Revisiting Iona.....

Before the storm - wild camp at Loch na Keal, Isle of Mull

After the worst wild camp we'd ever experienced at Loch na Keal on the Isle of Mull we decided it was time to move to somewhere more amenable. Horrendous gales blowing from the freezing north, lashing rain and deafening noise had buffetted us all night long, so much so it was impossible to hear each other speak. The tent leapt up and down like some wild pernicious demon hellbent on dragging pegs from the ground and hurtling off into watery space. Come daylight we decided enough was enough. In a period of relative calm we struck camp, piled everything into the car, drove to Fionnphort then hauled our sacks onto the MV Loch Buie, a ferry bound for the beautiful Isle of Iona.

MV Loch Buidhe arriving at Iona

We were making for the island's only official campsite at Cnoc Oran on the Machair road where we hoped to find a spot sheltered from the wind and quickly put up the tent to dry out; where we'd have the luxury of proper loos, so no need for tramping off into the bog (excuse the pun) wearing full waterproofs, clutching a handful of toilet paper and seeking a convenient hollow well away from prying eyes - away from those eagle spotters with their long telescopes; where we'd be able to wash our hands, or anything else, in wonderful hot water rather than in a cold, rushing river. And all for £6.50 per night - each. However, after recent storms we found much of the site oozing water, including the secluded corner we'd planned on using, but we soon settled in and our tent dried in no time at all. Night fell, the wind bated a little and one of the island's many corncrakes rasped away in the darkness appearing, a bit like me, to have a sleep problem.

Early morning run past Iona Abbey

We had mornings of glorious sunshine, though the wind was still from the north and blowing cold.  Wild geese honked noisily across the sky, skylarks sang their matins while swallows engaged in swift, low level flights in search of sustenance. Starlings were the most common birds, nesting under the eaves of most houses, in our camp toilet block and, most of all, in the confined cloisters of the Abbey where hungry fledglings kept up continuous tweetings. Occasionally, when the sun shone brightest, a cuckoo called from some vantage point across the island. It was a wonderful atmosphere, perfect for running, and we soon worked out a very pleasant route, out towards Clachanach, down by the Abbey, through summery corncrake fields, then back by dazzling white sands at Martyrs Bay and up the Machair road to Cnoc Oran.

Columba's Bay - with people searching for pebbles

The Pentecost service in the Abbey on May 19th was a little disappointing. The Iona Community website promised something extra special for their 10.30am service to mark the 1,450th anniversary of Columba's arrival on the island in AD 563. It was also the 75th anniversary of the founding of the Iona Community in 1938. The Mull Gaelic choir were to sing at this service, as were the children from Iona Primary School. In actual fact the powers that be couldn't get rid of the congregation quick enough from the morning Communion service to prepare the Abbey for all the specially invited guests at the 'special' service in the afternoon. I felt quite cheated. Perhaps if I'd told them I was a past resident of the island, way back in 1949, I might have been allowed in?

To conclude. Many years ago, more than I care to remember, I found a wonderful little pebble of Iona marble at Columba's Bay. Or it found me. I had a ring bolt put in it and wore it for years on a leather thong around my neck. Sadly I lost it, I suspect on a campsite at Arrochar, and have mourned it's loss ever since.  Each time I go to Iona I scour the length and breadth of Columba's Bay, searching for a similar stone, but can never find one. Last week we visited the gallery of Val MacCormick who fashions wonderful pebble pendants using stones gathered from beaches closer to where she lives and works, and where she advised us to go and look. We did, but alas, found nothing resembling the striking green and white marble of the one I lost. Nor had Val anything like it in her collection - for which I'd have paid whatever price she asked. That tiny piece of Iona marble was one of my most treasured possessions.  My poem - Iona Stone - encapsulates all that it meant to me and paints a beautiful picture of the Sacred Isle. Enjoy.

Cave Rescue Organisation Challenge.......

A glance at the final report of the CRO Challenge indicates that only 66 people took part in this year's event

The CRO Challenge route......

with equal numbers competing in the 26 mile marathon and the half marathon Clapham circuit. Of the 33 who took part in the marathon 45% of them, 8 walkers and 7 runners, all found it a little too much and were forced to retire. Another marathon participant changed his mind after 4 miles and opted to get the job over with as quickly as possible by joining the shorter Clapham circuit at the first check point.  Others apparently opted to bend the rules to suit themselves, nine of them setting off long before the scheduled mass start for runners at 09.30 hrs, one of them sneaking off as early as 08.25.  However, this wasn't a race as such, it was all about getting round the challenging routes and raising as much money as possible to boost the organization's much needed funds. An early estimate suggests over £2,500 has so far been raised at this event. And even as we battled round, the organizer of the Challenge, Philip Nuttall, was called out to 'an underground incident' and therefore missed many of us finishing. A second incident involving a walker occurred later in the day.

