A good weekend

FRIDAY.

In a little under three weeks time my wonderful partner is scheduled to lead a group of U3A walkers over some exceedingly rough country along the Wharfedale/Nidderdale border. In order to acquaint herself with some of the more complex parts of this wild route there was a suggestion that we might just 'nip round it' last Friday afternoon. So, a little before 2 o'clock, we parked the car by Grimwith reservoir, stripped down to our running gear and set off at a gentle pace across the dam wall.

Poor Pheasant!

The weather was cool with a slight breeze, making it ideal for running. A welcoming call of wild geese drifted across the water whilst Plovers and Curlews filled adjacent pastures with their Springtime melodies. A crag high above us on the horizon, Great Wolfrey, was our first objective. We left the track and made our way uphill through tussocky terrain, bouldery in parts, squelchy in others. Considering the land around us was all part of a prime shooting estate we saw very little in the way of game birds - other than one unfortunate pheasant that had got it's head caught in an open trap. Had the pheasant not got there before me I might well be nursing a badly bruised foot!

At Great Wolfrey Crag

From Great Wolfrey, known locally as Wuffler, we headed roughly northwards, upstream, to eventually pick up a line of white topped posts which mark the Hebden Parish boundary. It was hard running over flattened reed beds, boulders and mainly dried up peat hags. Soon we reached the fence that marks the Nidderdale boundary where we turned west for around one mile to Henstone Band to pause for a drink and a bite to eat. From here on our route was mainly downhill all the way back to the reservoir though we'd to take care negotiating a couple of boggy sections.

Pause for rest, Henstone band

We crossed Blea Beck, picked up a sheep trod, then a farm track, and were soon re-crossing the dam wall over which we'd set off. My Garmin said 9.47 miles in 2 hours 24 minutes, but it tells lies. We'd actually been running for just over three hours and we both agreed it was easily 11 miles in distance. Trouble was, when we were floundering through some of the really rough stuff, my Garmin had stopped, failing to register anything because we weren't running fast enough. Ho Hmmm!

SATURDAY.

Start of 3 Peaks race

..was the day of my favourite race - The Three Peaks of Yorkshire. This 24 mile circuit starts and finishes at Horton-in-Ribblesdale taking in the summits of Penyghent (2,268ft), Whernside (2,406ft) and Ingleborough (2,373ft) through some of the most beautiful scenery in England. Long before I started racing I walked this route around 30 times, usually to get a measure of fitness into my body prior to some longer mountaineering or hill walking expedition, but it wasn't until 1991, when I was 59 years old, that I actually qualified to take part in this long established classic. Just prior to my first race Clayton-le-Moors Harriers had presented an elaborate Rosebowl trophy to be competed for annually by anyone over the age of sixty. In forthcoming years I went on to win it three times the most memorable of which was achieved only one week after winning the MV60 category in the London Marathon. On Saturday I was only spectating, but the passion and emotion felt by runners, mainly as they came within sight of the finishing line with the crowds clapping them on, inevitably got to me producing a lump in my throat and the odd tear in my eye. I cannot cheer or praise them enough. In truth, every one is a winner.

Anna Lupton, 1st lady.
Photo by 'Ady in Accy'

Conditions this year were perhaps more suited to spectators than runners for it was a little on the warm side. Some took precautions and lathered themselves with sun cream - only to be half blinded when it mingled with sweat running into their eyes. At 10 o'clock exactly shot guns were fired and the earth rumbled with the sound of pounding feet that took ages to cross the 'Start' line. An injured runner next to me, Andy Hauser, who'd previously run every Three Peaks race since 1980, remarked "They must be coming out of a hole in the ground". Soon the multi-coloured vests had disappeared into the hills and were streaming towards Penyghent. We set off in the opposite direction, to the summit of Ingleborough where we'd shout and encourage runners over their third and final peak.

Vicky's knees

There were some spectacular falls but no serious injuries. Victoria Wilkinson, a one time neighbour of ours, badly gashed both her knees and was streaming blood when she passed us, but battled on regardless to finish second lady in 33rd place overall in a time of 3.37.58. First lady was Anna Lupton in the yellow vest of Radcliffe A.C. in a time of 3.30.45. Of the 705 starters 602 made it to the finish line. Forty four of the non finishers were newcomers, perhaps having under estimated the severity of the course.Outright winner was the purple vested Morgan Donnelly of Borrowdale Fell Runners in a splendid 3.02.34.

Morgan Donnelly on Ingleborough

We jogged the 5 miles back to Horton with hundreds of runners streaming behind us and continued to clap them on their way to the 'Finish'. An old running friend of mine, Bill Wade who is well into his sixties completed his 40th running of the race in 5.46.41. One of my MV70 contemporaries, Mike Breslin of the Fell Runners Association, crossed the line in an incredible 4.57.50, one of only three MV70's ever to complete the race. Results here.

Passing through Settle we called at Booth's Supermarket on the way home for a little alcoholic beverage. We decided the blood, sweat and tears of all those wonderful competitors was worthy of a little celebration. Cheers!

Stan

Yesterday, the funeral took place of an old acquaintance of mine, one of my mentors whom I regard as something of a legend, one of those wonderful people you always feel better for having met. He was Stan Bradshaw, a name revered throughout the fell-running world and a highly respected life member of Clayton-le-Moors Harriers. He was 97 years old.

We weren't really close enough to be called friends, but we had many shared interests and experiences in our mountaineering and fell-running lives. I regularly came across him at the annual Three Peaks of Yorkshire race where he once shouted encouragement as I negotiated a swollen stream near God's bridge, where I turned to acknowledge him and slipped in up to my thighs.

In 1993 I recall him running in both the Northern Veterans and British Veterans X-Country Championships - taking the Men's Over 80's title in both.

He features in Bill Smith's much sort after book 'Stud Marks on the Summits' which is full of inspirational characters I tried my best to emulate when I first started fell-running, but failed miserably in the shadow of such legendary giants as Stan.

Rest in Peace Stan, we will treasure your memory.

