Phew....

A bit hot on Tuesday....I'd to take my vest off!

     I was rather surprised to read the other day about a fellow blogger, in his late 70's, who'd been out running in a temperature of around 95ºF. I was struggling a bit last week when my Garmin recorded 75ºF on a couple of occasions while I was plodding round the hills. On the first of those runs, on Tuesday, I aborted a planned six miles and toiled back home in the mid-day sun, dripping wet, after only three. In the short space of time I'd  been out, I must have shipped an awful lot of fluid, in the form of sweat, because since breakfast-time that day I'd managed to lose a good 2 lbs. Mind you, many moons ago when running up to 22 miles on mountainous marathon training runs it wasn't unusual to shed up to 6 lbs - and I well recall the look of disgust on my wonderful partner's face at the pool of water on the flags when I wrung out my sweat band!

      

      Although I find it terribly difficult to motivate myself to get out and run before the sun has warmed the

My happy stomping ground....Castle Hill

flags, on Thursday and Friday I felt rather chuffed to be out running before 10am - and right good it felt. On both days the 350ft climb onto Castle Hill felt an absolute doddle and during the descent on Friday my Garmin recorded one of the fastest miles for quite some weeks. It wasn't quite like the 5½ min/miles I used to run in my prime (in fact, it was nowhere near) but quick enough to get me thinking about resurrecting an old 1-1-1 training run again. I came across it some years ago in Joe Henderson's book, Better Runs, and it became a training method I used regularly in racing days. The idea is to run one mile one day a week at one minute faster than normal training pace. Or better still, one minute faster than 10K race pace - but it's 12 months since I last ran a 10K so haven't a clue what that pace might be!

       

Jogging home up Edge Lane after the 'magic mile'....

   So Saturday was 1-1-1 day and I shamelessly persuaded my wonderful partner to accompany me for some moral support. Unfortunately, for various reasons, it was late morning before we set off up the ghyll and the temperature was already climbing well into the 70's. In little over a mile the sun felt hot on my neck, the back of my vest was soaking wet and there was some slight chafing round my arm pits - in spite of applied Vaseline. My Garmin was on auto lap to record each mile, so I jogged around a little until 3 miles came up, then accelerated over the next mile. My wonderful partner had set off to do her own thing down Moor Lane while I was 'faffing around' waiting for my watch and was already well on her way. Initially the track is rocky for a couple hundred metres before smoother and more runnable tarmac is conducive to a faster pace - all the way to the junction with Edge Lane where I was frantically waiting for my watch to trip to 4 miles so I could slow down and get my breath back!  After what seemed an eternity, it did, and I was pleasantly surprised at the figures that shone from its tiny face. 7.46 is what it said. I was happy with that and jogged home wondering whether it's time to start racing again?.

      

      I suffered the next day, feeling distinctly wobbly struggling up steps into Chapel. "It serves you right for

Stone Man and Mossdale track - where Hallelujah, it rained.....

going out running in all that sun yesterday" said the door steward who'd passed us in her car as we were setting off on our run the previous day. To make matters worse, I was reading the lesson, doing my best to stand still and concentrate while my ears were trying to pop and I felt badly in need of something to hold on to. I wasn't drunk, honest!  I wobbled back home, had two cups of strong coffee, changed into running gear and set off for my longest run of the week, an eight miler over Bycliffe Hill with 900ft of ascent. It was sunny to begin with but as I ran up the ghyll clouds were gathering and I began to feel a wonderful coldness on my skin I hadn't felt for many a week. As I climbed onto the open moor the wind increased. Then it began to rain and the feeling bordered on ecstasy as the cooling drops dotted my bare shoulders, my face, my arms and my legs. It was one of those Hallelujah moments when God's in His heaven and all's right with the world.......and a fitting conclusion to another glorious week.   

More to life than running....

Relaxing at sunset.....

      Here in God's own county it's been another glorious week of sunshine, with some cloudless skies, warm winds and temperatures flickering towards the mid 70's. Needless to say, I've been revelling in it, running topless through lush countryside, lying among flowers in the garden with bees and butterflies for company, or sitting in my sunny corner with a chalice of choice wine and a few squares of dark chocolate to catch the last of the evening rays. What more could a man wish for in his dotage? Summer is easily my favourite time of year, the hotter, the better, when shorts and sandals become the order of the day, enjoying the luxury of ultra violet on as much skin as I dare to expose - and ah, vanity of vanities, achieving a wonderful summer tan.