Gathering for the 09.30 'mass start'......

So how was it for us? Well, pretty horrendous, that's what. The weather was bad enough as the 18 remaining runners lined up for the start in Clapham where my wonderful partner and I had opted for full body cover as protection against a freezing cold blustery wind and increasingly heavy rain. But at least half a dozen runners set off in shorts, much to our amazement. The start of both routes is through a dark tunnel and into a long stony lane that climbs steeply for two miles before depositing us onto the open fell. I found it difficult to maintain any sort of rhythm over the hard uneven surface of the walled lane and found myself relegated to tail end Charlie in the early stages.  Once through the gate and onto a smooth green track across the fell I began to pick it up and clawed back a couple of places.

Conditions grew decidedly worse as I ran towards the flashing headlights of a Land Rover guiding us like a beacon to

The path after Nick Pot check point......

the Nick Pot check point just below cloud level. Wind was doing its best to tear my hood off and rain rattled my waterproof jacket as the marshal clipped my tally before embarking on the muddy, well worn track down Sulber Nick. It was in such a churned up state that running became very difficult indeed. Slimy mud and water covered slippery limestone rocks and filled deep holes. It was difficult to tell whether these holes were ankle deep or knee deep, so care was required to maintain any sort of momentum and stay upright. This muddy morass, made worse by a herd of lumbering cows, continued for 1½ miles to the next check point where a marshal was trying his best to shelter from the horrid conditions in a flapping open tent tucked away in a corner of the rocks.

Slippery wet conditions in Sulber Nick. Not good for running..

I'd passed another two runners, Heather and Clive, on the way to this second checkpoint but they caught me up again as I studied the map to work out the route ahead towards Moughton. Together we got it right for the next ½ mile but became confused as to our next turning where, if my hands hadn't been so numb and useless, I'd have got out my compass and worked it out. As we stood there with heads together gazing at each others maps a guiding light appeared in the form of my wonderful partner who pointed to a stile over the wall and declared "It's that way". And it was! We all ran together, more or less, for the next 2½ miles, through the tiny hamlet of Wharfe and on to the next check point by Wood End farm where I once lived and worked in the late 1940's. The marshal punched our tallies and offered us water before we set off to run the last 3¾ miles.

Heather and Clive had to be shouted back and pointed in the right direction. I dragged a Cadbury's Brunch

The beasties that churn it all up......

Bar from my daysack, tore the paper off with my teeth and awkwardly nibbled at it as I jogged along a back lane I knew so well. A runner came hurtling past us as we ran down a muddy field to Flascoe Bridge. Whoever he was, he took a wrong turning shortly afterwards and missed out the final check point.  Shortly after Flascoe Bridge Heather was reduced to a walk, complaining she'd pulled a muscle, and Clive dropped back to help her over the next section of the route that climbed a strength sapping 400ft over Robin Proctor Scar in the next mile or so - a nasty sting in the tail where I was reduced to a walk up the final steep bit.

Runners at Flascoe Bridge

After that it was more or less all level and downhill along Thwaite Lane and back through the tunnel to the Finish at CRO headquarters in Clapham village. As I ran down the village street, intent on breaking 3 hours, two runners came flying past and beat me to the Finish by a mere two or three seconds. "We were in the lead" they told the Finish marshal, "hoping to finish in 1 hour 40 minutes, but took a wrong turning and got 4 miles off route". The marshal seemed far more interested in their tale of woe than he was about checking us in as we trooped upstairs to his office to be awarded certificates and medals. My recorded time was 2 hours 58 minutes, a minute more than the two who'd sneaked ahead of me. Seconds didn't count and none were recorded in any of our times. 

Meanwhile, my wonderful partner had arrived at the Finish shortly after me but there was no-one around to

.....and all for this!

check her in and no-one responded to her shouts - which she thought was a bit of a shambles!  How was she to know we were all busy chatting in an office hidden away upstairs? And why wasn't there someone permanently on duty at the Finish? After eventually finding her way to the office her time was recorded as 2.59 - a minute after me - so happy with that. Heather and Clive finished 3 minutes later in 3.02. 

