going whilst giving my knees some relief to recover. That's a bit like waiting for paint to dry in the rain.
But I've entered the race, I'm going to have a crack and this always was just an experiment to see if the Yorkshire Three Peaks Race is a realistic possibility. If I'm not convinced this old dog's bodywork can hack the major mileage these days, no doubt the jury (in this case, my knees) will decide for sure at about mile twelve on November 17th!
Monday, 22 October 2018
PLIGHT OF THE NAVIGATORS
BRITISH FELL RELAY CHAMPIONSHIPS
The main reason for joining Ribble Valley Harriers was to be involved in competitions like this again. It's the ultimate showpiece of team fell racing where everybody who is somebody, and even everybody who isn't, all descend on one venue for the day and put their club before themselves.
With all due respect to some runners of a decent standard that I have been paired with in this competition over the years - Stuart Edmondson and Dominic Raby at Chorley, Lee Passco, Matt Nuttall, Shaun Livesey Jnr and Jason Harbour at Blackburn - an honour and privilege is how I would describe being teamed up with my partner this time around.
Never in a million years did I think I would ever run a Fell Relays leg with this twice English Fell Champion and racing legend. But here I was at Grasmere teaming up with the original Shaun Livesey. An athlete who I'd only heard about and read about prior to meeting him earlier this year, a name that has cropped up regularly in the history books of race winners and results that I have geekishly perused over time. A fierce competitor who rubbed shoulders with - and occasionally beat - the very biggest and best names in the sport such as Billy Bland, Kenny Stuart and John Wild to name but a few.
Shaun walked away from it all in his early forties. That he has made a recent comeback to racing in itself was quite unlikely, that we ended up at the same club, that he partnered me at these relays... well I could never have written the script.
Team boss Barnes handed us the task of the dreaded navigation leg. Previous experience for me on this leg has been with the other Shaun Livesey when we were both at Blackburn. He knew what he was doing, I just followed - and that was tough enough with Livesey Junior. More recent navigational activity hasn't been that promising either after Ben Walmsley and I had run around in circles trying to retrace the Calderdale Way on a beautiful clear Spring day. So the clag down in the Lake District mountains wasn't boding particularly well. But then I thought the vastly experienced Livesey Senior will know his stuff, he's done and won every race worth doing in Lakeland and even dabbled in some orienteering races too. But Shaun tells me his eyes aren't great for map reading these days and, like myself, was only familiar with the walkers route from Rydal up to the summit of Fairfield in these parts. The Western slopes and valleys from the Grasmere end were unchartered territory for the pair of us. A reccie run of the area would have been ideal, but I for one never found the opportunity and race day crept up on us with only hopes of good visibilty to cling on to.
Leaving behind sunny spells in Lancashire that morning, the crossed fingers for more of the same in Cumbria uncrossed themselves at M6 Junction 36 as it became clear - or in fact not clear at all - that the county had descended in to a thick mist of fine drizzle. Just north of Kendal, I certainly can't make out any of the tops. In fact I can't see so damn much at all. It was going to be interesting. I'd crashed in a bit of hapless homework by studying the OS maps and envisaging the lie of the land. But nothing other than local knowledge, a recent reccie or excellent navigational guile is going to get you out of a hole up there when visibility is poor.
From our team, the two Matt's of Lalor and Perry come in to sight off the hillside just as I was starting to feel a bit of a chill in the waiting pen. The pen doesn't allow room for much more than ten yard sprints and sporadic random body movements to stay warm. We tag our Leg 2 boys and head for the great unknown. The Matt's, who strayed off course for a spell, along with Ste Hall who took a nasty tumble in Leg 1, had nevertheless combined to set us off on our leg in a decent position.
A quarter of a mile up the road, beside a gateway to the fell, we are handed our maps and get a first glimpse of our checkpoints to find. Shaun sets off with intent and I tuck in behind. For a 55 year old who has been out of the racing game a while, he doesn't do too bad. Following his moves, I can't help but wonder about what this pocket machine was like in his prime. It would certainly have made this the biggest mismatched pairing in fell relays history, that's for sure.
The first climb up to Checkpoint 1 wasn't a problem as we had plenty of company ahead and behind us. Checkpoint 2 proved problematic though. All teams seemed to be going in the same direction again, but more stretched out. I was distracted about not being able to find this small tarn on the map which we were all skirting around before heading upwards again. Meanwhile Shaun pressed on but we lost sight of those ahead and soon enough realised we had run out of sight or sound of anybody behind as well. Between us, Shaun and I didn't have the remotest idea where the hell we were. Visibility was rubbish, we decided to turn back on ourselves and minutes later a couple of walkers appeared from out of the mist and my usual hang up of shyness and reluctance to ask strangers for information were not even considered in this situation. It was a case of any help we could get. Thankfully this kind chap pinpointed our position - a position I think the pair of us would have recognised on a clear day - on the main drag between Nab Scar and Heron Pike. I looked at our map and we just had to drop off there at a particular angle to eventually stumble across the remote sheepfold where this elusive checkpoint lay. The nearer we get, other teams come in and out of the murk from all directions so we were certainly not alone in going for a wander. We finally dib in at that Checkpoint 2 and then I seem to take a lead on what you might very loosely describe as navigation from here because Shaun thought we were at Checkpoint 3! Bloody hell, he's a bit rusty at this!
We had both agreed in advance that if in doubt, we would just follow a straight line and not try and be too clever devising routes. The latter was certainly beyond my remit, anyway. As checkpoint 3 was pretty much directly North from here, we just followed the compass but found ourselves all alone again and through a load of rough stuff. Eventually we merged with runners to the right who had dropped to pick up a clear path much earlier. A few hundred metres later and Checkpoint 3 was boxed off. Climbing up from 3, this was a really steep slog that seemed to go on and on but there must have been another twenty or so pairings around us at this point, so what could possibly go wrong now? A couple of hundred yards along the ridge top, other teams started splintering off or stopping to get their bearings. Shaun seemed interested in following a couple of Carnethy lads who had their own ideas and began a diagonal descent. My hesitation trying to make sense of my map was possibly a reason why we lost them. I was regretting not speaking up a bit earlier because I thought we should have sat in amongst the majority and stalked the most popular line. Instead we continued contouring over slippy rocks and rough ground for another twenty minutes wondering where the bloody hell the red vests of those two Jock runners had gone. We just couldn't see or hear another soul. It felt wrong to both of us I think, yet we stubbornly forged onward for some reason, still searching for a much slighter than realised leftward contour that we had actually long ago passed. I'd been hearing a rush of water for some time and assumed it to be Greenhead Gill, but the rush was getting louder without dropping height so I stop again and try to work out exactly where we were. Disorientation casts all sorts of doubts and I wasn't even sure which flipping valley we were in to be perfectly honest. Then a slight clearing for thirty seconds down the valley gave the opportunity to strain my eyes in to the distance for signs of other runners, or just any signs of life in general - there was nothing. But the penny did drop at long last. I can just make out a well worn walkers path in the base of the valley and in which case the water must be the Hause waterfalls I can hear. We've overrun by half a mile at the very least. It's been a needless, time consuming plunder on a horrible camber a few hundred feet beneath Fairfield's summit where we shouldn't have been anywhere near. Shaun agrees it's time to just drop now and hit that path to go back South on ourselves, from where some order was finally restored. A double check we were in the right valley with a hiker confirmed our right to be joyful for a moment in the comfort of knowing where we were and also knowing (roughly) where to go next. It was a big relief. I'd been getting a bit cold up there so it was just good to get a bit of a wriggle on again over some much more runable terrain as well. If we'd have carried on much further skirting along the higher reaches of the valley, we would have ended up doing Bear Grylls stuff across those waterfalls.