A favourite run

Mossdale shooting hut

Last Saturday I re-acquainted myself with Mossdale, a wild and remote valley that lies in the shadow of Great Whernside in the Yorkshire Dales. Years ago when venturing around here I'd always inform my partner where I was going, or leave a note on the table describing my route. I'd stuff spare clothes into my bum-bag and, later, I was even persuaded to carry a mobile phone. Nowadays, A lightweight windproof and tiny camera are all I usually take. It feels so friendly and there is no longer a sense of danger.
It is a delectable place where Red Grouse feed and nest among the heather shoots. In the Springtime Curlews come skirling out of the sky in gentle descents to the grassy river banks while Plovers twist and whirl in joyous acrobatic displays. Ring Ouzels rear their young by the shooting hut and Wheatears bob and call from the old stone walls. Sometimes a Peregrine goes hurtling past and once, in September, a pair of Red Kites stopped me in my tracks as they rode a thermal high above in the boundless blue. But it is a place of tragedy too. Where the Mossdale beck disappears under the Scar a plaque is fixed to the wall commemorating six cavers who were trapped, drowned and entombed by a flash flood 43 years ago. There is also a memorial cairn high up on the moor above their exact resting place. I know it's illogical, but I always give them a wave as I run past. You can read more of the tragedy in this more recent newspaper report.
My route, measuring 10 miles with 1,144ft ascent, was the farthest I'd run since racing a half marathon in Spain last November. The pain caused by a whiplash injury acquired in a road accident in early 2009 had become progressively worse, cramping my style, and was much aggravated by running. Pain-killers, anti-inflammatories and short, slow runs became the order of the day. I'm not sure whether the pain is subsiding slightly, or whether I'm just getting used to it, but I can now run further without too much hassle. All I've got to do is re-train my old legs and cardio-vascular system to let them know I haven't quite finished with them yet. Who knows, there might even be more races to come!

A Happy Easter

EASTER SATURDAY was a 'go it alone day' when I set off for a gentle run round Grassington Moor, desperate to get my old legs working again and, hopefully, back into racing mode within the next few months. The problem with this run is that the first three miles are all steeply uphill, so I was huffing and puffing from the start. I stopped to investigate the frog pond up the long wall, not that I was interested in overrated froggy activities but more because I needed the rest.
Half a mile further along, I took the track that cuts across to Hebden Ghyll, where the crow trap used to be, and where I discovered an old unfenced mine shaft I thought might interest one of my speleological friends. Naturally, I stopped, rummaged in my bum-bag, took out the camera and assessed the best setting for a photograph, then switched on the GPS for a Grid Reference before fishing out my notebook and pen to record it. All of this took time, the more, the better, because my old bones jolly well needed REST.
After ten minutes or so I jogged merrily on, eyes peeled for some of the many snares set by our over-zealous gamekeeper. I climbed the wall into the ghyll, increasing my pace down the wonderful springy turf into Ring Ouzel country where I stopped, looked, and listened - and of course RESTED which was the main thing! But as yet, the Ouzels have not yet returned to their customary nesting sites.
From hereon it was all downhill. I'd had the whole moor to myself. The Curlews, Plovers and Skylarks had sung their wondrous songs for me alone. I was trotting happily back down the ghyll when a smiling girl came gliding towards me, moving easily at a good pace, her dark hair bouncing in the breeze, and full of that infectious vitality that made me intensely aware that SPRING is here.

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.

EASTER SUNDAY was the day we intended to park the car at Starbotton, run over Buckden Pike, down into Buckden, steeply up onto Old Cote Moor, along its boggy top, then back down into Starbotton. But it didn't quite work out like that.
In spite of a coolish breeze it was otherwise a beautiful day but we were struggling from the start. Initially the track was steep and stony, then gave way to parts that had been mashed into a muddy morass by the passage of modern day giant tractors with their wide chevron tyres. There is a Fox staring from a memorial on Buckden Pike to commemorate one of it's kind that reputedly saved the life of a Polish airman whose plane crashed in a snowstorm during the 2nd world war. Nothing to do with Old Runningfox, you understand! The summit of Buckden Pike was a veritable swamp churned by the boots of a million walkers - and runners - but, joy of joys, a Skylark was pouring out his heart over the cairn.
We trod gingerly past a bank of snow down the man-made steps, then squelched down the Pike's flooded flanks to the more hospitable path that led us gently down to Buckden. After jogging/running/walking through such a hostile environment we were both totally knackered! As we sat on a stone in the car park for a quick bite to eat and a swig of juice we unanimously agreed that High Cote Moor would have to wait until another day, or perhaps another year! So, ignoring the track that climbed into the clouds, we jogged along the more gentle path that meandered beside the River Wharfe, along the Dales Way, back to the welcome sight of our car, and blessed rest, at Starbotton. According to my Garmin we'd run 7.61 miles with 2,102 ft ascent in a time I'm too embarrassed to record. Back in 2004 I think (and no doubt someone will correct me if I'm wrong) I set an MV70 course record when I ran up and down Buckden Pike in 53.02 on my way to winning the inaugural English MV70 Fell Running Championship for that year. How the mighty are fallen!

EASTER MONDAY was the feeding of the five thousand, give or take a few, in the Village Institute. Every year on this day villagers rally round to donate soup, sandwiches, cakes, buns, pies, tea, coffee, etc.. to feed hungry tourists and visitors to raise funds in support of our local Chapel. Folk arrive from far and wide on what has become, for many, an annual pilgrimage, the same faces, year after year, chattering away and queueing for tables at this Dales Mecca. And their generosity is overwhelming. I'm told that catering alone this Easter Monday raised £800 whilst another £600 was given in donations.
But the sad thing is that in a village surrounded by so much beauty so few people venture through our Chapel doors to express their praise or gratitude for God's wonderful and boundless creation. We have so much to be thankful for, so many blessings to count, but in this modern age people take it all for granted. Spiritual values have become lost in cyber space. On many Sundays a minister who has spent hours preparing his/her sermon, and having arrived from many miles away, will find themselves preaching to a congregation of just six people - most of whom are sat at the back! It's very embarrassing having to regularly apologize to preachers about low attendances.
We left the packed village with its scores of cars parked at jaunty angles and drove to the more secluded area of Grimwith for a 4 mile run round the reservoir. It was cloudy and there was a chill wind driving white horses across the water. It urged us to run faster to generate heat and warmth. The usual masses of Mallard, Teal and Canada Geese were conspicuous by their absense. The only birdsong, if we could call it that, came from a noisy flock of Oystercatchers that crossed our path along the dam wall. Kestrels have long since deserted their nest site in the old thatched cottage and in a section of land at the bottom of Blea Gill, where Partridge and Pheasant are bred in their thousands, there was no sign of life. Perhaps many were sat on eggs, deeply hidden in cover. Or perhaps they were sheltering from the fierce wind that rattled the trees. But the place seemed utterly deserted, strangely reminiscent of Rachel Carson's 'Silent Spring'.
We enjoyed our run, finishing happy and refreshed, unlike after yesterday's battle with the underfoot miseries.