After such a battle with the elements and treacherous underfoot conditions I felt totally exhausted. My fingers were so cold I'd great difficulty untying the laces of my shoes and hauling off wet clothes in order to get changed in a cubicle of the National Park toilets. Once I'd fought my way into them, dry clothes were sheer bliss and a hot cup of tea at a friend's cosy house on the way home never tasted better. My wonderful partner was adamant she'll never run the 'Challenge' again whilst I vowed to murder the woman in our village who'd talked us into doing it - just before she shot off for a holiday in Pembrokeshire where the weather was apparently glorious.   Grrrrrr!

Another milestone......

  

Maybe the equivalent of a week's supply - those years ago....

The May Day bank holiday Monday marked another big milestone in the chequered life of Old Runningfox when, by God's grace, he reached the ripe old age of 81. It's 27 years now since the simple act of running transformed my life. I'd survived 30 years of heavy smoking - cigarettes, pipe, cigars - and every drag inhaled as far down as it would go. Wine, women and song were my specialities - along with strong beer and copious amounts of the hard stuff. I'd sink a couple of bottles of whisky around town and still hit the keyhole with my key - first time - after I'd driven home! Often, friends who called at our Saturday night sessions, where the repertoire ranged from Scottish folk music to grand opera, never made it back to their homes after sampling my home brew, but had to sleep it off before leaving. One night when all the beds were full I remember taking a sleeping bag into the garden and waking in the morning white with frost!! A chap painting the exterior of my house foolishly drank a glass of my hooch during his lunch break and quietly disappeared for the rest of the day leaving his ladder still leaning against the wall.
   Fortunately, in my 54th year, along came 'running' and by some miracle - or because 'someone up there loves

Celandines, anemones and blackthorn on the Dales Way...

me' - my lifestyle changed beyond all belief, my lungs cleared out all their multi-coloured gunge (though much reduced in air capacity) and my grossly abused liver must have totally regenerated. From a debauched, overweight and out of shape body came a slimmed down athlete who would subsequently run thousands of miles, rise to the top of National Rankings - and even feature in World Rankings, if you looked far enough down the list!  It's my belief, and I say this with deepest conviction, that had I not stepped out of the door that April day in 1986 for my first tentative steps into the world of running I wouldn't have been around yesterday to celebrate my 81st birthday.  At a recent service Rev David Macha posed the question "When was the point in your life when you first realized that God loves you?"  I could tell him - almost to the hour!
  

Striding out on a 10 mile run round Mossdale last Saturday....

The weather was kind last week, temperatures reaching a warm 61ºF, enabling me to strip down to shorts and vest for most of my meanderings round the countryside though a thermal was still required at higher levels. Spring flowers and bright blossoms had brought out bumble bees and lots of meadow brown butterflies. Farmers ploughed straight furrows across barren fields, and waved as I loped past. It was time for lambs to race around grassy pastures, to leap in the air, or play 'king of the castle' - as they do when they feel a bit of sun on their woolly backs!  At such times it feels really good to be a runner, belonging to it all, part of the great scheme of things. The ground had dried too, enabling me to maintain a mainly steady pace, except where horses had made hock deep holes through woodland rides. In four runs last week I clocked up 26 miles, the last ten being an enjoyable romp into the wilds of Mossdale for the first time this year.
   A cuckoo calling from a wooded banking across the road woke me before 6am on my birthday morning, a bit too early for me, but a welcome sound

Where sand martins live....

nevertheless. The sun was already up, its light filtering through the open curtains ensuring I didn't go back to sleep. After breakfast, and a peek at all my presents, I set off along the Dales Way by the riverbank for a 10 mile run to Barden Bridge and back. Being May Day, an official holiday, this beautiful area was swarming with walkers - and their dogs - so it wasn't easy to maintain a steady pace along the sometimes narrow path. An enormous field used for car parking in Burnsall was almost full to capacity. Costing £5 per car, with lesser charges for pedestrians and picnickers, I reckon the landowner must have raked in nearly £2,000. The ice-cream man wouldn't do too badly either.
  

Fisherman - listening to the sandpiper?

