More signs of Spring

Daffodil haven near Appletreewick

    After each dreary winter, nothing is so heart-warming as sights and sounds and scents of the onrushing Spring. It's like a drug. I can't get enough of it, especially as I get older. I have to be out there running new paths and seeking out odd corners where I suspect something exciting might be happening. In dark days of winter it's very easy to procrastinate, staying within confines of my cosy cottage when weather is inclement. Invariably my weekly mileage falls below average but status quo is quickly restored as days lengthen, stimulating body and soul to join that colourful unfolding pageant.

Spring lambs

   During the past couple of weeks events have rapidly accelerated. Daffodils and primroses have burst into bloom, lapwings are whirling out their joy over the high pastures, goosanders are paired and seeking out nest sites by the riverbank, bumble bees are feeding happily on my flowering currant, a trio of gaudy bullfinches brightened up a woodland glade, new-born lambs sprawl in sunlit fields and frog spawn is floating in many a pond (not to mention in an old bath used to store water on a nearby allotment).

Pair of goosander on the Wharfe

    In this vernal landscape running is pure joy, besides being a most natural and wonderful form of exercise. My philosophy dictates that I get out there and 'just do it'. Former Olympian, Catherina McKiernan said ‎"Running is meant to be enjoyed, not endured" and I couldn't agree more. Run easily. Ignore the figures on the watch. To us ordinary runners it doesn't matter if we're a few seconds off the pace (what pace?), we don't have to run once more round the block to make up a pre-planned mileage. It's not against the rules to stop and admire the view from some vantage point or watch a peregrine falcon soaring against the boundless blue. For me, there are no hard and fast rules other than that most important one - enjoy it!

Troller's Trot

Ready for the off

     The Troller's Trot is organised by the Long Distance Walkers Association, but don't be fooled by that word 'Walkers'.  By far the biggest percentage of entrants are runners. The event is mainly off-road over some wild, rough country and as such attracts some of our top fell runners, both male and female. It's a Challenge, rather than a race, but nevertheless it invokes a keen spirit of competition among participants who either want to better last years time or beat familiar rivals.  Walkers can set off as soon as they've collected their tally cards at 7.30am and are well on their way by the time runners line up for a mass start at 9am.
    It was drizzling with rain as I left the dining hall in Threshfield School at 8.55am, fortified with an extra jam butty and two cups of well sugared tea. Thick mist shrouded the hills and a sneaky wind was blowing from the south west. I pulled on a baseball cap to shield my specs and donned a lightweight jacket. I made the mistake of lingering at the start, taking photographs of other runners, quite forgetting the various spots where hold-ups would occur along the way. After climbing high into the mist and dancing across the oozing black bogs of Threshfield Moor the worst snarl-up came at the first checkpoint where I found myself queueing for seven whole minutes to clip my tally card.

Route map

    Of the 400 or so entries for the 20th anniversary of this event, only about fifty were entered for the 12 mile half Trot and I'd no idea how many of them were runners. I suspected most of them, as in the full 24 mile Trot, and had a sneaking suspicion all would now be ahead of me after that checkpoint fiasco.  The next four miles were mainly downhill and easier running so I'd time to get some sort of rhythm going while ticking off as many runners as I possibly could. The mist had lifted, sunshine shafted through the clouds, curlews called and larks were singing as we ran to the 2nd checkpoint near Winterburn reservoir. In just over two miles our routes would split, the 24 milers to the right and the 12 milers to the left. That's where my race would begin. I made good progress though I was flagging a bit on a mile or so of tarmac to the 3rd checkpoint at Rylstone Church.

Disappearing into the mist on Threshfield Moor

    Although the route had otherwise been well marked there was no sign to point the way of the shorter route from the Church and I finished up getting hopelessly lost in a sprawling farmyard where cows eyed me curiously as I ran hither and thither, frantically trying to find a way out. To make things worse a brief glimpse along the lane I should be running along, but couldn't get to, revealed a runner disappearing into the distance. And who knows how many were ahead of him? I retraced my steps, climbed through a gap in the wall and tore down a short grassy slope onto the lane. I was back on route.  