Running back along the valley bed, soon enough to the left we catch the sight of other teams descending where we should have been coming down probably half an hour earlier. To the right, a line of vests up the hillside to follow towards checkpoint 4.
Upon that final climb through a thick die-back of bracken, we are closest to two other pairings. Two chaps are strangely veering right, but two Keswick lasses seem to know what they are doing so we drift leftward with them and they take us directly to the dibbing station. Cheers girls, we needed that!
Plane sailing then over the last mile and a half or so and after the fifth and final unmissable (even for us) checkpoint, it's the luxury of course markings until the finishing fields.
We've cocked up and sent the team spiralling down the rankings. Competitively, we didn't last that long at all before the stark reality of just finding the checkpoints kicked in. Our leg time ranked 193rd from 230-odd finishing teams and so if not a worst ever result for me, then absolutely undoubtedly for Shaun! But in fairness, we did do an extra couple of miles and a bit more climbing. It turned out pre-tournament favourites in the men's race, Keswick AC, blew it on this very same leg, so if those boys from just up the road could get it wrong then Shaun and I were always up against it.
Club boss Chris Barnes awaits us at the handover. His face said it all. I think it's fair to say Shaun and I didn't really care at that moment in time, we were just glad to finish after over two hours of messing around up there. Barnes himself then went astray on a partially marked course, so it all got rather calamitous after that early promise.
Success for our main team though in the Mixed category as the club's very best lads and lasses managed to stay on course and combined their almighty talents to take a much deserved win.
Saturday 20th October 2018
BRITISH FELL RELAY CHAMPIONSHIPS Grasmere, Cumbria
1st Men's Team - PUDSEY & BRAMLEY
1st Ladies Team - HELM HILL
1st Mixed Team - RIBBLE VALLEY HARRIERS
My Stats - Leg 3 (RVH Men's) Paired with Shaun Livesey Snr 8.3m/2500ft (should've been more like 6.8m!) 2.10:50 193/239
BRITISH FELL RELAY CHAMPIONSHIPS
The main reason for joining Ribble Valley Harriers was to be involved in competitions like this again. It's the ultimate showpiece of team fell racing where everybody who is somebody, and even everybody who isn't, all descend on one venue for the day and put their club before themselves.
With all due respect to some runners of a decent standard that I have been paired with in this competition over the years - Stuart Edmondson and Dominic Raby at Chorley, Lee Passco, Matt Nuttall, Shaun Livesey Jnr and Jason Harbour at Blackburn - an honour and privilege is how I would describe being teamed up with my partner this time around.
Never in a million years did I think I would ever run a Fell Relays leg with this twice English Fell Champion and racing legend. But here I was at Grasmere teaming up with the original Shaun Livesey. An athlete who I'd only heard about and read about prior to meeting him earlier this year, a name that has cropped up regularly in the history books of race winners and results that I have geekishly perused over time. A fierce competitor who rubbed shoulders with - and occasionally beat - the very biggest and best names in the sport such as Billy Bland, Kenny Stuart and John Wild to name but a few.
Shaun walked away from it all in his early forties. That he has made a recent comeback to racing in itself was quite unlikely, that we ended up at the same club, that he partnered me at these relays... well I could never have written the script.
Team boss Barnes handed us the task of the dreaded navigation leg. Previous experience for me on this leg has been with the other Shaun Livesey when we were both at Blackburn. He knew what he was doing, I just followed - and that was tough enough with Livesey Junior. More recent navigational activity hasn't been that promising either after Ben Walmsley and I had run around in circles trying to retrace the Calderdale Way on a beautiful clear Spring day. So the clag down in the Lake District mountains wasn't boding particularly well. But then I thought the vastly experienced Livesey Senior will know his stuff, he's done and won every race worth doing in Lakeland and even dabbled in some orienteering races too. But Shaun tells me his eyes aren't great for map reading these days and, like myself, was only familiar with the walkers route from Rydal up to the summit of Fairfield in these parts. The Western slopes and valleys from the Grasmere end were unchartered territory for the pair of us. A reccie run of the area would have been ideal, but I for one never found the opportunity and race day crept up on us with only hopes of good visibilty to cling on to.
Leaving behind sunny spells in Lancashire that morning, the crossed fingers for more of the same in Cumbria uncrossed themselves at M6 Junction 36 as it became clear - or in fact not clear at all - that the county had descended in to a thick mist of fine drizzle. Just north of Kendal, I certainly can't make out any of the tops. In fact I can't see so damn much at all. It was going to be interesting. I'd crashed in a bit of hapless homework by studying the OS maps and envisaging the lie of the land. But nothing other than local knowledge, a recent reccie or excellent navigational guile is going to get you out of a hole up there when visibility is poor.
From our team, the two Matt's of Lalor and Perry come in to sight off the hillside just as I was starting to feel a bit of a chill in the waiting pen. The pen doesn't allow room for much more than ten yard sprints and sporadic random body movements to stay warm. We tag our Leg 2 boys and head for the great unknown. The Matt's, who strayed off course for a spell, along with Ste Hall who took a nasty tumble in Leg 1, had nevertheless combined to set us off on our leg in a decent position.
A quarter of a mile up the road, beside a gateway to the fell, we are handed our maps and get a first glimpse of our checkpoints to find. Shaun sets off with intent and I tuck in behind. For a 55 year old who has been out of the racing game a while, he doesn't do too bad. Following his moves, I can't help but wonder about what this pocket machine was like in his prime. It would certainly have made this the biggest mismatched pairing in fell relays history, that's for sure.