A fisherman found a novel way of avoiding the crowds - by standing in the middle of the river, serenaded by a chittering sandpiper as he cast his line. From their holes in the far bank sand martins skimmed the surface of the water for flies. Wood anemones, lesser celandines, primroses, and bluebells flowered in profusion beside the hedgerows and under the blosson ladened blackthorns. It was a feel-good sort of day when most people I passed were cheerful and returned my greetings - which isn't always the case! The miles passed easily and not too fast, given the 60 gates and stiles to negotiate, and I was able to keep a regular pace between enforced stoppages - up hill, down hill and on the flat - which augers well for next Saturday's CRO Challenge which is only two miles farther though a heck of a lot hillier.
   Then, early on Sunday morning, we travel north for our annual camping holiday to the Inner Hebrides - Mull, Ulva and Iona - so this Blog will be closing down until we get back (makes mental note to put pen and notebook in rucksack, otherwise I'll never remember all the things we do). In the meantime, Happy Running everyone.

Peaks weekend.....

Winner Joe Symonds arriving on Ingleborough

The Three Peaks race over the Yorkshire hills of Penyghent, Whernside and Ingleborough is a fell running classic that attracts runners from all over Britain and many from overseas.  It was first run in 1954 when Fred Bagley of Preston Harriers beat a field of just six runners over the 23 miles and 4,500ft ascent in 3 hours 48 mins. From such humble beginnings the race has grown so much in popularity that a limit of 999 entries has now been set. Andy Peace of Bingley Harriers is the current record holder in 2:46:03 with Anna Pichrtova of the Czech Republic fastest lady in 3:14:43.  In my brief fell racing career I ran it five times, once in the M55 category when I was narrowly beaten by a previous outright winner - George Brass of Clayton-le-Moors - and four times as an M60, winning three times but beaten in the fourth by Laurie Sullivan of Clayton-le-Moors. My fastest time was 3:50:44 in 1995. Since then I've attended merely as a spectator.
Skylarks were singing in the wintry sunshine as we plodded up Ingleborough on Saturday for this years annual pilgrimage.

5th man Andrew Fallas descending the rocks off Ingleborough

It was bitterly cold in a north easterly wind that brought odd flurries of sleet and hail to keep runners cool. I was wearing a long sleeved thermal top, two fleeces, a windproof/waterproof jacket, fleecy buff and woolly hat - and still felt cold! Knowing full well the wind would be gale force on top of Ingleborough we took our time ascending so as to coincide with the arrival of the leading runners. We got it right and found a small cairn to cower behind just as the solitary figure of Joe Symonds (Salomon International Racing team) came into view below us.

1st Lady Jasmin Paris in the lead after 19 miles

We'd watched him leading the pack of 746 runners from the Start line and by the time he reached us he'd a good five minutes cushion.  He passed the check point and went hurtling off down the last five miles towards the Finish at Horton in Ribblesdale before any other runners had puffed their way to the summit.  Joe, who'd competed in the Rotterdam marathon two weeks previously, completed the 23 miles and 4,500ft of ascent in 2:54:39 with the bearded Carl Bell of Keswick A.C. 5 minutes behind him in 2:59:44.  Karl Grey of Calder Valley Fell Runners was the only other runner to break 3 hours with his 3rd placing in 2:59:50.

Normally we'd hang around on the summit until the

2nd lady - Oihana Kortazar Aranzeta - suspected broken arm...

first ladies passed through but it was far too cold for that on Saturday. We jogged gently back down, all the while keeping our eyes open for the ladies. The classy Spaniard, Oihana Kortazar Aranzeta of the Salomon International Racing Team had led the ladies race over the first two peaks and up onto Ingleborough but was passed on the final descent by a smiling Jasmin Paris of Carnethy Hill Runners who was clearly enjoying her first experience of this classic race. She won in 3:33:04 with Oihana finishing 2nd in 3:36:29.  It was reported that Oihana was later taken to hospital with a suspected broken arm after a fall during the race, we suspect in the rocks coming off Ingleborough. Let's hope she's soon recovered and back racing again.

Jasmin's team mates, Helen Bonsor (3:39:07) and Jill Mykura (3:46:20) filled third and fourth places for

Sploshing through the mud in Sulber Nick

the Edinburgh based Carnethy club. For the first time ever we didn't stay to watch the prize giving. The parking field with its hundreds of cars was beginning to get churned up. After watching one vehicle being towed from the mud we decided it was time to go. Frankly, I was glad to leave for after battling gale force freezing winds over ten miles of the race route I felt totally knackered. And that's almost swearing! It was sheer bliss to sit in a warm car and be driven home.   Results here....