TUESDAY was another 'go it alone' day, running up the ghyll whilst my wonderful partner was in Linton auditioning for another part in the great play that is called 'Life'.
Again, it was one of those stop/start days when, ostensibly, I was looking for Ring Ouzels, but with plenty opportunities to stand and stare and listen, breaking up the running into enjoyable little stints. Normally, the Ouzels are here before the end of March, and I've done my duty by reporting their arrival to the BTO. Not this year. Another gentleman was lurking around their potential breeding grounds too, equipped with both camera and sound recording equipment. He too was disappointed, having heard of their arrival in Britain some time ago and certain they should have been in the Dale by early April. Perhaps they've reverted to Dales timing! Whatever, they're grossly overdue.
I ran farther up the ghyll, serenaded by resident upland birds, climbed up onto the moor (where I noted Great Whernside still had patches of snow lingering on its flanks), then turned and ran gently back home where I silently proclaimed to no-one other than myself that Easter was officially over. Funnily enough, I'd intended finalising matters in the evening with a couple of pints of Timothy Taylor's excellent beer in the Clarendon, but finished up too tired to celebrate!

Voices of Spring

Because of dire predictions of forthcoming inclement weather - heavy rain, sleet and snow - I ran up the ghyll early this morning before the gentle precipitation turned far heavier. It was a delectable run when all the local bird population was of the same mind as me, to enjoy to the full what was apparently the best part of the day. By 8.30am the air was vibrant with their full blooded music.
Near the early flowering primroses a Blackbird was playing his boxwood flute in a garden by the bridge, a master musician. From its hidden shelter by the streamside a Mallard was quacking ever so softly as if talking in its sleep. A flashing white rump landed on a wall close by and materialized into a handsome Wheatear, one of the first of many summer visitors to grace our upland pastures. Loudest of all were the Curlews whose haunting call notes almost drowned those of the many acrobatic Lapwings and soaring Skylarks. Such a heavenly choir.
On the higher moor towards Yarnbury Grouse were calling their usual "Go back, Go back" but soon beat a hasty retreat when they realised I wasn't going to. Snipe were chipping away in a clump of smashed up reeds by the wall where I turned to take the middle path through sodden fields back towards the village. A pair of Partridge leap-frogged over the wall while Pheasant, poaching seeds around the farm buildings, briefly sported their gaudily painted plumage before clattering away to cover.
I jogged contentedly back down the ghyll with its primrose banks and chattering beck, past fields of new-born lambs, into the gathering gloom that was slowly enveloping the village. I'd 'run the gauntlet of eternity' and been a living part of all the sounds and movement and rhythms of the on-rushing Spring. Vixi, for one hour I had lived - abundantly.

Spring has sprung

I'm not sure what the official temperature was yesterday. All I know is that for the first time this year I reckoned it was warm enough to run in shorts, and I did. After a poorly attended, yet inspiring service in our local Chapel, I decided to further top up my spiritual batteries with a little jog round Grassington Moor.
Around Hebden lambing time officially begins on the first day of Spring - March 21st - but I reckon one or two crafty tups must obviously have thought this is perhaps a bit late. Some of their ewes have already produced fluffy bundles a little before that specified date!
The pond at the bottom of Yarnbury zig-zags was heaving with frogs on their annual migration to their mating area. Two days earlier scores of the little green jumping creatures were trying to fit into a wee splash of water barely a foot in circumference but overnight rain had turned it into a swamp. The frogs ecstatically croaked their approval! Farther up the ghyll is another pond with an even larger population that entirely covered the surface, all croaking away happily as they went about their courtship rituals. Until I stuck my head over the wall. They promptly submerged, as if feeling a bit embarrassed about being caught in the act!
Heather burning had recently taken place and the acrid smell still lingered in the warm air. Grouse called "go-back, go-back, go-back". Cheeky blighters! I took no notice and ran on, my legs feeling stronger than they had for some months.
Approaching Gill House the air pulsed with the sound of Lapwings as they tumbled and wheeled and dived over their potential nesting sites. Curlews were calling too, that welcome harbinger of Spring whose beautiful bubbling notes cascade from the air like liquid music, what Ted Hughes referred to as 'A wobbling water-call, A wet-footed god of the horizons'. Wish I could write like that!
After about 700' of climbing I reached the high point. Turning for home there was a new spring in my step, an urge to run faster, something I haven't felt all winter. Sweeping downhill towards Hebden I felt to be almost floating. There's no doubt about it. Spring has most definitely sprung - and that's official!

P.S. A week after writing this I discovered that in my absence, whilst I'd been galivanting round the Dales, Longwood Harriers A.C. had presented me with the Bob Mathieson memorial trophy for the best performance by a veteran athlete throughout 2009. It was in recognition of my performances in the following races:

Meltham 10K road: 1st MV75
Grizedale 10 mile trail: 1st MV70
Wharfedale ½ marathon trail: 1st MV70
Burn Valley ½ marathon road: 1st MV70
Harrogate 10K road: 1st MV70 (48.04 gave me 2nd place in the 2009 British MV75 10K Rankings)
Lowther 13 mile fell run: 1st MV70
Burnsall 10 mile road: 1st local (1.21.36 gave me 1st place in the 2009 British MV75 10 mile Rankings)
Richmond 10K road: 1st MV70
Benidorm ½ marathon: Unofficially 1st MV75 (1.49.52 gave me 3rd place in the 2009 British MV75 ½ marathon Rankings)

THE BOB MATHIESON TROPHY

A good weekend in the Lake District

SATURDAY.
It was freezing cold when we arrived at Ullswater on Friday afternoon but we awoke to a warmer and more habitable environment on Saturday morning. After a hasty breakfast we drove to Pooley Bridge and parked by the Information Centre in the Square where we stripped down to our running gear for the start of one of our regular routes.
Ignoring red traffic lights we ran across the bridge and turned north along a path through the wood bordering the River Eamont. Beyond, in the fields around the man-made pond, it was a bit squidgy underfoot, but nothing Mudclaws and Sealskinz couldn't cope with. Startled Mallard sought sanctuary farther into the river and wild geese bugled across the benign sky. The Iona Community regard the wild goose as a symbol of the Holy Spirit and, strangely, I always feel uplifted by the sight and sound of these wandering birds.
We crossed the A592 Penrith road and took the grassy track over Flusco Hill towards Dalemain, a large and imposing red sandstone house recently featured on Radio 4's food programme promoting marmalade. They called it 'bottled sunshine'. In the lambing fields we've seen hares that had come to share mangolds put out to sustain pregnant ewes. In March the Dalemain gardens are smothered with shiny white Snowdrops and yellow Aconites, a brilliant sight to behold. A strutting grey cockerel was rounding up his wide-eyed hens, full of the joys of Spring. A field of Fallow Deer have become quite tame over the years and will readily pose for camera shots. This year they look drabber and less colourful than previously. Red squirrels regularly feed around a large tree in the courtyard but were missing on this occasion.
As we ran along the track towards Dacre a buzzard mewed in the distance. The old castle stood in bold relief, lit with warm sunshine, when we approached, but as I fumbled for the camera in my bumbag a car drove up and parked immediately in front of it. Typical! The driver did apologize when I mentioned it but we were running and couldn't hang around while he decided to move the offending object.
Dacre's roadside banks were smothered with snowdrops, nodding in the gentle breeze. We turned south, crossed the bridge over Dacre Beck and set off up the long hill towards Souland Gate. Bantam cocks crowed lustily from a garden near the summit where we turned right towards Soulby before taking a footpath through the fields for the final kilometre back to Pooley bridge. We re-crossed the A592, jogged steeply upwards into Dunmallard Wood before sweeping joyously downhill to finish our run in the Square. A very pleasant 5 miles in balmy Lakeland weather that effectively answers the question - "Why do I run?"

