Burnsall Feast Sports

The Mummers (the one in the brown coat is a local  GP)

The opening of Burnsall Feast Sports this year was much enlivened by the Penny Plain Theatre Company appearing in the guise of a rabble of down and out Victorian actors performing songs, dances, a hilarious Mummer's play and various bawdy sketches interacting with embarrassed members of the audience. The action took place under the shadow of a huge Wicker Man towering over the village green for the very first time at Burnsall Sports.  The flag on the fell top that normally flutters over the proceedings had blown away during the morning's high winds!

The old acknowledging the ancient!

The wind was still gusting a bit as the 10 mile road race got under way at 2.30 but it was sunny too, perfect for racing. Having suffered a hacking cough since the Arncliffe race I'd called at the chemist in Grassington in the morning and asked Sue for the most potent cough medicine available. "I'm racing the Burnsall 10 in a few hours time" I told her, so the magic fluid hadn't much time to do its job!  

With over 950ft of ascent the road race has more feet of ascent than the classic fell race which takes place a couple of hours later. It's uphill from the start but the worst bit hits you at 7¾ miles where it climbs 195ft in just over ½ mile to the village of Thorpe. Surprisingly, my old legs coped very well and I actually managed to gain a couple of places on that Thorpe section. I was 89th of 116 finishers in 87.36 which was a tad faster than I'd expected in view of my race rustiness this year. Bring on the Langdale ½ marathon!

Rob Hope winning the fell race

This years classic fell race over 1½ miles/900ft ascent marked the 100th anniversary of Ernest Dalzell's record breaking run when he completed the course in 12minutes 59.8 seconds. Special T-shirts had been printed to mark the occasion with a blank panel on the back for runners to record their own finishing time.  Nearest to Dalzell's mark, but exactly one minute slower, was Pudsey and Bramley's Rob Hope with seven times winner Ian Holmes (Bingley) in 2nd and Ilkley Harrier Tom Adams in 3rd.  Local lad Ted Mason of Wharfedale Harriers came home to enthusiastic applause in 4th place and had the pleasure of leading home the winning team.

A film crew were there throughout the day and it was rumoured the days proceedings were being filmed for an outdoor programme on Channel 4. At the traditional mass hymn singing a camera and microphone were hovering over my head as I croaked and coughed my way through 'Jesus shall Reign'. Sue's recommended cough mixture was apparently beginning to work. 

An energetic weekend

Last half mile

Saturday. Our weekend began with a low key race at Arncliffe, an olde worlde village in the heart of beautiful Littondale.  It was Gala day.  The village green was lined with stalls, games and competition stuff while the Lofthouse and Middlesmoor silver band filled the air with mellow sounds.

The four mile road race is excellently organised by Mike Critchley who, way back in 1987, was the proud winner of the Pennine marathon, a race at that time rated one of the toughest in the country.  His time was 2.34.07 which is mighty impressive for a course with around 2,000ft of ascent. How do I remember that? Well, on that same blistering hot July day I registered the very first win of my athletics career by lifting the MV55 prize with a time of 3.30.04. It was totally unexpected and, without doubt, it changed the course of my life. Now, still going strong  after 23 years and 33,000 running miles, here I was lining up with 120 other fit looking athletes for my 286th race.

Still smiling!

At 1.30 Roger Ingham, the colourful commentator, shouted 'GO' and we were away, first through a bottle-neck where cars were queueing to get into the car park, then for two miles down the winding road parallel to the River Skirfare to cross Hawkswick Bridge. A sign said 'Drinks, 200 metres' but I totally missed seeing where the welcoming water was.  I carried on with dry throat along the undulating route back up the riverside to Arncliffe where Roger announced me as 'this 98 year old world champion' as I crossed the finish line. If my appearence in any way matched how I felt it's possible many spectators believed the first bit of that remark!

I was 84th of 118 finishers. However, my time of 32.49 was far slower than the 29.30 of three years ago which I believe is an MV75 course record. Must check with Mike about that.  But my MV70 course record (28.32) was broken last Saturday by an unattached runner from Nottingham called George Buckley who scorched round in an amazing 28.25.  Only recently I was discussing the deterioration of Veteran times and performances with someone, then up comes this guy to prove me wrong! Well done George, proud of you.