I'd had been a busy week. Saturday's 5 mile jog down Ingleborough and a 6 mile circuit round

Running towards the Finish, Penyghent in background....

Appletreewick on Sunday completed a grand total of 30 miles which is the most I've run since goodness knows when. I've felt stronger too. A four mile tempo run on Thursday, using shorter strides with a faster cadence, and an easy five mile run on Friday with lots of 'floaters' went very well indeed without having to walk any of the time. Since abandoning all that fish and salad in my diet I've been topping up with a combined mineral/vitamin supplement to restore my calcium, iron, magnesium and Vitamin C levels which were all sub normal, the former having got seriously low. Common sense tells me that for runners at my end of the age scale, supplements should be the order of the day, regardless of what we eat.  But, as I heard a race commentator say on Saturday, common sense and fell runners seldom seem to go together!     

Something fishy has been going on....

I've been a bit lacking in energy lately and a QMA test last week revealed my iron stores are becoming

Meat....

rather depleted. I should know after 80+ years that I can't live without meat. I know now, because I've just tried it. On the advice of well meaning friends I've been 'existing' on a daily diet of fish, salad, fruit - and yogurt - for my main meal over a number of weeks.  I don't dislike such things but no matter what quantities I stuff down my little throat I never seem full. They're just not satisfying enough and I'm forever yearning for snacks, especially at the end of the day before I go to bed. Some folk might be happy to go to bed hungry, but I'm not one of them. If I don't feel content there's no way I can get to sleep, which results in me sneaking downstairs in the wee small hours for a bowl of muesli or thick slice of bread plastered with peanut butter.

Uphill route to Castle Hill....

So today it was back to my butcher who greeted me as if I were the prodigal son returning to the fold feeling a bit sorry for himself. "I'd like ¾ lb of braising steak for tomorrow's casserole and a nice slice of sirloin to celebrate with tonight". And celebrate I did. The deep fryer hadn't been in use since goodness knows when, but it was soon bubbling away with proper chips and battered onion rings while the mouthwatering steak sizzled under the grill to medium rare perfection. Mushrooms and tomato helped to fill a fair sized plate whilst a large goblet of Australian Shiraz helped things along their way nicely. Scottish oatcakes spread thickly with a mature Saint Agur had me lingering at the table a wee while longer - putting off the washing-up.  I was happy again. I was me again. From henceforth salad will be relegated to a take it or leave it accompaniment on a side plate - should it ever grace my table again.
Much as I hate wasting food, I'm afraid an Iceberg lettuce and various other bits of rabbit food got thrown in the bin. For the present, at least, I just can't face any more. Fruit and, surprisingly, the yogurt survived. I've tried various yogurts over the years, well aware of their probiotic properties, but could never stomach more than a spoonful before I gipped. However, on the advice of a running acquaintance, I persevered and eventually found one I liked and there's been a tub in the fridge ever since. So "Thankyou Alex, I do take note of some of the things you say"!

Anyhow, between bouts of gardening (that necessary evil) last week I did occasionally manage to get my butt out of the

Trying to maintain speed by the Wharfe last Tuesday....

chair that links me to the computer and churn out a very slow 23 miles. My heart and mind were in it but my body just didn't want to know. So much so, and I hate to confess this, there were many times I was compelled to take short walk breaks, especially on lengths of tarmac leading to my off-road routes. I was OK through fields and along river banks, springing along nicely, but soon juddered to a jog on any harder, more jarring surfaces. I'd to abort a five mile tempo circuit on the road and make a diversion back through fields from the three mile point. When I'm dressed for running I feel quite embarrassed if anyone sees me walking. On another day when I'd planned 12 x 200m fast repetitions I ran out of energy after just seven and jog/walked back home. With Spring in the air I'd normally enjoy that exhilarating feeling of speed and easily accomplish what I set out to do.  Not so on that last occasion.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.....