The first climb up to Checkpoint 1 wasn't a problem as we had plenty of company ahead and behind us. Checkpoint 2 proved problematic though. All teams seemed to be going in the same direction again, but more stretched out. I was distracted about not being able to find this small tarn on the map which we were all skirting around before heading upwards again. Meanwhile Shaun pressed on but we lost sight of those ahead and soon enough realised we had run out of sight or sound of anybody behind as well. Between us, Shaun and I didn't have the remotest idea where the hell we were. Visibility was rubbish, we decided to turn back on ourselves and minutes later a couple of walkers appeared from out of the mist and my usual hang up of shyness and reluctance to ask strangers for information were not even considered in this situation. It was a case of any help we could get. Thankfully this kind chap pinpointed our position - a position I think the pair of us would have recognised on a clear day - on the main drag between Nab Scar and Heron Pike. I looked at our map and we just had to drop off there at a particular angle to eventually stumble across the remote sheepfold where this elusive checkpoint lay. The nearer we get, other teams come in and out of the murk from all directions so we were certainly not alone in going for a wander. We finally dib in at that Checkpoint 2 and then I seem to take a lead on what you might very loosely describe as navigation from here because Shaun thought we were at Checkpoint 3! Bloody hell, he's a bit rusty at this!
We had both agreed in advance that if in doubt, we would just follow a straight line and not try and be too clever devising routes. The latter was certainly beyond my remit, anyway. As checkpoint 3 was pretty much directly North from here, we just followed the compass but found ourselves all alone again and through a load of rough stuff. Eventually we merged with runners to the right who had dropped to pick up a clear path much earlier. A few hundred metres later and Checkpoint 3 was boxed off. Climbing up from 3, this was a really steep slog that seemed to go on and on but there must have been another twenty or so pairings around us at this point, so what could possibly go wrong now? A couple of hundred yards along the ridge top, other teams started splintering off or stopping to get their bearings. Shaun seemed interested in following a couple of Carnethy lads who had their own ideas and began a diagonal descent. My hesitation trying to make sense of my map was possibly a reason why we lost them. I was regretting not speaking up a bit earlier because I thought we should have sat in amongst the majority and stalked the most popular line. Instead we continued contouring over slippy rocks and rough ground for another twenty minutes wondering where the bloody hell the red vests of those two Jock runners had gone. We just couldn't see or hear another soul. It felt wrong to both of us I think, yet we stubbornly forged onward for some reason, still searching for a much slighter than realised leftward contour that we had actually long ago passed. I'd been hearing a rush of water for some time and assumed it to be Greenhead Gill, but the rush was getting louder without dropping height so I stop again and try to work out exactly where we were. Disorientation casts all sorts of doubts and I wasn't even sure which flipping valley we were in to be perfectly honest. Then a slight clearing for thirty seconds down the valley gave the opportunity to strain my eyes in to the distance for signs of other runners, or just any signs of life in general - there was nothing. But the penny did drop at long last. I can just make out a well worn walkers path in the base of the valley and in which case the water must be the Hause waterfalls I can hear. We've overrun by half a mile at the very least. It's been a needless, time consuming plunder on a horrible camber a few hundred feet beneath Fairfield's summit where we shouldn't have been anywhere near. Shaun agrees it's time to just drop now and hit that path to go back South on ourselves, from where some order was finally restored. A double check we were in the right valley with a hiker confirmed our right to be joyful for a moment in the comfort of knowing where we were and also knowing (roughly) where to go next. It was a big relief. I'd been getting a bit cold up there so it was just good to get a bit of a wriggle on again over some much more runable terrain as well. If we'd have carried on much further skirting along the higher reaches of the valley, we would have ended up doing Bear Grylls stuff across those waterfalls.
Running back along the valley bed, soon enough to the left we catch the sight of other teams descending where we should have been coming down probably half an hour earlier. To the right, a line of vests up the hillside to follow towards checkpoint 4.
Upon that final climb through a thick die-back of bracken, we are closest to two other pairings. Two chaps are strangely veering right, but two Keswick lasses seem to know what they are doing so we drift leftward with them and they take us directly to the dibbing station. Cheers girls, we needed that!
Plane sailing then over the last mile and a half or so and after the fifth and final unmissable (even for us) checkpoint, it's the luxury of course markings until the finishing fields.
We've cocked up and sent the team spiralling down the rankings. Competitively, we didn't last that long at all before the stark reality of just finding the checkpoints kicked in. Our leg time ranked 193rd from 230-odd finishing teams and so if not a worst ever result for me, then absolutely undoubtedly for Shaun! But in fairness, we did do an extra couple of miles and a bit more climbing. It turned out pre-tournament favourites in the men's race, Keswick AC, blew it on this very same leg, so if those boys from just up the road could get it wrong then Shaun and I were always up against it.
Club boss Chris Barnes awaits us at the handover. His face said it all. I think it's fair to say Shaun and I didn't really care at that moment in time, we were just glad to finish after over two hours of messing around up there. Barnes himself then went astray on a partially marked course, so it all got rather calamitous after that early promise.
Success for our main team though in the Mixed category as the club's very best lads and lasses managed to stay on course and combined their almighty talents to take a much deserved win.
Saturday 20th October 2018
BRITISH FELL RELAY CHAMPIONSHIPS Grasmere, Cumbria
1st Men's Team - PUDSEY & BRAMLEY
1st Ladies Team - HELM HILL
1st Mixed Team - RIBBLE VALLEY HARRIERS
My Stats - Leg 3 (RVH Men's) Paired with Shaun Livesey Snr 8.3m/2500ft (should've been more like 6.8m!) 2.10:50 193/239
Friday, 19 October 2018
STILL IN GOOD NIC
WITHINS SKYLINE
Withins had a slightly different feel to it this year. The absence of retired hosts, Dave and Eileen Woodhead, was always going to change the ambience to some degree. The legendary couple promised nowt would change and aside from Dave's unmistakable vocal presence, it was pretty much business as usual. The new organisers from Wharfedale Harriers set their stall out with inherent detail. The Woodhead's were still out and about on the Bronte Moors though, capturing the action through their camera lens. The main thing is that these great races continue and they'll always be a bit special to me, Woodentops or not. They were one of my earliest tastes of fell racing.
With many club fell runners engaged in the Hodgson Brothers relays at Patterdale that same day, there was a distinct lack of usual suspects lining up inside the quarry of Penistone Hill. The only thing certain, other than perfect Autumnal racing conditions, was a new name on the men's trophy.
Ribble Valley Harriers didn't get a place at the Hodgson relays. Politics may have come in to it, I don't know for sure. But news that the Chair of the Fell Runners Association, Charmian Heaton, has been lobbying at least one club Chairman to forward a complaint against Ribble Valley for being a ''racing club'' (whatever she deems that to be) certainly points towards our club being treated unfavourably in some quarters. Heaton's behaviour is ridiculous and brings her reputable position in to undoubted disrepute. Now that's a whole catering sized can of worms to be spilled in due course, but for now I'll try and stay with the topic in hand and what really matters, the race. Without those relays to compete at, Withins was given the nod as a counter in our club champs and eleven of us turned out to put the club on the map in West Yorkshire.