Mike Critchley & Runningbear

Other noteworthy performances were registered by the incredible Runningbear who easily won the ladies race with a time of 23.40, by my old friend Ken Chapman of Kimberworth who set a new MV65 course record when he crossed the line in 28.59, and not least by my wonderful partner who, much to her surprise, was awarded the LV60 prize (she was even more surprised to discover she's the current LV60 course record holder!).  Prizes in the form of sports vouchers were supplied by Terry Lonergan (called Lonnie Donegan by our comical commentator) of Complete Runner who also ran a creditable race to finish 2nd MV60 in 27.22.  Terry, we will be visiting your Ilkley shop shortly to redeem our vouchers. A lady from Middlesmoor who we'd never met before kindly emailed the first two action pictures featured above. Thankyou Ann. Full results here.

Sunday.  To say I was 'a bit stiff' on Sunday morning would be an understatement. I'd been called upon to read the lesson again at our local chapel and gave the minister a wry smile as he announced the chapter and verse before adding "Here is Gordon springing out of his pew to come and read it for us." He knew very well what I'd been up to the day before!  It was some time after the service before I set out for a six mile run in an attempt to loosen up.

Once I'd got them going the old legs didn't feel too bad as I climbed 600ft in the space of three miles to the old mining hamlet of Yarnbury. From just above Yarnbury I ran a measured mile down Moor Lane, towards Grassington, at slightly less than 100% effort. A glance at my watch told me I'd achieved a time of 6.45 - in spite of being harrassed by a friendly black Labrador intent on having a play.  I was quite happy with this time until I realised the incredible Runningbear had run nearly a minute faster than this for four consecutive miles in yesterday's race. That jolly well put things into perspective. Whether it was because of this, or in spite of it, an evening trip across the road to the Clarendon was called for, ostensibly to put some liquid carbohydrate back into the system, but there may have been other reasons!

Monday.  As forecast, the day dawned sunny and warm, just perfect for a long slow run across the heather moors with my wonderful partner.  We set off with juice and jelly babies to supposedly suss out a new circular route after assuming, quite wrongly as we found out, that our local gamekeeper had extended a track from Grassington Moor over into Mossdale. We put up three decent sized coveys of partridge in Hebden Ghyll and wondered if they'd strayed away from the umpteen thousand pound's worth of birds recently bought into the Grimwith shoot, just over the hill? I'm sure our local shoot will be delighted if that's the case! As we climbed onto Grassington Moor we were disappointed to find the track had not been extended after all. It ended where it always ended. So we were into rough stuff, heather, cloudberry, boggy patches and half hidden drainage ditches, so we'd to slow down and watch where we planted our feet. We didn't mind. The sun was shining, it was warm and we'd clear views of Simon's Seat, Great Whernside and all the surrounding purple moors.  Grouse clattered away almost from under our feet and the blooming heather had attracted peacock butterflies. We passed the memorial cairn, erected above the six entombed cavers in Mossdale Caverns, before crossing the fence and dropping into Mossdale  for refreshment by the recently refurbished shooting hut.  A room that was once full of junk, and an occasional dead sheep that had trapped itself there, has been converted into a rather posh loo complete with hand basin, soap and towel. That's handy to know!

The second part of our run became something of a fartlek session with a few quicker reps, uphill efforts and a faster mile down what we call 'the long wall'.  My Garmin reckoned we'd run/jogged/walked a total of 10.98 miles which, at our time of life, is far enough to be termed a 'long run'. And I'll tell you what.  We didn't half sleep after it! 

Pure gold

Wheat fields

In the run up to Saturday's four mile race at Arncliffe I took things very easy today. A nice, slow enjoyable run through waving woods and fields of golden corn. In stubble fields that have already been harvested hundreds of wood pigeons and strutting pheasants were filling their crops with leftover wheat that had obligingly escaped the thresher. Three Roe Deer went flouncing through the corn along their own secret path to the sanctuary of nearby trees. 

Castle Hill - for my altitude training!

It was a wonderful feeling to be moving effortlessly under a benign sky with a cooling breeze through this beautiful landscape, not as 'monarch of all I survey' but an intrinsic part of it, as much at home there as the deer, the wild birds and the solitary hare that steals from his form at night.  According to this morning's newspaper a young girl just over the hill from where I was running scooped £1.1million pounds on the lottery last Saturday. If it were possible to evaluate, how would that Holmfirth teenager's new found wealth and happiness compare with that of an elderly man running enraptured through a sea of golden corn?