I'm not certain what's gone wrong, though I strongly suspect that change of diet to be mainly responsible for lack of energy and reduced spring in my step. Today, I put aside my minimalist trail shoes and wore Asics DS trainers to see if they'd give me a bit more bounce. They didn't.  Quite the reverse, in fact my minutes per mile pace was so slow I'm not even going to mention it, hoping it was just a temporary blip rather than the onset of chronic old age, decrepitude and that final sunset. Dylan Thomas wrote:
"Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light......" 
So long as I've a nice steak and a goblet of wine I'll be happy to live forever. As a sarcastic neighbour once said, "I reckon they'll have to put you down!"

Behold, all things are become new.....

  

Wood anemones flowering at Appletreewick

"Flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds has come and the voice of the turtle dove is heard in our land" (Song of Solomon 2:12)
Well, that's almost right - so long as we cross out turtle dove and substitute their noisy little cousins, collared doves and ring doves, that join the thrushes, blackbirds, robins, great tits and a raucous cock pheasant outside our bedroom window in the breaking dawn, telling us it's time to get up. I'm not complaining. It's a wonderful symphony of sound that reaches a crescendo after 30 minutes or so, before gradually dying down as they go about their morning chores - whatever they might be. Invariably, I settle down for another hours sleep until the milkman comes rattling his bottles.

  

Triplets - and cock pheasant

Last Monday morning there were other accompanying sounds to make doubly sure we were awake, that of gale force wind roaring through the treetops while our twangling wind chimes danced their selves into a frenzied extravaganza of musical cacophony the like of which we've seldom heard. And don't really want to! The Lord only knows what the neighbours thought?  Anyhow, it certainly woke us up and, like the sunny weather, we were bright and more than a little breezy. Shortly after breakfast we donned our running gear and set off up the ghyll, with the wind behind us, for one of our longest runs of the year. Actually, it was only seven miles, but none the less enjoyable for a number of reasons.    

We'd hardly run a quarter of a mile before we discovered our first primroses of the year flowering on a warm

A wild spot - the 'stone man' at 1500ft

east facing bank sheltered from the wind.  Nearby, coltsfoot shone like yellow stars in the grassy verges beside the rising track onto the moor. The wind blew stronger and gustier as we climbed higher but it was all in our favour. We parted company at 2½ miles, my wonderful partner branching off to Yarnbury whilst I carried on up Bycliffe Hill, climbing another 500ft to the 'stone man' a tall cairn that affords a fine viewpoint looking southwards over the Wharfe valley. It's always hazy when I reach this point and I've never yet been able to take a decent photograph of the view. Someday, I will.
   

Revelling in the snowy descent from Grassington Moor

My planned descent was by a mile of glorious springy turf down what runners call 'the long wall'. I'd noted from a brief stop by the cairn that there was still some snow lingering beside the wall, but I was totally unprepared for the huge drifts and cornices lower down. Fortunately, although several feet deep in places, the snow was still compacted and safe for running. As such, it gave me a delightful descent and a fitting memento of the hard winter we've experienced this year. I returned home a very happy man, having been serenaded by skylarks, my path illumined by bright flowers and enlivened by the snowy descent.

Not many years ago nothing could stop me while

A marathon shirt I wear with pride.

out on a run. I was training and every second was important. I recall my sister looking rather cross on an occasion when I ran past her with just a casual wave.  And, years later, her amazement when I actually stopped to talk and pass the time of day with her. I believe the change came about after my 2nd M60 category win in the London marathon after which I decided I'd rest on my laurels, believing I'd reached the limit of my capabilities. Many new runners set their sites on the marathon but, from the very beginning, my sites were firmly focused on a sub 3 hour marathon.

In my view, any reasonably fit person can 'do' a marathon. It's just a matter of belief and no big deal. I could go out and do a marathon any day of the week. The distance never frightened me. So far as I was concerned the true test was to RUN it, every stride of the way, in a respectable time which, for me, was under three hours.  I did it, twice, and after that I metamorphosed into what I am now, a zen runner who runs purely for fitness and pleasure. I may or may not race again. My runs are not seriously regarded as training any more. I run for enjoyment. Now, unlike yesteryear, I frequently stop to chat to farmers, neighbours or fellow runners, to gaze at the luscious landscape, take photographs or, like yesterday, revel in the snow with a childish delight. It suits me fine and I plan to go on doing it for many more years.

The day I became a runner.....