Running over Boss Moor

    Things were getting serious now. I rolled up my jacket and tied it round my waist, replaced my cap with a headband and rolled up my sleeves ready for action. That guy who'd long since disappeared into the distance just had to be caught in the next five miles before the finish. After a series of zig-zags through the back lanes of Cracoe the route came out onto a long straight bit where it was possible to see quite a way ahead. There was no sign of the runner. The next section was a twisting roller-coaster of a lane with little chance of seeing any distance ahead but, after a couple of miles, just past Far Langerton, the guy suddenly appeared about 300m in front of me. In a mile I'd caught him, quite by surprise as he slowed to take a drink.
    "Come on" I shouted in mock encouragement as I slid past.
    "I needed that drink, I'll be with you in a minute" he replied.
   "Oh no, you jolly well wont" I muttered to myself. I was on home ground now. My old legs found new life over the last two miles down steep fields, back along the familiar riverbank, across Grassington Bridge and up the hill to the deserted finish area outside the school. I was the first runner home. A couple of minutes later the second runner arrived, offering his congratulations, and after that a steady trickle of runners including my wonderful partner alongside the lady who'd inspired us to enter and train for this cracking day out.
    As we regrouped in the dining hall for an excellent post-race meal and more reviving cups of tea we couldn't help but sing the praises of all concerned with the brilliant organisation of this wonderful event. All being well, we'll be back next year when hopefully they'll have signposted the way out of that perishing farmyard!

To Chi, or not to Chi

    One way or another, things didn't go well last week and I failed miserably to run my planned mileage. A persistent chesty cough has been sapping my strength resulting in stop/start runs and inability to maintain any sort of pace, no matter how slow, without regular breaks to regain my breath. I managed a grand total of just 14 miles - barely ticking over - but it's better than nothing, I suppose. At least, I tried, but it felt hard. 

    And because running has recently started to feel harder I've been poking my nose into Danny Dreyer's book on 'Chi Running' and trying to learn the technique he describes so well. According to the hype it enables one to run faster, farther and with much less effort at any age. Baron Baptiste says, "This programme will totally revolutionalize the wau you run". In theory I've got to admit it all sounds very feasible and those who practice it give glowing reports, but so far it's done nothing for me.  Maybe I haven't got it quite right though I seem to be doing things according to the book. I just wish there was a qualified teacher in the vicinity to check what I'm doing and make any necessary corrections. But as yet I certainly aint running faster or farther, quite the reverse, and the little that I am doing at the moment seems to require more effort. Of course, I refuse to accept it's anything to do with age!

    I may be slowing down but still enjoy running the hills and wide open spaces and hate to think there might come a time when I'm no longer able to do it. For the past 26 years life has revolved around it. No week has been complete without it. To the amusement of family and friends, annual holidays to places like Cornwall or the Canary Islands are regarded as warm weather training. Even in Scotland or the Alps running gear forms a large part of the luggage. It's kept me slim and trim, though not without a few aches, pains and injuries along the way - par for the course, I suppose. 

    Anyhow, regardless of current fitness, in a few days time I'll be running with a number pinned to my vest again. It's a very low key event but no doubt the adrenalin will start to flow and anyone in front of me will be regarded as fair competition. Hopefully it will kickstart this lethargic body back into racing mode. But whether it does, or not, I'll enjoy the day, the run and the company of like-minded people.

Spring has definitely sprung

Warm enough for shorts

   In spite of annoying snuffles, sneezes, persistent cough, snow, ice and gale force winds, I seemed to get quite a lot done during February. Mileage-wise I topped the 100 mark for the first time since last June, most of it at a very steady pace, but with some good bouts of speed-work thrown in to liven the old legs up a bit. 

Gorse in flower

    However, for reasons I don't fully understand I don't seem able to maintain a decent pace for any length of time now. I mentioned this to one of my running contemporaries who suggested I return to the track this year and attack some of the British MV80 records over 400m, 800m and perhaps 1500m - distances I know I could run comfortably, but not necessarily at speeds I'd like. We'll see. One thing's certain, I wont be running marathons any more, though with 7 category wins from 8 starts, plus two British Championships, I've nothing really to come back for.

Crocuses - loving the sun

     To say I'm a little rusty is a gross understatment. I haven't raced since the Arncliffe 4 miler way back in August. Hopefully, the Troller's Trot a week on Saturday will whet my appetite and get my decrepit brain back into racing mode. It's a 12 mile off-road event over wild moors, steep hills and slutchy bogs. Should be just up my street!

    Today, the 1st March, is what many consider the first day of Spring and it showed all the signs of it. From the moment I got out of bed and stepped out the door into glorious sunshine I was flowing with energy. After a great bowl of banana porridge, toast with marmalade and the odd cup of tea I set about vaccing all the rooms, sweeping the stairs and cleaning the kitchen floor before hanging out a line of washing.  

And just look at that blue sky

   Then I went for a run, in shorts, through woods that filtered the sunlight, across wide open fields, then went swirling round the top of Castle Hill before dropping down home to complete a refreshing 5 miles. 

    As if that wasn't enough exercise for the day I set about tidying the garden, getting rid of all the dead wood, hoeing, raking, scarifying the  lawn and straightening the edges before sweeping all the rubbish from the path. I reckon it must be time for bed!