Although a few weeks since my last blast of competitive action, I went in to this knowing - not guessing, hoping, or deluding myself - actually knowing I was going to make a decent account of myself. For those few hardy souls who have bothered to dissect my previous ramblings over the past few years, they would easily vouch for the fact that this feeling of genuine pre-race confidence is a very rare entity indeed.
Pre-race thoughts were about getting nearer to Nichola Jackson at one of these Woodentops races where she always seems to put in a top end performance. That's if she had booked this one in of course, but sure enough I clocked our ladies skipper when jogging over to registration and my preconceived racing benchmark was confirmed. Game on.
Sexists, chauvinist, testosterone induced man's men, folk of no athletic aspiration or all three of the above could pour scorn over my ambition to beat a girl here. But I feel no shame whatsoever. Fell racing is what it is. Boy or girl, fast or slow, it's a test of all round running endurance that hard nuts, gym bunnies, Joseph or Josephine Bloggs just wouldn't last five minutes at. So when I, pushing 45 and a nobody in particular, eyes up the runner-up of the 2018 English Fell Running Championships as a potential benchmark to compete against, denomination of sex is completely inconsequential. A race is a race and Nichola Jackson's standard happens to be a very decent one to try and match.
We had a close battle in the Summer at the Whaley Waltz in which I don't think either of us were operating on full power. The lack of technicality under foot at that one probably worked to my benefit and I just managed to beat her for the first time, or at least certainly for the first time since she has come to prominence as a senior. At the Woodentops races, Jacko is old hat. She knows the courses, has won here many a time and generally turns up for them with nothing other than victory in mind and a potential ladies course record to chase down.
A mile or so in to the race and I'd actually completely forgotten about Nichola Jackson. I was making good progress on the main climb to Oxenholme Stoop when a flash of florescent pink blurred to the left of my periphery, maybe two hundred yards shy of the trig point. It was Jacko. By the summit she had created a gap of around ten seconds and expanded that over the bog hoppy plateau and tussocky traverse towards Withins Ruins. She's good on the rough stuff and was in fact starting to get close to our nearest team mate ahead, Ste Hall. But then it's good running again from the ruins on sheep trods and well worn paths and by the time we dropped down to the Bronte Bridge, I had caught Nicola up. There was a decent chase going on here with a couple of other guys in the mix as well and as it turned out, an overall top ten place at stake.
Up from the bridge though, I couldn't quite latch on to this trio for long and the gap began to reopen. Just before the path broadens to bridleway status, I receive a message from behind and it's one of my bug bares. "To the left.. ", forewarns a Keighley & Craven runner, sat on me since climbing up from Bronte Bridge. When deciding to make his move, it came with a verbal warning for some reason. No please or thanks either. I hate that. I tell him it's not etiquette, but no response. Etiquette it most certainly isn't though. Find your time, find your own space and just overtake. It's simple really. This has happened to me twice recently, I think next time I'm just going to barge the feckers off the path! It really pisses me off. With heckles up I went about trying to stay with him, but there was no turn of pace in my legs at this point. To be fair, this Keighley man Ian Willis had put in a tremendous surge and had even nudged ahead of Nichola. But some consolation for me, as I catch the last sighting of them coming off the moor and crossing the road towards the finish, was that spirited Jacko was leading the pack again and indeed that's how it finished as she took 10th overall and smashed the ladies course record.
Over the road myself and with two hundred yards remaining, I'm under the cosh again as club mate Ben Walmsley has been grinding down the gap between us. Ribble Valley race winner Callum Davidson has trotted back to cheer the rest of us on and Ben makes his move on the upward drag back to the cricket pavillion. I wouldn't get near Ben in a road race, but fell racing isn't his forte. With the advantage of knowing all to well where the finish is, I put in a timely sprint to snatch my place back.
Arguably I've run as well for a slower time in much sloppier and windier conditions here, but this eighth run at Withins Skyline was nevertheless my fastest which suggests I must be doing something right at last. A course or personal best of some description has been long overdue and at my age I question whether there could be many more left in the tank. So I didn't quite catch pre-race target Nichola, but I can't complain. She was super strong and showed her class.
A bit of a Ribble Valley domination was had, Nic heading a ladies top three from Helen Glover and Caitlin Rice. Youthful Callum doesn't need recovery (yet) and fresh from the Smarna Gora mountain race in Slovenia the day before, became that new name on the men's trophy and one of three Ribblers in the top five, five in the top ten and eight in the top twenty. No wonder the ''racing team'' is so popular!
Sunday 7th October 2018
WITHINS SKYLINE 7m/1000ft Penistone Hill, Haworth. West Yorks.
1st Man - Callum Davidson (Ribble Valley Harriers) 41:51
1st Lady - Nichola Jackson (Ribble Valley Harriers) 45:44
My Stats - 46:07 14/246
WITHINS SKYLINE
Withins had a slightly different feel to it this year. The absence of retired hosts, Dave and Eileen Woodhead, was always going to change the ambience to some degree. The legendary couple promised nowt would change and aside from Dave's unmistakable vocal presence, it was pretty much business as usual. The new organisers from Wharfedale Harriers set their stall out with inherent detail. The Woodhead's were still out and about on the Bronte Moors though, capturing the action through their camera lens. The main thing is that these great races continue and they'll always be a bit special to me, Woodentops or not. They were one of my earliest tastes of fell racing.
With many club fell runners engaged in the Hodgson Brothers relays at Patterdale that same day, there was a distinct lack of usual suspects lining up inside the quarry of Penistone Hill. The only thing certain, other than perfect Autumnal racing conditions, was a new name on the men's trophy.
Ribble Valley Harriers didn't get a place at the Hodgson relays. Politics may have come in to it, I don't know for sure. But news that the Chair of the Fell Runners Association, Charmian Heaton, has been lobbying at least one club Chairman to forward a complaint against Ribble Valley for being a ''racing club'' (whatever she deems that to be) certainly points towards our club being treated unfavourably in some quarters. Heaton's behaviour is ridiculous and brings her reputable position in to undoubted disrepute. Now that's a whole catering sized can of worms to be spilled in due course, but for now I'll try and stay with the topic in hand and what really matters, the race. Without those relays to compete at, Withins was given the nod as a counter in our club champs and eleven of us turned out to put the club on the map in West Yorkshire.
Although a few weeks since my last blast of competitive action, I went in to this knowing - not guessing, hoping, or deluding myself - actually knowing I was going to make a decent account of myself. For those few hardy souls who have bothered to dissect my previous ramblings over the past few years, they would easily vouch for the fact that this feeling of genuine pre-race confidence is a very rare entity indeed.