SUNDAY.
We parked by the old Church at Martindale, with its ancient yew tree, and set off behind Winter Crag farm to climb Beda Fell. But first we'd to rescue a sheep that had tried to jump a wall but got its horns fast in the wire netting at the top and was just hanging there helpless. It's friends must have assumed I was a shepherd and that the green KIMM sack I was carrying was full of nourishing nuts. They followed us in a long line up the fell bleating appealingly. As we crested the ridge we were struck by a fierce wind that almost bowled us off our feet. The sheep very sensibly turned back!
We struggled onwards and upwards, hoods up protecting our faces, occasionally blown off the path by an extra strong gust. Two watery eyed fell runners passed us, hardly able to maintain momentum against the viscious blast - and they were going DOWN hill! At least, we were being blown mainly upwards. A parcel of hinds, maybe a dozen or so, grazing a sheltered part of the hillside below us hardly raised their heads as we passed them by.
Mercifully, as we approached Angle Tarn down the lee side of Beda Fell Knot, we were sheltered from the wind and life became more pleasant. For the only time we can remember Angle Tarn was completely frozen over and made a wonderful foreground to the snow-capped mountain tops beyond. A pair of ravens cronked across the grey sky, the only signs of life in an otherwise deserted landscape.
We took the stalker's path below Heck Crag and descended into Bannerdale. Badgers had excavated a tidy hole under the long wall leading to Dale Head, but the wall remained perfectly intact. Now, if I tried that, I've no doubt the stones would collapsed on top of me and this Blog would come to an abrupt end.
As we strolled back down the road towards Winter Crag, where our car was parked, groups of walkers were setting off up the hill totally unaware of the horrors that would be unleashed upon them when they reached the top. Our day was finished and half an hour later were back at Ravencragg enjoying the first of many refreshing cups of reviving tea.

MONDAY.
Before returning home we couldn't resist one of our favourite runs we always do when visiting this particular location. It starts along the road between Pooley Bridge and Howtown before turning up the track to Swarthbeck farm and following the path beneath Swarth Fell and Bonscale Pike to Mellguards at the back of Howtown. We crossed the bridge over Fusedale Beck and ran the path leading gently upwards, parallel to the zig-zag road, that brings us to the Church of St Peter at Martindale. We took photographs of the churchyard heavily dotted with snowdrops.
There was no way I could run all the way up Hallin Fell, as I have in the past, but was tempted upwards by the thought of the wonderful flowing run back down. So off we went, arriving at the obelisk to be greeted by the same terrible wind that struck us yesterday on Beda Fell. We didn't linger, running easily back down the fell's leeward side, to the ferry landing stage at Howtown where we hit the road. From thence it was an easy jog back to Ravencragg - and sustenance.
All in all, a very pleasant weekend without one drop of rain.

Lounging around La Palma

During the last two weeks of February, while Britain shivered under yet more snow, my wonderful partner and I were savouring the heady delights of the colourful island of La Palma. We like a bit of excitement but getting there was not without incident and, at times, a little frightening. A violent blast of wind as we descended to land knocked the Boeing 737 a bit off course so we were no longer pointing down at the runway but at the foot of a ruddy great mountain. With all the breakfast paraphernalia crashing around in the galley behind us we managed to ascend and clear the tops before setting a course for Tenerife south. Seven hours later we were herded onto Fred Olsen's capacious boat for a 3½ sail to La Palma. - via La Gomera. We arrived at the tail end of some strange carnival where thousands of lads and lassies, all clad in white clothes with matching white hats, were singing and kicking up a heck of a noise while sprinkling everyone in sight with talcum powder!

It was well after midnight when we reached Las Olas Aparthotel at Los Cancajos where, instead of devoting all her time to us weary wanderers, the receptionist in charge was 'helping police with their enquiries'. A man was lying on the floor amidst splashes of runny red stuff that looked suspiciously like blood while emitting some rather painful noises and being comforted by a woman. Word went round he'd been stabbed. Being true Brits with stiff upper lips and all that, the incident left us totally unmoved. We stood in a quiet, orderly queue contemplating our surroundings, the all-glass doors, polished marble floor, plush leather seating, ornate chandelier, smugly patting ourselves on the back for having chosen such a wonderful place to stay. Soon, the moaning man was stretchered away, the receptionist returned to her duties and life went on, albeit a bit behind schedule!

Things got even more exciting two nights later when some monsoon weather lurking in the Atlantic decided it would be a good idea to pay us a visit. Maybe it was just paying homage to my Rain Goddess partner but the hotel staff were totally unprepared for it. All night long it roared and raged, blowing fuses at the electricity sub station, picking up pool side furniture and smashing it to pieces, tearing tiles from rooftops and scattering them on the road, smashing hotel doors into smithereens of glittering glass, lifting man-hole covers, tearing branches from trees and flooding the stairway down to the bar and restaurant areas. But of course, being true Brits, we picked our way through the wreckage next morning to enjoy a hearty breakfast as though nothing untoward had happened. After all, we were on holiday and we were jolly well going to enjoy ourselvers!

And enjoy ourselves we jolly well did. La Palma easily outshines the three other Canary islands we've visited - Gran Canaria, Lanzarote and Fuerteventura. It's green and lush with banana plantations encroaching into towns and villages. Lime, laurel, myrrtle and giant ferns form a huge rain forest area at the north end of the island. There are no straight roads. There are no signs proclaiming 'Full English All-day Breakfasts'. Very little English is spoken in bars, shops or on public transport, so a smattering of Spanish can be helpful. If there's any night-life on La Palma we never experienced it, so those who want all night rave-ups must go elsewhere.

Everything is so colourful and the quality of lighting enhances it all. None of your monotonous dull houses, but bright pastel shades bordering streets and dotting the verdant hill sides. All are enveloped in a mass of palm trees, blazing flowers, cacti and tropical shrubs. Lizards are everywhere; there must be millions of them on La Palma. A gentleman by the pool rested his coffee on the wall only to find a lizard in his saucer when he turned to it. They like coffee.