  There are still a lot of dirty drifts around where I live but roads are clearing, the sun has shone, temperatures

Roads are clearing, on one side......

have risen and my old legs are slowly starting to defrost! As I laboriously trotted and slid through diminishing drifts this past week it came to mind what Rev David Macha said last week about it being 'very good training'.  I certainly felt stronger, so much so I began to toy with the idea of doing a bit of speedwork. After a three mile warm-up over Castle Hill, I turned into the cricket field for a few fast repetitions. Most of the snow had gone from the flat turf so I was able to run the longest stretch of the field unheeded - for 130m or so.  For a change I was wearing my Garmin which I clicked (without actually looking at it) at the beginning and end of each repetition. I'd planned to do twelve reps but felt another four wouldn't do any harm. I was feeling good. On reaching home I was rather pleased with what the Garmin told me when I plugged it into computer. During the 6.07 mile run with 276ft elevation gain I'd actually done 18 reps (never could count) every single one of them in 28secs. Now there's consistency for you! What I wasn't so happy about was that I'd run each rep at an average speed of only 6.52min/mile. OK, I wasn't pushing it, but when I recall running each and every mile of the London marathon at an average 6.36min/mile pace, then the cricket field session didn't look quite so rosy. Mind you, that marathon was 19 years ago so I suppose allowances must be made for old age and decrepitude.

  

..and so is the cricket field where I trained last week

Come to think of it (he says with chest puffed out and broad smile) I was rather good at marathons having won an age category in seven of eight starts with an M55 course record thrown in for good measure. My baptism of fire came on a boiling hot July day in 1987 when I lined up with 373 others for the start of the notorious Pennine marathon. Never mind undulating, it had at least twenty hills which, according to Anquet, amount to 2,750ft of ascent. It roller-coastered to its highest point at 10 miles (915ft), dropped 300ft, then climbed back to 760ft at 22 miles - just where most people would likely hit the wall.  My only previous experience of a marathon had been watching runners filtering home in the 1986 race when a smiling Tanya Ball of Serpentine Harriers won the ladies race in a little over three hours. "Huh, I can do that" I'd thought, and the seed had been planted. 

   I'd been a jogger for only 15 months and hadn't really done much at all by way of marathon training. A few

Pennine marathon route and profile

weeks prior to the Pennine I'd been sauntering across some of the wilder parts of Scotland on a 200 mile coast to coast walk (TGO Challenge) and I'll admit to being more than a little nervous in the last couple of weeks before the marathon. But come the day, the nerves had settled and I was probably as calm as any of the more experienced runners. I needed to be. Drinks stations were every three miles which some reckoned insufficient given it was the hottest day so far that year. Not to mention the humidity. I carried no water nor anything to eat. Approaching 18 miles I passed lots of runners who'd ground to a halt by the roadside, some just stood there, others tried to keep their legs moving, some sat with bowed heads looking forlorn and totally knackered.  Blisters, dehydration and heat exhaustion had taken their toll resulting in 58 of those stragglers failing to finish. Helpful or concerned spectators brought extra water from their houses, children offered fruit and other goodies while gardeners sprayed us with hose pipes to cool us down. I kept going, ignoring the handouts, though struggling and having to walk for a while climbing towards that 22 mile marker. I suppose I'd hit the wall but it was nearly all downhill after that.

   I crossed the line in 3:30:04 to take 82nd place of 316 finishers. The animal was happy! Mike Critchley of Bolton United Harriers

Breaking the M55 course record in 1988

won it in 2:34:07, a chap I've met many times since at the Arncliffe 4 mile race which he organizes each year in August. Eileen Denby of Denby Dale Travellers survived the blistering conditions to be first lady in 3:31:17. The best was yet to come. I'd wanted to go home to rehydrate and soak my aching legs in a hot bath, but my chauffeur/sister insisted on watching the prize giving before we went. I got the shock of my life when I was called to the podium as winner of the M55 category, a silver cup placed in my hand together with a voucher that would buy me a new pair of shoes and an embossed towel that has accompanied me to every race since. It was my first ever win, at anything, and it totally changed my life. That was 26 years ago but I remember details of that race as if it were yesterday. And I remember telling the race secretary, Alan Sykes, I'd break the M55 course record the following year.  Gone was the casual jogger who'd started this game to lose weight and get the old body back to some sort of shape. Things had gotten serious. A runner had been born, one that couldn't bear to lose, and from then onwards it was God help any contemporary who lined up beside him in races whether on the Track, Trails, Road or Fells  I called him Runningfox.

PS. If anyone has memories of the 1987 Pennine Marathon, please feel free to share them. It was a cracker!