Pre-race thoughts were about getting nearer to Nichola Jackson at one of these Woodentops races where she always seems to put in a top end performance. That's if she had booked this one in of course, but sure enough I clocked our ladies skipper when jogging over to registration and my preconceived racing benchmark was confirmed. Game on.
Sexists, chauvinist, testosterone induced man's men, folk of no athletic aspiration or all three of the above could pour scorn over my ambition to beat a girl here. But I feel no shame whatsoever. Fell racing is what it is. Boy or girl, fast or slow, it's a test of all round running endurance that hard nuts, gym bunnies, Joseph or Josephine Bloggs just wouldn't last five minutes at. So when I, pushing 45 and a nobody in particular, eyes up the runner-up of the 2018 English Fell Running Championships as a potential benchmark to compete against, denomination of sex is completely inconsequential. A race is a race and Nichola Jackson's standard happens to be a very decent one to try and match.
We had a close battle in the Summer at the Whaley Waltz in which I don't think either of us were operating on full power. The lack of technicality under foot at that one probably worked to my benefit and I just managed to beat her for the first time, or at least certainly for the first time since she has come to prominence as a senior. At the Woodentops races, Jacko is old hat. She knows the courses, has won here many a time and generally turns up for them with nothing other than victory in mind and a potential ladies course record to chase down.
A mile or so in to the race and I'd actually completely forgotten about Nichola Jackson. I was making good progress on the main climb to Oxenholme Stoop when a flash of florescent pink blurred to the left of my periphery, maybe two hundred yards shy of the trig point. It was Jacko. By the summit she had created a gap of around ten seconds and expanded that over the bog hoppy plateau and tussocky traverse towards Withins Ruins. She's good on the rough stuff and was in fact starting to get close to our nearest team mate ahead, Ste Hall. But then it's good running again from the ruins on sheep trods and well worn paths and by the time we dropped down to the Bronte Bridge, I had caught Nicola up. There was a decent chase going on here with a couple of other guys in the mix as well and as it turned out, an overall top ten place at stake.
Up from the bridge though, I couldn't quite latch on to this trio for long and the gap began to reopen. Just before the path broadens to bridleway status, I receive a message from behind and it's one of my bug bares. "To the left.. ", forewarns a Keighley & Craven runner, sat on me since climbing up from Bronte Bridge. When deciding to make his move, it came with a verbal warning for some reason. No please or thanks either. I hate that. I tell him it's not etiquette, but no response. Etiquette it most certainly isn't though. Find your time, find your own space and just overtake. It's simple really. This has happened to me twice recently, I think next time I'm just going to barge the feckers off the path! It really pisses me off. With heckles up I went about trying to stay with him, but there was no turn of pace in my legs at this point. To be fair, this Keighley man Ian Willis had put in a tremendous surge and had even nudged ahead of Nichola. But some consolation for me, as I catch the last sighting of them coming off the moor and crossing the road towards the finish, was that spirited Jacko was leading the pack again and indeed that's how it finished as she took 10th overall and smashed the ladies course record.
Over the road myself and with two hundred yards remaining, I'm under the cosh again as club mate Ben Walmsley has been grinding down the gap between us. Ribble Valley race winner Callum Davidson has trotted back to cheer the rest of us on and Ben makes his move on the upward drag back to the cricket pavillion. I wouldn't get near Ben in a road race, but fell racing isn't his forte. With the advantage of knowing all to well where the finish is, I put in a timely sprint to snatch my place back.
Arguably I've run as well for a slower time in much sloppier and windier conditions here, but this eighth run at Withins Skyline was nevertheless my fastest which suggests I must be doing something right at last. A course or personal best of some description has been long overdue and at my age I question whether there could be many more left in the tank. So I didn't quite catch pre-race target Nichola, but I can't complain. She was super strong and showed her class.
A bit of a Ribble Valley domination was had, Nic heading a ladies top three from Helen Glover and Caitlin Rice. Youthful Callum doesn't need recovery (yet) and fresh from the Smarna Gora mountain race in Slovenia the day before, became that new name on the men's trophy and one of three Ribblers in the top five, five in the top ten and eight in the top twenty. No wonder the ''racing team'' is so popular!
Sunday 7th October 2018
WITHINS SKYLINE 7m/1000ft Penistone Hill, Haworth. West Yorks.
1st Man - Callum Davidson (Ribble Valley Harriers) 41:51
1st Lady - Nichola Jackson (Ribble Valley Harriers) 45:44
My Stats - 46:07 14/246
Tuesday, 25 September 2018
GROUNDHOG RELAY
NORTHERN SIX STAGE ROAD RELAYS
I'm always happy to help out the team, but a return to racing on this contrived course from hell at Sportcity expanded my flexibility to it's limits. If running the inside and outside shape of a horseshoe around the Etihad Stadium, followed by an equally featureless journey around the outer expanses of a car park wasn't bad enough, I had to do two laps of it all. I was here two years ago for Blackburn Harriers - it was the most dull, flat, mundane, contrived course I had ever raced then, so with an extra 1.2 kilometres of it this time around, that did nothing to ease my fraught relationship with this place.
That said, and repeating sentiments expressed from that last trip here, it is a great venue from a logistical point of view. No traffic, no pedestrians or cyclists to dodge around, easy parking, good for spectating and a super base camp in the athletics arena. For the fast lads and road heads I dare say the course is ideal too, but for a lover of hills, greenery and vintage architecture, running around there as fast as I could was done for absolutely no other reason than a sheer primitive duty to my club.
Manchester City might be the best football team in the land right now and the stadium may look lush on the inside, but this concrete corner to the east of the city is a soulless spanse of clinical design. As a regular visitor to City's old ground at Maine Road in my teenage years, I guess the aesthetics, or should I say the distinct lack of them at this modern replacement and relocation, disappoints me even more. I just can't connect the two Man City's together. The name of the club hasn't changed but everything else has. My Dad was a Bolton fan and similarly, I was a regular visitor to Burnden Park. Now The Trotters trot out at a stadium on a retail park out of town. Sentiment probably clouds my vision on this subject to a degree, but soul and character is something modern football stadia just doesn't encapsulate in my opinion. At least not in Manchester City or Bolton - or should I say, East Manchester and Horwich.
Back to the racing then and for all my moaning and groaning about the course, these relays bring out plenty of great running talent from the North of England and it's a rare opportunity to see some of the best up against each other.