Better runs

I'd no sooner entered the Great Langdale ½ marathon last weekend, online, than my race number plopped onto the mat along with a letter from the organiser that began "Dear oldest runner ever"..... and ended with a PS that said "even if you don't win the MV75 category you'll still get a prize for the oldest runner to finish".  Now, isn't that nice?  Thankyou Rocket Rod.  But what's the betting some gnarled octogenarian will get wind of this and crawl over the finish line into a waiting ambulance just seconds before the prize-giving to spoil my day?

Gaining height to the heather moors

Anyhow, I've stepped up my training this week, just a little. Good old Joe Henderson of 'Runner's World' fame has put me onto the 1-1-1 plan. What the heck is that, you may well ask? Well, all I have to do is run one mile, once a week, one minute faster than my normal training pace.  In his book, Better Runs, Joe relates how this plan knocked 3½ minutes off someone's 10K time after only four weeks. I doubt very much whether that person was 78 years old but nevertheless I'm giving it a go. However, to speed things up even more I modified it slightly, making it into a 1-2-2 plan by running one mile twice this week at two minutes faster than average training pace.  Watch this space!

Grassy path by Mossdale beck

The weather was kind last week, at least while I was out running. In sun and wind, with heather in full bloom, I'm always tempted to run miles farther, enjoying the heady scent for the short time it lasts. On Sunday I followed a twelve mile circuit around Grassington Moor with a cool 1,800ft of ascent thrown in for good measure.  With only four days to go until the 'Glorious Twelfth' the moor was brimming with grouse, all seemingly in prime condition.  And I saw something else I've never seen before in the twenty years I've been running up there......lizards. At Howgill Nick a small one, not much bigger than a newt, scuttled into the heather a fraction of a second before my big foot was about to land on it. Then I disturbed a larger one, perhaps six inches, sunbathing on the gravel track towards Mossdale. All in all it was a wonderful run.  I returned home a very happy man, and a very thirsty one at that!

Wine

Years ago, before my wonderful partner retired from teaching, Friday evenings were rather special, a time to unwind, to put the pressures of work and cares of the week completely out of her mind, to totally relax and hopefully continue this mood throughout the weekend. Out came the red tablecloth, on went some soothing music, a candle was lit and a nice bottle of wine uncorked to accompany our evening meal. Since her retirement, five years ago, 'red tablecloth night' has shifted to Sunday. Ministers conducting the evening service are in danger of being boycotted if they habitually preach for too long, thus keeping yours truly away from his gastronomic delights - and his wine!

What's this got to do with running, you might ask?  Well, the clue is in that word 'wine'. Depending upon ones state of mind, stress levels, tiredness, or whatever, alcohol can make one do some very strange things. I can only surmise last weekend's Sauvignon Blanc was of a particularly potent vintage, much higher than the 12% it said on the bottle, for it conned us into doing something particulary odd.

Like what, you're wondering?  Like switching on the computer at way past bedtime, downloading an entry form for one of the toughest road half marathons in Britain and entering online, just like that!  What's more, there doesn't appear to be a get-out clause for people who change their minds when the effects of alcohol have worn off. It seems we're fully committed to run the Great Langdale ½ marathon on Saturday, September 25th, whether we're fit, or not. I suppose we should thank our lucky stars we didn't have a brandy to round off the evening or we may well have finished up in the Marathon des Sables!

Comings and goings

Knee deep in heather at Wig Stones

My twenty three miles of running last weekend revealed a couple of premature happenings. One of the many things I look forward to at the onset of Autumn is heather coming into bloom as I run the high moors above Hebden and Grassington. The change is usually quite sudden: one week the landscape is a uniform, dullish brown. Next it's transformed into a vast expanse of mauve/purple that exudes a wonderful scent as my feet brush through it in sun and wind. Mid to late August, around the time of Hebden Village Sports, is the time normally associated with this annual display. This year, things are different.  As I ran towards Mossdale last Sunday (July 25th) I was amazed to find patches already in full flower.