   

Spring watch

According to Ted Hughes:

Curlews in April

Hang their harps over the misty valleys

A wobbling water-call

A web-footed god of the horizons......

    Well, this wonderful harbinger of Spring was trailing his wobbling water-call across Grimwith reservoir a couple of months earlier than that this year along with whistling Teal, a raft of bugling black necked Canada geese and the happy piping of early Oystercatchers strutting by the shore in their best tuxedos. Frogs have already gathered in a reed-bound pond for their annual orgy. Lambing fields at Bolton Abbey are heaving with new life whilst lawns and garden are bright with Spring flowers - snowdrops, crocuses and yellow daffodils. Here's a very short poem of my own that sums up this exciting change:

Sandy track for fast repetitions on Castle Hill

FIRST KISS

Silently, the world sleeps

Deep in winter hills.

Stealthily, vernal youth

Folds back her blanket.

Suddenly, earth pants, and

Ah love, Spring has come.

    From depths of winter melancholy we're suddenly reborn into another glorious new year. We come alive again. Spring is easily my favourite season for running, when each foray into the great outdoors provides a new thrill. It's a season of 'firsts' to note in our diaries - first celandine, primrose, wheatear, ring ouzel, pewit, skylark, new-born lamb - but it's always the return of the Curlew that is most uplifting for me. From mid February onwards I'll visit their wild haunts day after day to catch that first thrilling sound. For me, it heralds Spring's awakening just like the first Swallow, for many, presages the arrival of summer. 

Curlew country - Grimwith reservoir

    In other respects it's been a wild and windy week, though there were benefits to be had from this, particularly during bouts of speedwork high on Castle Hill. On my horse-shoe shaped route the wind was behind me from whichever end I chose to do my repetitions. I was experimenting with a metronome to optimise my cadence at 96 (Rt foot plants) per minute. It's not easy when doing fast reps. Sometimes I'd swear the confounded implement was slowing down whereas it was actually me speeding up and getting ahead of the beeps.

    Conversely, on a ten mile jaunt around Mossdale on Saturday an almost gale force wind somehow managed to be head on both out and back along the trail. I'm not sure how it managed that but it sure slowed me down. I didn't care. It's my longest run since December, so all is going well for my 12 mile event in two weeks time. I just hope I can get rid of this lingering cough by then.

Metronome

    Just after the Curlew had called to us yesterday a miracle occurred. Last August while walking (note) through long grass high above Conistone I caught my foot in a rabbit hole, fell over sideways, and badly twisted my Rt knee. It's pained me ever since, so much so that long runs have been preceded by large doses of painkillers. On Saturday, for instance, I washed down 600mg of Ibuprofen an hour before running around Mossdale. A physiotherapist I'd visited said there was nothing he could do about it (though he still took my money) suggesting I see my doctor, get it X-rayed, and possibly be referred to our local hospital for an arthroscopy. X-rays were 'clear' so I was about to ask my doctor for an MRI scan. However, at the end of yesterday's run there was a fence to climb. As I swung my leg over I clumsily clouted the inside of that self-same Rt knee which resulted in a shot of pain that soon subsided. While preparing breakfast this morning it suddenly dawned on me I'd walked downstairs in a perfectly normal manner rather than the crab-like sideways shuffle, one step at a time, of the past six months. Jokingly, I suggested to my wonderful partner that Saturday's dose of Ibuprofen seemed to have taken a long time to work! But as I write this, nine hours later, my knee is still free of pain. Hallelujah!

Struggling

Up the ghyll

   I've been struggling this week. Snow that shrouded our hills last weekend quickly disappeared during a rapid thaw, but then it froze again and a biting NNE wind made running a chilly affair in the resultant wind-chill factor. For the past couple of weeks I've been running with a cold, hoping I'd sweat it out of my system. It hasn't quite worked and the freezing cold air streaming into my lungs as I ran an otherwise very pleasant 25 miles this week has left me with a barking cough. I've been advised by my wonderful partner to go to bed with a hot water bottle clutched to my chest - but I'm not very good at things like that! Anyway, it's forecast to get warmer in the next few days, up to 17ºC, so hopefully my chest will respond positively to that.

Flooded path by the river

    Melt-water pouring off the hills during the short thaw had raised the height of the river, flooding the path till water was lapping round my ankles on a run back from Howgill. But the sun was shining, birds were singing and all the high tops stood in bold relief in the clear air. The 8 mile route was the farthest I've run since the beginning of January and I'm pleased to say I ran it a little quicker - if only by a minute. It's a step in the right direction. By March 10th I've got to raise my game to 12 miles to take part in the Troller's Trot - an annual 25 mile event through some of Yorkshire's most beautiful countryside - though I'll only be running half of it.