We walked some of the many trails drinking in the incredible views from lofty viewpoints and marvelling at some amazing engineering feats. They have this wonderful ability to bore a ruddy great long hole through a mountain, lay a bit of tarmac and drive buses through it! A 353m long bridge spanning a deep gorge at Los Sauces is one of the most mind-boggling structures I've ever seen. Old Isambard would have been proud of it.

Being a Runningfox, with a running partner, we pretty soon worked out a suitable route to run off the excesses of our exceedingly high calory diet. I'm afraid our pre-planned exercise programme went by the board though it's possible our regular splashes up and down the swimming pool partially compensated for this.

In spite of the weird welcomings at the beginning of our holiday we can't wait to get back. But next time we'll be more prepared, taking a more detailed map and suitable guide book to walk or run some of the hundreds of kilometres of marked trails we failed to find or appreciate on this, our initial visit.

WILDRUNNERS

There are days
On paths that zig-zag
High into the hills
We pass beyond the pain,
Catch that tingling in the scalp
That tells us soon
We'll treadmill out of time,
Out of self.


To rufflings of raven's wings
We'll rise above the stones,
Sail in the eye of the wind
To worlds beyond the womb.
In that transmigratory state
That's neither flesh nor blood,
Male or female, warm or cold,
We'll run, like disembodied joys,
The gauntlet of eternity.

Running for Fun

At 77 years old there are increasingly more times when I want to forget I'm a racing animal. When, for a few days at least, I can disregard the fact each run should have a specific purpose with a mix of tempos, intervals, hill reps, etc., and simply run for the sheer joy of it. I was able to do just that over the New Year period in the delightful surroundings of Balcary Bay on the Scottish side of the Solway Firth.
Unlike in the Cairngorms, where friends of mine were wallowing in deep drifts, there was very little snow in the south west but a severe frost had turned the landscape iron hard. Grasses and plants were a uniform rime grey, brittle and crunchy. Nearby Loch Mackie was a veritable skating rink so its resident swans had abandoned it in favour of sea water shallows.
My morning runs began along a path that started immediately opposite our cottage door. A notice proclaimed 'Dangerous cliffs' so, of course, that's where I ran. In Spring they're adorned with a myriad flowers and resound to cries of nesting sea birds. In winter they're stark and wind blasted and the rutted earth of the zig-zag path teetering along the edge of the cliffs will do its best to trip unwary travellers and toss them into the sea. I galloped on whilst a family of intimidated walkers squeezed through the fence to the safety of an adjacent field, well away from vertical drops and crashing waves below.
As is well known, fell runners delight in such an environment, with its slight tinge of danger, especially when the early morning sun is gilding the eastern horizon and huge skeins of geese are filling the sharp air with wild bugling en route to their feeding grounds. Curlews were calling too, a coastal bird in winter but one that heralds the arrival of Spring when we welcome it to our Dales pastures in early March. Gorse was beginning to flower and among it in a sheltered hollow was a soft murmuring of Skylarks, not a full blown soaring song but a softer jerky rendering, probably moaning to each other about how cold it was!
Twelve shaggy coated horses galloped off and formed a staring group some distance away on the first occasion I trotted through their field. On the second day they came and nuzzled me as I tried to photograph them. I was amazed how rapidly I'd changed from being a threat to an object with entertainment value! On another day two wee terriers were having the time of their lives chasing sticks, thrown by their master, across the frozen surface of the loch - until they saw me and unanimously decided upon a different game! But I like dogs and, with few exceptions, most of them sense this and soon become waggy tailed friends.
Such was my New Year activity, re-charging my spiritual batteries in such a beautiful landscape while gently running off the festive excesses.

The Poseidon Adventure

We left home with umbrellas up on a dark, cold rainy morning en route for Leeds/Bradford airport for a flight to Alicante. For reasons best known perhaps to inmates of a local asylum we were bound for Benidorm to run in their annual International half marathon. At 9am with visibility down to around 40m we'd visions of our flight being cancelled but by 10.30 it had cleared a little and we took off at 11am, just 15 minutes behind schedule. All was well. Well, almost. Although we'd booked our flights together Jet2 had split us up so we spent the next 2½ hours in silence.
A representative (called Kipper) of 'Running Crazy' met us, as arranged, under the green flashing cross at Alicante airport and fairly soon we were whisked into Benidorm and dumped at the door of the exceedingly plush Poseidon Palace Hotel. Initially we were given a south facing room on the twelfth floor but for the last three nights we were moved to a similar room at the very top adjacent to the honeymoon suite. It afforded spectacular views towards the sea, of hills glowing red at sunrise and a kaleidoscope of multi-coloured lights as night fell. We reckoned it was the best room in Benidorm.
The race took place on the morning after our arrival when I was pretty well at my lowest ebb. In a strange bed I'd not slept very well. After strange food the previous night I woke up with tummy ache and diarrhoea (embarrassingly so). Also, my neck was playing up so I couldn't turn my head in any direction without considerable pain. I'd taken 600mg of Ibuprofen before breakfast but needed more. Four minutes before the start of the race I was still perched in the portaloo.
I charged out and joined the tail end of over 2,000 runners just as the gun went off accompanied by a noisy fireworks display. We all had timing chips so it didn't really matter how long it took to cross the 'Start' line, but I was going to have to do an awful lot of bobbing and weaving to make up time before I could settle into my race pace. I passed hordes of people in the first mile or so before drafting behind a tall fellow who was able to slow me down to a more reasonable pace. After about two miles, when I'd recovered somewhat, I left him in pursuit of a slightly faster runner wearing a buff, pirate fashion, on his head (behind me in the picture) who I managed to hang on to until the last mile or so when he sneaked away. Somehow I managed to smile and raise my arms in triumph as I crossed the 'Finish' line in 1.49.52.
It had been a very hard race but enjoyable (sort of) on an almost dead flat course in ideal racing weather. My only gripe is that veteran prizes only extended to 1st male and female Vet 60's. If a small race like our local Meltham 10K, which attracts around 250 runners, can award prizes in all the 5 year veteran categories, why can't a larger International race of 2,500 runners do the same? My wonderful partner just missed out on an LV60 prize and I was officially 45th MV60. Unofficially, in spite of my terrible time, I was 1st MV75! Results here:

Richmond Castle 10K

We did it again. The intrepid duo of Longwood Super Vets ventured into the rolling hills of Swaledale yesterday and scored another impressive double in the Richmond Castle 10k. The weather was fantastic, the autumn tints at their glorious best and the field, limited to 500 runners, just big enough for camaraderie and comfort. The organisation, marshalling, prize-giving, etc. were all top class. And there was even a beer festival going on in the same hall as registration - for those who indulge in such things!
But quite honestly it was the hilliest 10K I've ever run (well, it was sponsored by the Hilly Clothing Company!). Even sixty years ago I'd have found those hills hard. But the crowd support and encouragement kept us running in places where many might otherwise have walked, particularly the last ¼ mile with 150ft of ascent from the river bridge, up tarmac, then cobbles, then grass to the finish in the grounds of Richmond Castle.
However, in the MV70 category I hung on to beat last year's winner, David Whitmore of South Shields Harriers, by around 2 mins to finish 220th from 461 finishers in a time of 50.43. And to make it an even more memorable day my wonderful partner romped home first lady in the LV60 category with a time of 1.01.59. Another good day for the Longwood Harrier Super Vets.
Needless to say, we'd a suitable celebration in the evening!
Full results here

Gone.......but not forgotten

It's nice to see a church full to capacity with standing room only for late-comers, and that happened in our little village of Hebden last Monday (Oct 5th). But it's a shame it's mainly weddings and funerals that attract so many people. Yesterday's occasion was for the funeral of an old running friend of mine, Peter Wilson, of whom I have many fond memories. It was Peter who first introduced me to all the wonderful wild running routes around Hebden some 18 years ago when I became known as 'the new runner in the village'.

I say 'around Hebden' but in fact we ran far and wide, over Great Whernside, Simon's Seat, over the border into Nidderdale - anything up to 18 miles - for Peter was a long distance specialist. He'd run the Dales Way, 81 miles of rolling countryside from Ilkley to Windermere pacing his good friend Frank Milner and supported by Guy Goodair. He ran the Three Peaks of Yorkshire (24 miles/4,500ft ascent) on several occasions finishing well up in the field. He squelched his way round the 32 miles of the Haworth Hobble. But his most oft-recounted story was of friendly rivalry with another local runner, John Ely, in the classic Borrowdale Fell race, a favourite route over 17 miles and 6,500ft of beautiful Lakeland terrain.
In training, for important races like the London marathon or Three Peaks, I ran hundreds of miles with Peter in all seasons and all weathers. He was a jocular giant whose wry humour and 6' 4" frame made the going so much easier as I trotted behind him through Mossdale monsoons and Barden blizzards. And towards the end of a run, when he thought I was tiring, he'd say "C'mon you bugger" and set off like a bat out of hell, careering down some long slope with me trailing in his wake. "By 'eck, I enjoyed that" he'd say as he mopped copious sweat from his brow.
After his funeral, his burial in the churchyard, and after a delectable funeral tea in a packed Clarendon, I went for a run in his memory. "This one's for you Peter" I silently intoned as I ran up the cutting in Hebden Ghyll. Strangely, for the words were still in my mind, there came a weird response. Lying in the road was a £5 note. It was as if he were saying "And this is for you, have a drink on me". He was with me in spirit for the rest of the run, through Yarnbury and on past Bare House. And as I ran down the wonderful springy turf towards Grassington at full speed ahead I shouted "C'mon you bugger". And I'm sure he did.
Rest in Peace Peter. You were a great guy.

Running high in the Swiss Alps

We're back, after a wonderful two weeks of good weather, good walking and scrambling - and even a day or two of good running. It was 29ºC when we arrived in Geneva but a tad cooler as we rose a couple of thousand feet to our first camp at Grindelwald in the Bernese Oberland. A sign said 'Campsite Full' but it was night-time so we sneaked in anyway and put up the tent in our usual spot in the shadow of the Eiger while everyone slept. Around 2am something smashed into the side of the tent, hitting me, jolting me awake and putting a hole in my forehead. A huge dog fox was silhouetted against the light outside. Was this some special greeting for Old Runningfox? Or a warning to stay out of his territory? During our stay we heard several foxes calling throughout the brilliant starlit nights.
When we arose in the morning quite a few people were in the process of packing up to leave, so we didn't really feel guilty about having sneaked in. We signed the book and planned our itinery. The Eiger Trail was one of the highlights of our five days in Grindelwald. The blurb said 'For well equipped and experienced mountain walkers' and there were plenty of these in evidence leaving the train at Alpiglen, attired in expensive clothing, with bulging rucksacks, boots and trekking poles for the 2,000ft of rocky ascent under the north wall of the Eiger as far as the Eigergletscher. With 140 years between the two of us we didn't know whether to feel chuffed or embarrassed as we tootled past them in our shorts, running vests and trail shoes! After a brief rest by the glacier we trotted down to Kleine Schiedegg, zig-zagging our way through hoardes of spellbound tourists gazing towards the shining triptych of Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau, before jogging gently back to our base in Grindelwald. We showered, had a late lunch and spent the rest of the day basking in glorious sunshine. It might seem strange to some but, old as we are, we prefer such activities to lounging around on beaches!
Of course, we did other things from Grindelwald, like walking the high level route from Schynige Platte (an Alpine botanical garden with around 600 different species) amidst breathtaking panorama, then over the Faulhorn and down past the Bachalpsee to the Gondola station at First. And we plodded our way up to the Baregg hutte, built to replace the old Stieregg hutte which was demolished in a landslide, for a most enjoyable lunch of tagesouppe mit brot. On our way down we passed an elderly grey haired gentleman in a collapsed state who'd had a nasty fall on a rocky part of the trail and badly gashed his head. Other walkers were attending to him, mopping up the blood and trying to stop the bleeding, but we felt quite embarrassed as neither of us had any first aid. With such confidence in our own mountain goat abilities we'd never bothered to carry such things. We do now. That sight taught us a lesson.
Oh, and I seem to recall we did another run before leaving Grindelwald, just a short affair after the rain cleared one day, but around a thousand feet of ascent!
Then we moved to Kandersteg, another favourite haunt of ours with a variety of exciting walks we never tire of repeating. Instead of carrying food we often climb to one of the Swiss Alpine Club huts in the area to enjoy an al fresco meal, or a mug of hot chocolate. Among our favourites are the Doldenhorn Hutte (1915m), the Frundenhorn Hutte (2562m) and the Blumlisalp Hutte (2778m). As we set off to the Doldenhorn hutte we met a man of 87 years old, Dave Williams of Derby, who'd never been there and asked if he might go with us. We'd no idea of his capabilities or whether he could manage over 2,000ft of rough ascent that involved a cable assisted scramble at one point. We reluctantly agreed and the chap was absolutely amazing. OK, he rested a couple of times on seats placed at intended viewpoints, but he hardly got out of breath in spite of a constant stream of chatter relating his life history. Then lo and behold if he didn't try chatting up the charming young girl in charge of the hut, who'd served our meal, and insisted on having his photograph taken with her!
I've no idea how many thousands of feet we climbed during our eight days at Kandersteg. The sky was mainly cloudless and I was jolly glad I remembered to take my sun glasses. Marmots screamed their disapproval as we intruded into their territory, Alpine Choughs formed little black clouds against the intense blue, Steinboks lounged in the sun high above the Oeschinensee, para-gliders sailed back and forth under their multi-coloured canopies, cows, sheep and goats jangled their bells as they munched their way through alpine meadows, deep purple gentians and pale astrantias dotted our various routes whilst a myriad butterflies of yellow, blue and almost black were our constant companions but too frenetic to remain still and be photographed. We were also treated to the spectacle of cows being brought down from the high Alpine meadows and paraded through the main street of Kandersteg clanging their huge bells, their heads decorated with spray of leaves and bright flowers. A girl on the Geneva train told us the Swiss people have a great passion for the mountains and feel compelled to spend time there every year to restore their souls. I know exactly what she means.
We'd an airy sort of day climbing the Jegertosse, a high altitude viewpoint overlooking the Gasterntal with the ice-clad Bahnhorn dominating the view. There is a wooden cross and a steel box containing a visitors book where I logged our names and commented on the wonderful situation. We spent another day locating a high lake called Talaseeli which we'd failed to find on a previous occasion. This time we found it and lunched above it in scorching sunshine. We climbed the twin mountains of First and Stand which treated us to an adrenalin ridge and an exciting bit of scrambling (cable assisted) between the two.
And of course, we ran, a delightful route with around 1500ft of ascent starting from our campsite, dropping down to the Frutigen road, then rising steeply up through the forest to the Oeschinensee, a green lagoon in a bowl of towering rock - a route we ran several times in our build-up to the World Masters Mountain Running Championships in 2007 where my wonderful partner finished first Brit in her category. I haven't quite got over that. I could only finish second in mine!