And heather isn't the only thing ahead of schedule this year. Something else stopped us in our tracks as we sped through our fartlek session along the riverbank on Saturday. Mushrooms, those tasty, irresistable bright fungi that were sadly missing from our fields and menus last year are back in abundance. So, as soon as we'd showered and changed we were out foraging for more and came home with two or three pounds to make into lunchtime soup or to fry, with copious amounts of garlic, as a starter to our evening meal.

On the debit side one of our much loved Methodist ministers, the Rev Graham Kidman, preached his last sermon in Hebden on Sunday evening before his retirement.  He is one of that delightful breed of orators one always feels enriched for having listened to. He walks with a stick, slowly and awkwardly, and sometimes appears to have difficulty climbing the steps into the pulpit. But once there his deliberate, wisely chosen words and appropriate messages keep his congregation enthralled - for as long as he cares to preach. On Sunday I counted it a privilege to read the New Testament lesson for him, a passage from Paul's letter to the Philippians - that book that has us 'running towards the line for the prize of our high calling', an appropriate text for runners, and everyone else! We wish Graham much joy and happiness in his well earned retirement. 

Back to the drawing board.

I'm currently in a 'must try harder' state of mind brought on, no doubt, by that ignominious defeat by Ian Barnes in last week's 7 mile race at Kilburn. Mind you, Ian is a very talented 'good for his age' athlete and actually won his age category in the corresponding race last year, but as a MV70 and still 7 seconds slower than my MV75 course record.  So what's gone wrong for me, or right for him? Well, it's obvious isn't it? He's been hotting up his training ready for moving up into the MV75 category, and taking it by storm, whereas I've been slacking and merely ticking over after my whiplash problems. So it's back to the drawing board, building up a good base mileage again, stretching, strengthening and, later, one or two visits to the track for some serious speedwork. 

So, what was I doing last week?  Well, it began gently with an enjoyable relaxed fartlek session incorporated into a four mile run along the River Wharfe after taking my partner's car to the garage for its annual MOT. This was followed by a hilly five miles on Tuesday, another five mile run on Thursday including 12x130m fast repeats, ten miles of steady riverbank running on Saturday and an eight mile fell run in somewhat horrendous condition on Sunday. Also, I began some core and back strengthening exercises and will increase them by two each day until I reach thirty of each.
In spite of zapping up the mileage my old legs feel in pretty good shape and I'm looking forward to my next race, a fast four miler on August 14th, to gauge whether there's any improvement in my pace/mile since Kilburn.  There'd better be!

Kilburn 7 mile race

It's been one of those weeks when I wish I could go back a couple of days and do things differently. Training-wise it started off well, an enjoyable relaxed fartlek session on Monday, a steady 5 miles of x-country on Tuesday and some fast repetitions on Thursday. Then, on Saturday morning prior to the Kilburn 7 mile race on Sunday, it all went pear-shaped. My legs felt so good I decided on another fartlek session along the banks of the River Wharfe.

My mind must have been wandering as I jogged along the gravelly path towards the river. Next thing I was sprawled on the ground, my Rt leg twisted underneath me, a stinging pain shooting through my thigh and a hole in my elbow that appeared to have scooped up an awful lot of dirt. Normally, I'll be on my feet and on the move within seconds before any stiffness can set in.  This time it took somewhat longer, a good few minutes before I was up again and breaking into a limping, painful jog.

So, what to do next, turn and go the shortest way home or get down to the riverbank and complete the fartlek session.  To keep reasonably mobile I decided on the latter. I must have looked ever so funny, limping past the weekend walkers for fifty yards or so then launching into a fast and fluent 6½ min/mile pace for anything up to 240m. By the time I got home my thigh had stiffened so much I'd difficulty getting upstairs to my First Aid kit.  As a large black bruise began to materialize my wonderful partner was despatched to the local shop for a bag of frozen peas. At that stage I was 95% sure I wouldn't race the following day.

But miracles do happen. The rest of the day (and night) was spent resting and elevating it. Lashings of Arnica were massaged into the darkening skin to bring out the bruising, ice packs were applied to disperse the bruising, Diclofenac helped relax the muscle, Paracetamols reduced the pain. a compression bandage stopped it swelling during the night, and up to an hour before the 2 o'clock start of Sunday's race. Three hours before the race I declared 'all systems go' as we slung our Sports bags in the back of the car.