Stile at Cupola Corner

    After soaking feet by the River Wharfe we decided to keep high on Sunday's run until the flood water had receded.  After morning service at St Peter's my wonderful partner ran with me for a couple of miles up the ghyll before going our separate ways, each of us on our own preferred route. I climbed the stile at Cupola Corner and ran north as far as the dam on the edge of Grassington Moor. At 1,300ft it offers spectaculer views across Wharfedale which I never tire of gazing at from this remote spot where I rarely meet another soul. Again, there was a bitterly cold wind but in sheltered hollows, or on leeward sides of rocky outcrops, sheep dozed in the sun's meagre warmth. There are places on earth we hold sacred, where God is in His heaven and all's well with the world. This is one of mine.

    I told myself I'll take things easy this coming week and cut out the running until remnants of my cold and irritating cough have totally subsided. But have I got enough will-power? Well, if it's any help, it's raining.

Ice is nice

.....to Threshfield Moor

    Last week an email arrived from a running friend I hadn't heard from for maybe a couple of years, a chap called Doug Tilly who lives in a beautiful part of the world on the edge of our English Lake Distict . "I hear you're shortly to become an old man" he said, referring to my upcoming 80th birthday in three months time at the beginning of May. People shouldn't say things like that in case I start thinking it myself and actually become an old man. So I ignored his comment.  Nevertheless, I'll shortly have to change a word in the sub-title of my Blog, from  'Septuagenarian' to 'Octogenarian'. Or maybe completely revamp it to something like 'Random jottings of a geriatric jogger'.  Or maybe not!

On a slippery slope

   It's been another productive week though mileage dropped to just 20 miles in the freezing conditions. Speedwork was out of the question for two reasons. Firstly I wasn't going to risk running fast with cold leg muscles - and in the sub-zero temperatures I just couldn't get them to what I considered warm enough: and secondly because the section of sandy path where I do my intervals had become so icy as to be bordering on dangerous at anything faster than normal cruising speed. So I chickened out and ran some easy enjoyable miles.

Some of the residents

    But we'd an exciting day on Saturday. On March 10th we've opted to run a 12 mile off-road event over some wild, boggy country so decided it might be a good idea to recce the route while the ground was frozen. Big mistake. The Yorkshire Dales were still plastered with frozen snow which, on upland trails, had been compacted to solid ice. Every wall, fence and signpost on Threshfield Moor was coated with shiny verglas and festooned with icicles. Glassy stiles had to be climbed with great care. We wore Yaktrax on our trail shoes to better negotiate the ribbon of ice that masqueraded as a path through the heather where a few sheep and grouse eked out a bare existence. My wonderful partner was not happy as she slid and twisted, struggling to maintain her balance but quite unable to run in her normal style. After a couple of miles or so the cry went up, "I want to go back", a sentiment I'd also been considering as I sensed my body temperature dropping as we ascended higher into the Arctic air.  

Try climbing over this....

    But rather than retrace our footsteps we studied the map and agreed on a shorter route that would cut out a couple of miles and get us back to our car a fair bit quicker, hopefully before we froze to death!  Strangely, from that point onwards I noticed she was running faster and more confidently although underfoot conditions were precisely the same. I must work on this!

    Sunday morning saw me honing my ice running skills on a six mile jaunt along the riverbank where weekend walkers hung onto walls, trees and fences in an effort to stay upright on sheet ice as I breezed past them. The yard at Woodhouse Farm, which the right of way passes through, resembled a vast skating rink which walkers found most intimidating . After a few tentative steps most of them retreated to find an easier route. With Yaktrax I pranced across with ultimate ease, as gracefully as Robin Cousins performing his skills to strains of Ravel's Bolero, enjoying the experience and wishing the current freeze would last a little while longer.

Enjoying myself

     On leaving Church later that day our circuit Minister, Rev Richard Atkinson, said "I don't suppose you've been out running in these conditions". After assuring him I had, his reply was a syllable less than the Bible's shortest verse - "You're mad" he said.

   So there you are, I began the week with the inference I was rapidly turning into an old man, and ended it being pronounced mad! 

   However, when I got home, another email had arrived that partially restored the status quo. It was from a Dutch running friend who lives in some unpronouncable village/town outside Amsterdam (or is it Rotterdam? I forget which). His message began with the words  "Hello youngster, I hope this finds you in good spirits.........".  Now that's more like what I want to hear. That brought a smile back to my face. Thankyou Theo, I'll buy you a pint next time you're over this way.