A good day at Burnsall

<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cjAK0Fc2zq5nW7JimOxZ1yvtKPjOTZ6T_f3PDRqWuMzIPZ8m56lJmMWBE8YSPfjxviDFXX7A1Nen69qqwXlzL3azGCM_ByQ-p5tWeZ9FMmQTJ-YuMcI6sVLlcQ64hJWwjtKSs3UjQKs/s1600-h/Running+Burnsall+10+mile+race+22-08-2009.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 433px; height: 410px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cjAK0Fc2zq5nW7JimOxZ1yvtKPjOTZ6T_f3PDRqWuMzIPZ8m56lJmMWBE8YSPfjxviDFXX7A1Nen69qqwXlzL3azGCM_ByQ-p5tWeZ9FMmQTJ-YuMcI6sVLlcQ64hJWwjtKSs3UjQKs/s200/Running+Burnsall+10+mile+race+22-08-2009.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373597669846163538" border="0" /></a> It was touch and go whether or not to run Burnsall. It's a tough 10 mile race with a strength sapping hill around the eight mile mark, just where you don't want it. The previous weekend I was starting a 7 day course of antibiotics (2,700mg a day and strictly no alcohol) to treat another flare-up of my dreaded Diverticulosis. So, on Monday I went for a ten mile jog around Mossdale to determine whether the old system was in a fit state to race. I decided it was, so filled in a form and, being unable to find his letter box, stuck it through the cat flap of Jim Maxfield's (Entry Secretary) door. I was glad I did. <div style="text-align: justify;">Race day turned out gloriously sunny, perfect for spectators strolling by the river with an ice cream or bottle of beer in their hands, but a little on the warm side for runners. Ian Fisher led the stampede from the village green with the multi-coloured mass trailing behind like the tail of a comet. It's my local race so there was much calling of my name as the people of Hebden shouted encouragement. Approaching Grassington I tagged onto a purple vested girl called Tania from City of Hull A.C. Due to some neurological problem in the past she'd lost the use of both her legs but was now sufficiently recovered to set just the right pace for yours truly. We ran together until we'd climbed out of Thorpe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"There's none for you" sh<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfVHMYSiX0s6tTIFlT4fD0fdI4I_Nn2DlR8KB57J3a49ZVX6bRi9Zlf23LllgtB29ugKLDn4MdqHxCe2T82OIT15UQBBkuCGpoE8QGH2_CpDu6rs7b9I6hI7U3E-fRKds6Nj5udLTv5s/s1600-h/Running+pics+006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfVHMYSiX0s6tTIFlT4fD0fdI4I_Nn2DlR8KB57J3a49ZVX6bRi9Zlf23LllgtB29ugKLDn4MdqHxCe2T82OIT15UQBBkuCGpoE8QGH2_CpDu6rs7b9I6hI7U3E-fRKds6Nj5udLTv5s/s320/Running+pics+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373604264082984594" border="0" /></a>outed Little Ken as I approached the water station, but gave me a cup all the same. And I needed it. Shortly afterwards Sarah King of Skipton A.C. rode past on her bike shouting encouragement. She's a far better runner than me so I called after her "Oi, you ought to be in this race" - to which another voice from the side of the road replied "Save your breath yer daft old b-----r". It was my old friend Eric Smith from Otley A.C. who has a habit of using choice language when he sees me. Perhaps it's something to do with me breaking his Northern Vets MV65 10,000 metre record which he'd proudly held for ten years. I knocked a minute off it! I left Tania at Thorpe, telling her it was now all level or downhill to Burnsall. Her legs were beginning to tire but mine still had sufficient strength to run down an Otley vest I'd focused on some way ahead. I crossed the line in 81.36 - my slowest ever ten mile race but I was quite happy with it considering my poor condition and the fact I'm now the oldest I've ever been! </div><div style="text-align: justify;">For the fifth (or is it sixth) time I was awarded the prize for being the first local to finish the race. Considering the 'local' area stretches from Bolton Abbey to Littondale it seems ludicrous that a 77 year old man is still allowed to lift this trophy in view of the wealth of young talent available. But I'm not complaining. Their loss is my gain. After the race I had the pleasure of meeting <a href="http://theadventuresofrunningbear.blogspot.com/">Runningbear</a> who'd finished 1st lady, in 7th position overall, in an incredible 59mins 58secs. - a time to be really proud of in this de<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2phdLfIDCqaMiq3xtQJuakULAqS12YqAxT08kZ2SLsPqZp2UXxlD8Sn4w7Pf0elXCEn1nJG7eK9P3eVx3nngllRwSzpdVSIov0_VX5Na5Ft4GDd9DjLbRZAfOSFUSblfGERuOVB6RuJI/s1600-h/Sarah+Jarvis+at+Burnsall+10,+2009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2phdLfIDCqaMiq3xtQJuakULAqS12YqAxT08kZ2SLsPqZp2UXxlD8Sn4w7Pf0elXCEn1nJG7eK9P3eVx3nngllRwSzpdVSIov0_VX5Na5Ft4GDd9DjLbRZAfOSFUSblfGERuOVB6RuJI/s200/Sarah+Jarvis+at+Burnsall+10,+2009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373169013453268994" border="0" /></a>manding race. I declined the invitation to warm down with her on the grounds my old legs had done quite enough thankyou! Right, I must start to focus my mind on the Alps. We're flying to Geneva on Thursday and will be camping under the Eiger by nightfall. My Trail shoes are washed and reaIt was touch and go whether or not to run Burnsall. It's a tough 10 mile race with a strength sapping hill around the eight mile mark, just where you don't want it. The previous weekend I was starting a 7 day course of antibiotics (2,700mg a day and strictly no alcohol) to treat another flare-up of my dreaded Diverticulitis. So, on Monday I went for a ten mile jog around Mossdale to determine whether the old system was in a fit state to race. I decided it was, so filled in a form and, being unable to find his letter box, stuck it through the cat flap of Jim Maxfield's (Entry Secretary) door. I was glad I did.