At Ribble Valley Harriers, on paper great things looked possible with our prospective line ups in the Ladies and Men's 'A' teams. But Katie Walshaw was bolted off her horse the night before and only deemed herself unfit to run just before the start. Prior to that, two potentially big players in the Men's 'A' team dropped out. Michael Cayton's calf strain didn't hamper his impressive training run the day before and suggested that a more than adequate shift could have been put in for the team. However it seems Michael brings nothing less than his A+ game to the race table and had disappointingly opted out. Unpredictable Josh Boyle went quiet on the days leading up to the race and when prompted, said he had a niggle. A gifted and talented young individual, but ultimately unreliable. For me, both guys a little void of spirit and ambition when it comes to team competition, which is crazy when one considers how good they are and how good this team could have been with them in it. The pair missed a fantastic opportunity to team up with fellow big hitters Chris Holdworth and Callum Davidson. They could have played a part in something special on the men's debut at this competition, but it wasn't to be. In contrast, Chris and Callum seem very team orientated and always at the ready the relish a challenge.
In the final reckoning though, the Ladies 'A' team held out for a fine 7th place and the patched up Men's 'A' did enough to qualify for the National's, so far from entirely disastrous in the end. The Team 'B's ended up all at sea though. To buffer the 'A' team, Ladies 'B' ran a lass short and finished incomplete, as did our men's who were also one short. We ended up as either an incomplete team, disqualified, or both. There was a rumour that Ste Hall ran twice, the second time under the disguise of a black cap. I mean, how ridiculous. What sort of an outfit would pull a stunt like that? To quote Arsene Wenger on this one, "I didn't see anything".
I ran the third leg and there really wasn't that much to report other than I passed a few and probably a good few less than actually went past me. If the course wasn't repetitive enough, then the continuous sight and sound of Clayton-le-Moors coach Phil Hall all over the course did nothing to reverse by ailing state of mental wellbeing.
I wasn't particularly pleased with my time and thought I was probably thirty seconds shy of what I can do at the moment. But road racing creases me up these days. After two miles or so of hard running on the hard stuff, it's one ache and pain piling on top of the other and eventually feels like every niggle I've ever had comes back to haunt me. On that second lap it was just bloody awful, grimly hanging on to pace in the hope something doesn't go permanently ping. Get me back running on those fells please. The day after, I did just that and thankfully all was forgotten and those pavement pounding pain points subsided slightly.
Sunday 23rd September 2018
NORTHERN SIX STAGE ROAD RELAY CHAMPIONSHIPS
My Stats - Ribble Valley Harriers 'B' Leg 3 (6.7K) 23:58
NORTHERN SIX STAGE ROAD RELAYS
I'm always happy to help out the team, but a return to racing on this contrived course from hell at Sportcity expanded my flexibility to it's limits. If running the inside and outside shape of a horseshoe around the Etihad Stadium, followed by an equally featureless journey around the outer expanses of a car park wasn't bad enough, I had to do two laps of it all. I was here two years ago for Blackburn Harriers - it was the most dull, flat, mundane, contrived course I had ever raced then, so with an extra 1.2 kilometres of it this time around, that did nothing to ease my fraught relationship with this place.
That said, and repeating sentiments expressed from that last trip here, it is a great venue from a logistical point of view. No traffic, no pedestrians or cyclists to dodge around, easy parking, good for spectating and a super base camp in the athletics arena. For the fast lads and road heads I dare say the course is ideal too, but for a lover of hills, greenery and vintage architecture, running around there as fast as I could was done for absolutely no other reason than a sheer primitive duty to my club.
Manchester City might be the best football team in the land right now and the stadium may look lush on the inside, but this concrete corner to the east of the city is a soulless spanse of clinical design. As a regular visitor to City's old ground at Maine Road in my teenage years, I guess the aesthetics, or should I say the distinct lack of them at this modern replacement and relocation, disappoints me even more. I just can't connect the two Man City's together. The name of the club hasn't changed but everything else has. My Dad was a Bolton fan and similarly, I was a regular visitor to Burnden Park. Now The Trotters trot out at a stadium on a retail park out of town. Sentiment probably clouds my vision on this subject to a degree, but soul and character is something modern football stadia just doesn't encapsulate in my opinion. At least not in Manchester City or Bolton - or should I say, East Manchester and Horwich.
Back to the racing then and for all my moaning and groaning about the course, these relays bring out plenty of great running talent from the North of England and it's a rare opportunity to see some of the best up against each other.
At Ribble Valley Harriers, on paper great things looked possible with our prospective line ups in the Ladies and Men's 'A' teams. But Katie Walshaw was bolted off her horse the night before and only deemed herself unfit to run just before the start. Prior to that, two potentially big players in the Men's 'A' team dropped out. Michael Cayton's calf strain didn't hamper his impressive training run the day before and suggested that a more than adequate shift could have been put in for the team. However it seems Michael brings nothing less than his A+ game to the race table and had disappointingly opted out. Unpredictable Josh Boyle went quiet on the days leading up to the race and when prompted, said he had a niggle. A gifted and talented young individual, but ultimately unreliable. For me, both guys a little void of spirit and ambition when it comes to team competition, which is crazy when one considers how good they are and how good this team could have been with them in it. The pair missed a fantastic opportunity to team up with fellow big hitters Chris Holdworth and Callum Davidson. They could have played a part in something special on the men's debut at this competition, but it wasn't to be. In contrast, Chris and Callum seem very team orientated and always at the ready the relish a challenge.
In the final reckoning though, the Ladies 'A' team held out for a fine 7th place and the patched up Men's 'A' did enough to qualify for the National's, so far from entirely disastrous in the end. The Team 'B's ended up all at sea though. To buffer the 'A' team, Ladies 'B' ran a lass short and finished incomplete, as did our men's who were also one short. We ended up as either an incomplete team, disqualified, or both. There was a rumour that Ste Hall ran twice, the second time under the disguise of a black cap. I mean, how ridiculous. What sort of an outfit would pull a stunt like that? To quote Arsene Wenger on this one, "I didn't see anything".
I ran the third leg and there really wasn't that much to report other than I passed a few and probably a good few less than actually went past me. If the course wasn't repetitive enough, then the continuous sight and sound of Clayton-le-Moors coach Phil Hall all over the course did nothing to reverse by ailing state of mental wellbeing.
I wasn't particularly pleased with my time and thought I was probably thirty seconds shy of what I can do at the moment. But road racing creases me up these days. After two miles or so of hard running on the hard stuff, it's one ache and pain piling on top of the other and eventually feels like every niggle I've ever had comes back to haunt me. On that second lap it was just bloody awful, grimly hanging on to pace in the hope something doesn't go permanently ping. Get me back running on those fells please. The day after, I did just that and thankfully all was forgotten and those pavement pounding pain points subsided slightly.