      Running-wise it slows me down a bit, but I don't

One of the magical places we run...

mind that. I've no races planned at the moment, not even a Park Run, so in no serious training. Occasionally I'll do a few hill reps or put in half a dozen faster bursts just because I happen to feel like it, but in the summer heat I'm quite content to jog along at a manageable pace, enjoying the beautiful surroundings and stopping frequently to point my camera at various things that catch my eye. Running is no longer the be all and end all of my existence, though one might think so when I'm ill or injured, but an integral part of the complete outdoor picture. I don't get like this any more. It's a means to an end rather than an end in itself. It gets me out into fields and woods, hills and dales, moors and mountains, remote islands, coast paths and sea shores where I can wallow in all the magic such places hold, where I become a part of it all and experience that warm sense of belonging that draws me back to the same places time after time after time.

Barden Bridge - haunt of kingfishers....

     Clever people may already have deduced, from that lengthy preamble, I didn't do very much in the way of running last week. The previous week's 21 miles got chopped down to just 17, although one of my runs was a respectable 11 miles which is the farthest I've attempted since goodness knows when. For various reasons, taking photographs, chatting to people along the way - not to mention running out of energy in the last half mile - it took rather a long time. So long, in fact, that my wonderful partner got it into her head I must have done myself a mischief somewhere along the way and came looking for me. I'd chosen a fairly flat, easy route (though it didn't stop me falling and breaking a rib on an earlier occasion) from Hebden, following the River Wharfe as far as Barden Bridge, then back again. The temperature was up in the 70's and I daresay there were more people in the river - swimming, kayaking, paddling, tombstoning or floating around in dinghies - than actually walking on the bank.

      As I jogged along in soaking vest and dripping headband I'll admit to being more than a little envious of

Suspension bridge - that puts the fear of God into some people

those cooling off in the water. I stopped briefly for a chat with a wildlife photographer who was hoping to get a shot of kingfishers that nest at Barden Bridge but, so far, they hadn't put in an appearance. I wished him luck and jogged back along a very flat and pleasant flower-lined path to Howgill, still 4 miles from home and into the heat of the day. From Howgill the track undulates a little towards Burnsall, not much, but enough to make it harder to run in the heat. I was glad of a short rest at the narrow suspension bridge where some rather overweight walkers looked frightened out of their minds as they gingerly puffed their way across, clinging onto the wire cables for dear life. In spite of the rest I still had to walk parts of the steep hill back into the village where I was intercepted by my wonderful partner who had words with me for having taken so long.  I took the door key and ran - probably a fair bit faster than I'd run all week!  

Getting talked about.....

Throw 'em away?  They've only done 600 miles

      After all the excitement of Le Tour last week, nothing very newsworthy seems to have happened in the seven days since. Well, not in my neck of the woods, so I'm struggling to find any remotely interesting titbits to update my blog with. I've been running, of course, though I was almost barred from doing so when my wonderful partner discovered the state of the New Balance MT 101's I've been happily wearing for the past 600 miles or so, and was about to wear again.  I've mentioned previously they're my all time favourite shoe which NB discontinued some time ago but, by public demand, are re-instating again early next year. I've been trying to make an old pair last until the advent of the new ones but was instructed to throw them in the bin before I did myself a mischief. It's hard to say goodbye to old friends but thought it prudent to do as I was told. After all, there wasn't much tread left on them and holes at the side were almost big enough for my foot to slip out of!

Back in my garden, a bee feeding on the astrantia....

      So, for last week's three runs, amounting to 21 miles, I ran in a half abandoned pair of Inov-8 Roclites that felt a bit clumpy after the more minimal 101's. To add to that minor discomfort, it was hot too, in the mid 70's, resulting in vest and headband becoming totally saturated with good old fashioned sweat (I've heard of people consulting their doctor about such things). On Saturday's five mile run I removed the soaking vest and tucked it into the belt of my bumbag for the last couple of miles back into the village. It later transpired my bare-chested figure had become a topic of conversation at a locally held garden party later that afternoon. I hope their comments were favourable ones!

      Sunday was another hot day. Or is it that in my dotage I'm less able to cope with rising temperatures?  I'd to remove my jacket in Church amidst much mopping of the brow which sadly affected concentration on

Wild thyme - brightening my day as I ran up Hebden Ghyll....

an excellent sermon by our newly ordained minister - Rev Heather Houlton. Yet some of her words - about freedom of the Spirit to undertake tasks God created us to do - stuck in my mind as I jogged up Hebden Ghyll on a ten mile circuit to Mossdale an hour later.  It was stifling for the first confined couple of miles but a welcome breeze cooled my body as I plodded over open moorland to the 1,500ft contour near the half way point. From thereon I was able to unleash quite a fast pace over the next three miles, down into Mossdale, over Kelber, past Bare House and along the rocky lane to Yarnbury where the old legs eventually ran out of steam as the temperature rose again.  Embarrassingly, I'd to walk a few short sections over the last mile or so but managed a late burst of speed back through the village, as far as our back door, in case anyone happened to be looking. When clad in shorts and vest I feel self-conscious about being seen walking!

Marathon trophies - seven category wins from eight races...