Race day turned out gloriously sunny, perfect for spectators strolling by the river with an ice cream or bottle of beer in their hands, but a little on the warm side for runners. Ian Fisher led the stampede from the village green with the multi-coloured mass trailing behind like the tail of a comet. It's my local race so there was much calling of my name as the people of Hebden shouted encouragement. Approaching Grassington I tagged onto a purple vested girl called Tania from City of Hull A.C. Due to some neurological problem in the past she'd lost the use of both her legs but was now sufficiently recovered to set just the right pace for yours truly. We ran together until we'd climbed out of Thorpe.

"There's none for you" shouted Little Ken as I approached the water station, but gave me a cup all the same. And I needed it. Shortly afterwards Sarah King of Skipton A.C. rode past on her bike shouting encouragement. She's a far better runner than me so I called after her "Oi, you ought to be in this race" - to which another voice from the side of the road replied "Save your breath yer daft old b-----r". It was my old friend Eric Smith from Otley A.C. who has a habit of using choice language when he sees me. Perhaps it's something to do with me breaking his Northern Vets MV65 10,000 metre track record which he'd proudly held for ten years. I knocked a minute off it! I left Tania in Thorpe, telling her it was now all level or downhill to Burnsall. Her legs were beginning to tire but mine still had sufficient strength to run down an Otley vest I'd focused on some way ahead. I crossed the line in 81.36 - my slowest ever ten mile race but I was quite happy with it considering my poor condition and the fact I'm now the oldest I've ever been!

Runningbear in full flight

For the fifth (or is it sixth) time I was awarded the prize for being the first local to finish the race. Considering the 'local' area stretches from Bolton Abbey to Littondale it seems ludicrous that a 77 year old man is still allowed to lift this trophy in view of the wealth of young talent available. But I'm not complaining. Their loss is my gain.

After the race I had the pleasure of meeting the amazing Runningbear (aka Sarah Jarvis of Bingley Harriers) who'd finished 7th overall to create a new lady's course record in an incredible 59mins 58secs. - a time to be really proud of in this demanding race. I declined the invitation to warm down with her on the grounds my old legs had done quite enough thankyou!

Right, I must start to focus my mind on the Alps. We're flying to Geneva on Thursday and will be camping under the Eiger by nightfall. My Trail shoes are washed and ready!
Full results here:

Postscript.. It later transpired my time of 81.36 was the fastest run by an MV75 throughout the whole of 2009 and put me top of the British Rankings.

Lowther, Lowther, and we'll run for our lives.....

Gosh, that was a hard race for geriatrics, but enjoyable in a masochistic sort of way. After a cosy night at Ravencragg on the shores of Ullswater it was but a short drive through Celleron and Askham to the start of the race with its gaunt backdrop of Lowther Castle. Although we'd run this race before my wonderful partner had been worrying about this race for days (and nights) on end, ever since she'd read about them revamping the route to cut out a lot of the tarmac and include some rougher terrain, a river crossing and a 600ft climb to make it more interesting. She's very wary of that word 'interesting'.
In the race pre-amble those with dogs were told to keep them strictly on leads and not to interfere with other runners - to which one of the well trained dogs duly barked its acknowledgement. At 12 noon we were off to a flying start down a bumpy field where I twice turned my ankle before limping out onto the short tarmac strip through the village of Askham. Fortunately, 600mg of Ibuprofen I'd taken beforehand kept the offending appendage numbed for the next six hours. It seemed an awful long way to the first checkpoint on Heughscar Hill, reached in 31.47, punctuated by one of my regular 'splats' where I picked up various handicaps like gravel in the palm of my hand, half a cowpat on my knee and mud in my beard. My partner says I'm hardly fit to be let loose in the hills any more, and I'm beginning to believe her.
It was a wonderful run down to the Cockpit and on to the first drinks station where, for the first time in my life, I washed down one of those sticky gel things. Then it was into the bogs, getting our feet wet as we followed the profusion of red and white tapes through the otherwise trackless terrain towards the cheering people of Butterwick. One of the obstacles my partner was dreading, the wide crossing of the River Lowther, was quite a tame affair really, the water being placid and little more than knee deep. I expected a bit more fight from a Lakeland river!
Back on terra firma I glanced ahead to see tiny figures, way ahead of me, zig-zagging up through the bracken onto the heady heights of Knipe Scar. After 9 miles of hard running a 600ft climb was just what my ancient legs didn't want. But I was inspired by the fact that a chap in a blue vest, who I thought was Peter Taylor of Cumberland Fell Runners, my closest rival, outright winner of the very first Lowther race, and who'd galloped past me somewhere near the Cockpit, was slowly coming back to me. Softly, softly, I reeled him in and managed to put a good chunk of daylight between us before the next checkpoint (reached in 1.32) at the SE end of the Scar. It's a good job I did. In the last mile and a half the dreaded cramps started to set in, first in my Rt groin, then in the left. The purpose of the painkiller I took prior to the race was to hopefully ward off such discomforts. It didn't work!
I forced down a Mini Mars Bar while walking and stretching before easing back into a gentle run. I crossed the Finish line in 2.06.27 to win the MV70 race, five minutes ahead of my rival. My wonderful partner battled round to take the LV60 prize in 2.35.16 and make it a notable double for the Longwood Harrier Super Vets. We were both awarded Cumbria Crystal glassware and useful vouchers. So there was cause for celebration, a gradely meal and a nice bottle of wine when we arrived back at Ravencragg, tired, but very happy. It later transpired, according to Hayfella, that after major redesigning of the route the total ascent is now in the region of 2,300ft as opposed to the 1,500ft published in the FRA Calendar.
PS. Apologies to Leona Lewis for distorting the words of her song, 'Run', in the title of this piece.
PPS: I must try to stop thinking about Leona Lewis!