Sunday 23rd September 2018
NORTHERN SIX STAGE ROAD RELAY CHAMPIONSHIPS
My Stats - Ribble Valley Harriers 'B' Leg 3 (6.7K) 23:58
Saturday, 15 September 2018
LIGHTNING STRIKES TWICE
DAVID EAMANUEL COWM RESERVOIR 5K
The night races hadn't quite finished in fact. A remote fell race at Egremont initially pricked my ears and prodded my imagination. Wishing for an ideal world to just get over there and explore, a round journey of over four hours to Cumbria's most Western extremes just couldn't really be justified on a Thursday night. Fortunately that man Andy O'Sullivan came to the rescue with another Reservoir 5K on the calendar. So I headed over to Whitworth instead for the second Thursday in succession and to Cowm Reservoir in particular - a third visit this year - and a welcome test of speed on the flat.
The morning of race day though, I felt rough. Heavy head, puffy glands and slow metabolism. No amount of fresh air, purifying water and good coffee seemed to shift it. I was resigned to thinking there was no chance of racing for a good portion of the day and that was the case until late afternoon when I finally showed signs of life.
I still didn't feel full shilling but decided to give it a go. Encouraged by the words of Ben Fish still ringing in my ears from a couple of years ago and the David Moorcroft syndrome - if Moorcroft felt a bit crap on race day, he knew he was on for a good one - then that, along with another decent week of training, was the hope I was clinging on to.
Fear me not though, it didn't take much of a warm up to get things moving and realise I could probably end up running quite well... again? Could lightning strike twice? Lap one of two certainly didn't take anything out of me. Early on I shared the pace with club mate Helen Glover who went on to win the ladies contest easily. Then I nudged up to fifth spot having passed the Holcombe runner that I thought could be John Raho, but wasn't for believing it was him as I don't recall getting near him in a race before. Pace felt good and it was only in the last three quarters of a mile that I had to start working a bit harder to sustain it. I thought I'd shook off that Holcombe vest for good but could hear company closing in with maybe half a mile to go. As we turn towards the head of the reservoir for the last time I decided to try for an early break and stretch out a gap, but the Holcombe man matched my efforts and squared up with me on the drop towards the finish. With a hundred yards to go, he nudged ahead and I accidentally clipped his heels in a desperate attempt to stay with him before saving a surge for the final twenty strides. But, having thankfully stayed on his feet, he was clearly in command and responded again to pip me by a second. Turned out it was John Raho, probably not at his best, but I gave him a race. Turned out I'd knocked half a minute off my last appearance here and I didn't have to hang on so grimly either. Good signs and job satisfaction to reflect on for this now well worn journey back via East Lancashire gems like Bacup, Stacksteads, Brittania, Rawtenstall and the Grane Road which connnects the M65 to the wild West of home.
A final word then for organiser Andy O'Sullivan and the Andems Runners team, of whom I seem to be waxing literal about most frequently these days. But what a cracking guy. His organisation is impeccable, his races directly fund local causes and he does it for the love. He does it for us runners. What does he say to us at the end? ''Did you enjoy it lads?'' and you feel it's important to him that you did enjoy it. That's just it, our pleasure is his pleasure. As race organisers go, they just don't make many like this guy anymore. He was at the table doing registration, he was at the start to get us all off, he was on the course commentating on his loudspeaker after lap one - I even got a mention to treasure - ''...John from Ribble Valley coming through...'' - then he's down at the finish commentating on that too, then he's back doing the presentation at the pub... he was everywhere.
It's a bit of a bind getting over to Whitworth from my neck of the woods, but I'll be at it again next Spring for sure. I'd been absent from Andems races for a good few years, it's great to be back. In this era of ruthless profit making events companies bastardising running races as we knew them, we need the Andy O'Sullivan's of this world to keep amateur running honest, genuine and real. I heard he's been campaigning for the great Ron Hill to be knighted - the powers that be could do a lot worse than recognise Andy himself in the honours list as well.
Thursday 13th September 2018
DAVID EAMANUEL COWM RESERVOIR 5K Cowm Reservoir, Whitworth.
1st Man - Will Smith (Halifax Harriers) 16:29
1st Lady - Helen Glover (Ribble Valley Harriers) 18:13
My Stats - 17:39 6/85
A final word then for organiser Andy O'Sullivan and the Andems Runners team, of whom I seem to be waxing literal about most frequently these days. But what a cracking guy. His organisation is impeccable, his races directly fund local causes and he does it for the love. He does it for us runners. What does he say to us at the end? ''Did you enjoy it lads?'' and you feel it's important to him that you did enjoy it. That's just it, our pleasure is his pleasure. As race organisers go, they just don't make many like this guy anymore. He was at the table doing registration, he was at the start to get us all off, he was on the course commentating on his loudspeaker after lap one - I even got a mention to treasure - ''...John from Ribble Valley coming through...'' - then he's down at the finish commentating on that too, then he's back doing the presentation at the pub... he was everywhere.
It's a bit of a bind getting over to Whitworth from my neck of the woods, but I'll be at it again next Spring for sure. I'd been absent from Andems races for a good few years, it's great to be back. In this era of ruthless profit making events companies bastardising running races as we knew them, we need the Andy O'Sullivan's of this world to keep amateur running honest, genuine and real. I heard he's been campaigning for the great Ron Hill to be knighted - the powers that be could do a lot worse than recognise Andy himself in the honours list as well.
Thursday 13th September 2018
DAVID EAMANUEL COWM RESERVOIR 5K Cowm Reservoir, Whitworth.
1st Man - Will Smith (Halifax Harriers) 16:29
1st Lady - Helen Glover (Ribble Valley Harriers) 18:13
My Stats - 17:39 6/85
Saturday, 8 September 2018
...AND LIFT OFF
HADES HILL
Delusion it was not. This turned out to be my best outing of the year and a bloody long time in the making. Hardly a result to turn heads on the local running scene, but the rare satisfaction of giving a decent account of myself was finally savoured.
In all probability I expected to be the only one there representing my club, but it seems I'd been kept out of the loop as I immediately spot Chris Holdsworth galloping around, Matt Lalor in the loo, Ste Hall, Chris Barnes, then Helen Glover at the start... the army was here to sweep up.
The out and back Hades Hill race is generally the final evening fell race on the calendar and it's eight years since my last run here. For the last five of those years, Andy O'Sullivan's Andems Runners have taken over the organisation. As I will have mentioned before, Andy is a thoroughly top chap and, well, just a little bit eccentric - you couldn't have written the script that evening. With his trademark loudspeaker at full whack, he shepherds everyone along to the bottom of the road to get us all off on time. But then, to Andy's dismay, a bloke in a car rolls up waiting to pass through the swathe of over 150 runners. ''There's a car waitin'. We'll 'av to let him through. Move to t'side everyone, we'll have to let him through...... he's pulling his face.....'' Andy is still on loudspeaker!! It was comedy genius, real life Peter Kay material.