      So that's about it, except for nothing more than reasons of vanity I'll post a picture that goes back to earlier marathon years, recording achievements for which I'm feeling justifiably proud. In all I ran eight marathons, the first of which when I was 55 years old, and was first in my age category in seven of the eight, a record many runners would be proud of. The eighth, when I finished third, was a bit 'iffy' but I wont go into that. Marathons were my forte and I sometimes regret not having found out sooner. After finishing the first, the 'Pennine' with its 2,000ft of ascent in a comfortable 3:30:04, I felt sure a sub 3 hour marathon was possible on a flatter course. And so it proved to be, though it was six years later when I'd moved into my sixties. After a second London win, in 2:53:04, I decided to rest on my laurels and call it a day for there was little likelihood of ever beating that time. Besides, I was disgusted with the meaningless London medals, received many weeks after the event, neither of which were engraved to record category wins, or with anything at all to indicate what they were for. And that was it. I'm afraid London left a bad taste in my mouth that still lingers after almost twenty years. On the other hand, The Pennine marathon with its rolling hills, friendly people and great prizes was the catalyst that launched a running mindset from which I've never recovered. And I hope I never do....

Le Tour de Yorkshire....

Yellow bikes were all over the place....

    Last weekend was rather special insomuch as our beautiful Yorkshire countryside was beamed around the world on the occasion of Le Grand Depart of the Tour de France. A conservative estimate of 2.5 million spectators lined the route, the cheering was deafening, the atmosphere electric. It brought goose pimples to the 198 cyclists riding the gauntlet of the vociferous  crowds. The reigning Tour de France champion, Chris Froome, said he'd never known anything like it. And neither have I. It was carnival time on a grand scale and I cannot recall any other event in my lifetime that brought so many people out onto the roads, towns and villages of God's own county.
     
      Away from the main razzmatazz, Royalty and Red Arrows I watched it from a quieter spot 50km into the race, at Threshfield in the heart of the Yorkshire Dales

They've gone...

where the enthusiastic crowd was equally noisy as the pre-race caravan came speeding past with horns blaring, lights flashing and occupants of open floats throwing souvenirs and sweets to anyone lucky enough to catch them. I stood among people from London, Cornwall and Edinburgh, hundreds of miles away, but the main viewing points boasted visitors from France, New Zealand, America, Spain, Australia, India - and goodness knows how many other countries. Such is the global popularity of Le Tour. It would be wonderful if the same sense of community and camaraderie experienced in Yorkshire throughout the weekend could be replicated throughout the world - on a permanent basis.
     

The peloton speeding into Threshfield...

       In the tiny village of Threshfield residents had begun taping off strategic viewpoints, arranging chairs, hanging flags and blowing up balloons as early as 6am - though the peloton wasn't due to pass through for another seven hours. People I know had champagne, choice sandwiches and other mouth-watering goodies all lined up in readiness to celebrate the occasion in the best possible style. The irony of it was that the "occasion" (in inverted commas) lasted all of 40 seconds as the peloton sped past in a rush of wind and roar of tyres accompanied by police outriders, back-up vehicles with racks of cycles aloft and the noisy clattering of five helicopters casting their shadows over the proceedings. It had all happened so quickly there was plenty of champagne left for me (thanks Sue) to accompany the dainty salmon sandwiches I'd worked up quite an appetite for since breakfast six hours previously.
     
       After the peloton had passed most people rushed a mile or so down the road

Watching Le Tour on the big screen - during a boring commercial!

to the Yorkshire Dales National Park Centre in Grassington to watch the remainder of the race being televised by ITV4 on a large screen before hundreds of viewers reclining on a grassy bank in warm sunshine (my forehead got sunburnt). It was spoilt by two things. Firstly the number of commercial breaks interrupting our viewing when riders were passing through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. Shame on you, ITV4.  Secondly, the closing stage of the race when Britain's star sprinter, Mark Cavendish, made a tactical error, caught the wheel of Australia's Simon Gerrans and went crashing to the ground 200m from the Finish, damaging his shoulder and effectively eliminating himself from any further stages of the race. It was a sad ending to an otherwise unforgettable day. Taking advantage of Mark's mistake the German, Marcel Kittel of Giant-Shimano team, raced over the line in Harrogate to win the first stage and take the coveted yellow jersey.
     
     

Back to normal - an eight mile run over Grassington Moor....

So that was that, so far as our little corner of Yorkshire was concerned. Le Tour had been and gone and come Sunday everything was pretty much back to normal again. After Saturday's crowds it felt wonderful to be running in the sweet solitude of Grassington Moor with nothing but a soughing wind and plaintive calls of golden plovers to break the silence. In racing days the hills were my stage, the sun my spotlight, and I was the star, determined to outshine my contemporaries. And mostly I did, but sadly, like Le Tour, it all seems to have flashed by in a rush of wind leaving nothing but memories. Ah well, I can still dream.....