The present organiser then introduces the former Hades Hill race organiser of over thirty years, Derek Clutterbuck, (A proper Lancashire name) to get us started and hands over the loudspeaker telling him, ''Keep it short, we want to get 'em off, then just say go''.
Well Mr Clutterbuck doesn't use the loudspeaker, doesn't keep it that short and then asks, ''Should I say 3-2-1-go, or just go?". ''Just say go!'', stresses Andy. You had to chuckle.
Despite a missing runner at the start, we were finally off and soon enough the lass in question comes bounding down the road in the opposite direction to catch on to the back of the field. Holdsworth's off up the road like a man possessed, Lalor shifts up to high places, Hall and Barnes are always quick out of the traps and I get a biting tightness up my left adductor which is a cause for concern. I keep it fairly steady in the hope the pain fades, still find myself having a decent start. With no more twinges to report as we leave the top of the road for the open moor, directly ahead are Ste Hall, Chris Barnes and Dan Gilbert. Although I'm thinking these lads are going to beat me, I set out to try and see how close I can get. It turned out to be a tasty race for top ten positions. As I tried to keep ground on those just ahead, the very distinctive grunts of Ashley Holt were pressuring me from right behind. Finding myself in the most unusual place of just behind Ste after the first climb, whether or not he was on his full mettle that night, it was encouraging to be up there. With the final climb to the turnaround point in view, I briefly gained a place before losing one again seconds later. I pass the Grenfell lad of Rossendale, when another Rossendale vest of Ashley's surges past the pair of us. But I was set on staying with Ash as long as I could. Soon after levelling up with him with about a mile to go, his red diesel engine produced a bit extra and started to edge away from me. Ash then passes Barnes and he's dragged me in to closer contention with him, so I make the Barnes my final target. A ten second gap to shrink for a top ten spot - I got it down to three or four just before we hit the road near the finish, but I knew Chris would relish hitting the tarmac more than me and he restored his gap over that last quarter mile. So 11th it was, but less than half a minute behind Ste Hall in 7th who led a cluster of V40's that read Gilbert, Holt, Barnes, Sutton.
Holdworth won easily with another course record, Glover took the ladies race in a new record too and completed the sweep. Lalor was an impressive 3rd, then us three oldies made it five Ribble vests in the top eleven. It's been a familiar story at many races over the Summer. Invariably the incarnation of Ribble Valley Harriers is loved or hated, respected or resented, but it looks like the club is here to stay.
Thursday 6th September 2018
HADES HILL 5m/1200ft Whitworth, Nr Rochdale.
1st Man - Chris Holdsworth (Ribble Valley Harriers) 30:15
1st Lady - Helen Glover (Ribble Valley Harriers) 37:04
My Stats - 35:47 11/152
HADES HILL
Delusion it was not. This turned out to be my best outing of the year and a bloody long time in the making. Hardly a result to turn heads on the local running scene, but the rare satisfaction of giving a decent account of myself was finally savoured.
In all probability I expected to be the only one there representing my club, but it seems I'd been kept out of the loop as I immediately spot Chris Holdsworth galloping around, Matt Lalor in the loo, Ste Hall, Chris Barnes, then Helen Glover at the start... the army was here to sweep up.
The out and back Hades Hill race is generally the final evening fell race on the calendar and it's eight years since my last run here. For the last five of those years, Andy O'Sullivan's Andems Runners have taken over the organisation. As I will have mentioned before, Andy is a thoroughly top chap and, well, just a little bit eccentric - you couldn't have written the script that evening. With his trademark loudspeaker at full whack, he shepherds everyone along to the bottom of the road to get us all off on time. But then, to Andy's dismay, a bloke in a car rolls up waiting to pass through the swathe of over 150 runners. ''There's a car waitin'. We'll 'av to let him through. Move to t'side everyone, we'll have to let him through...... he's pulling his face.....'' Andy is still on loudspeaker!! It was comedy genius, real life Peter Kay material.
The present organiser then introduces the former Hades Hill race organiser of over thirty years, Derek Clutterbuck, (A proper Lancashire name) to get us started and hands over the loudspeaker telling him, ''Keep it short, we want to get 'em off, then just say go''.
Well Mr Clutterbuck doesn't use the loudspeaker, doesn't keep it that short and then asks, ''Should I say 3-2-1-go, or just go?". ''Just say go!'', stresses Andy. You had to chuckle.
Despite a missing runner at the start, we were finally off and soon enough the lass in question comes bounding down the road in the opposite direction to catch on to the back of the field. Holdsworth's off up the road like a man possessed, Lalor shifts up to high places, Hall and Barnes are always quick out of the traps and I get a biting tightness up my left adductor which is a cause for concern. I keep it fairly steady in the hope the pain fades, still find myself having a decent start. With no more twinges to report as we leave the top of the road for the open moor, directly ahead are Ste Hall, Chris Barnes and Dan Gilbert. Although I'm thinking these lads are going to beat me, I set out to try and see how close I can get. It turned out to be a tasty race for top ten positions. As I tried to keep ground on those just ahead, the very distinctive grunts of Ashley Holt were pressuring me from right behind. Finding myself in the most unusual place of just behind Ste after the first climb, whether or not he was on his full mettle that night, it was encouraging to be up there. With the final climb to the turnaround point in view, I briefly gained a place before losing one again seconds later. I pass the Grenfell lad of Rossendale, when another Rossendale vest of Ashley's surges past the pair of us. But I was set on staying with Ash as long as I could. Soon after levelling up with him with about a mile to go, his red diesel engine produced a bit extra and started to edge away from me. Ash then passes Barnes and he's dragged me in to closer contention with him, so I make the Barnes my final target. A ten second gap to shrink for a top ten spot - I got it down to three or four just before we hit the road near the finish, but I knew Chris would relish hitting the tarmac more than me and he restored his gap over that last quarter mile. So 11th it was, but less than half a minute behind Ste Hall in 7th who led a cluster of V40's that read Gilbert, Holt, Barnes, Sutton.
Holdworth won easily with another course record, Glover took the ladies race in a new record too and completed the sweep. Lalor was an impressive 3rd, then us three oldies made it five Ribble vests in the top eleven. It's been a familiar story at many races over the Summer. Invariably the incarnation of Ribble Valley Harriers is loved or hated, respected or resented, but it looks like the club is here to stay.
Thursday 6th September 2018
HADES HILL 5m/1200ft Whitworth, Nr Rochdale.
1st Man - Chris Holdsworth (Ribble Valley Harriers) 30:15
1st Lady - Helen Glover (Ribble Valley Harriers) 37:04
My Stats - 35:47 11/152
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