Ready for action. Well, almost

Conditions were ideal for racing, part cloudy with a cooling breeze, as the 300+ runners lined up for the Start outside the Forresters Arms. Not feeling quite 100% I started farther back than usual, so as not to be put off by runners passing me in the early stages of the race, and soon settled into a comfortable pace. After a mile we hit the first hill where I became aware of a car alarm sounding behind me and getting louder. In fact this noisy 'alarm' was attached to a baby buggy being pushed along at great speed by the child's dad! Strewth, I'd never been passed by anything like that before!

I'd been tracking a girl with the name 'Jackie' on her vest, past the ruins of Byland Abbey and on to the first Drinks station at just over 3½ miles.  I slowed to a walk to make sure of getting some fluid down before tackling the next hill.  I never saw Jackie again!  At the 2nd Drinks station I found myself another pace maker, a tanned young lady with long copper coloured hair, a small tattoo on each shoulder and bare midriff. We ran together to the Finish where I thanked her for her wonderful bit of pace-making. It turned out this 'young lady' was in fact Patricia Brobyn, winner of the LV60 category.  Well, she was young compared to me!

My Garmin measured the course at 7.27 miles with a total of 556ft of ascent which I ran in a slow 61.47 - a long way outside my previous MV75 course record of 53.54 - and 197th of 314 finishers. Needless to say, my below par performance earned me no prize this year. However, every finisher over 65 years old was awarded a bottle of rather nice wine so I didn't come away empty handed. Neither did another 31 male and female Super Veterans, one in their 80's, who'd crawled out of the woodwork at the mere sniff of some alcoholic reward!  

Full results here:

A bit hot for running

This summer has been a bit of a scorcher. Well, it has in places I've been, and the path along the River Wharfe last Saturday, from Hebden to Barden Bridge and back, all but reduced me to a crawl. I cannot remember when I ran this ten mile route so slowly, if ever. There was very little shade from the merciless sun, sweat poured out of me, my vest and shorts were saturated and I squeezed enough fluid from my sweat band to water two plants.  I hope it doesn't kill them, or I'm in trouble!

It's a popular and picturesque stretch of river and walkers were out in force.  A party of around sixty children and adults impeded my progress through one narrow section. The campsite at Appletreewick was full to capacity.  Parents lolled around with cooling drinks while their excited children paddled and splashed in the river. The Wharfe can be dangerous but the water was low last weekend, so there was very little danger of anyone getting into trouble.

River Wharfe at Loup Scar

Normally I run to the turning point at Barden Bridge at a very sedate pace, then run back faster. Not so this time. I managed the sedate pace bit OK but on the return section my old legs felt a bit like those of the Tin Man in Wizard of Oz. I force myself to believe I'll ultimately derive huge benefits from these long energy sapping runs, that the training effect will stand me in good stead come my next race where I'll float effortlessly past anyone in my age category who happens to get in the way. I'll soon find out. My next race is only five days away.

Cornwall at it's very best

Old Runningfox cooling off by the sea

So, what else happened in Cornwall? In truth, not a lot. We were there to relax, to forget about the world and it's goings on, to cut ourselves off completely (particularly from World Cup football) and to enjoy all  that this beautiful bit of English countryside around Crantock has to offer. There wasn't even any phone reception on the campsite. A weather forecast on the day we arrived said that summer was about to begin in earnest with high temperatures and sunshine throughout the coming week, at least. Just for once, they were right. Hot sunny days were followed by cold, brilliantly starry nights that caused quite a bit of condensation in the tent.

Water lilies

We ran on every day bar one, sometimes twice and, in spite of hundreds of jellyfish, swam in pretty rough seas on a couple of occasions. It was coming up to full moon and some very high tides were roaring onto Cornwall's beaches and crashing onto the rocks. The surfing fraternity and body-boarders were having the time of their lives.

We indulged in Cornish fare, Cornish pasties for lunch, Cornish Cream teas mid afternoon, besides barbequed chicken, battered Whitebait, fresh herb salads straight from the garden and a fortifying rib-eye steak before our 10 mile race. Oh, and some beautiful bottles of wine to enrich our evening meals!

So much colour

There is so much colour in Cornwall, a rare quality of reflected light that enhances the whole landscape and blue shimmering seascapes. Hundreds of orchids adorned the Common where skylarks sang their hearts out from a clooudless sky. By the camp gate pads of bright water lilies floated on a pool alive with fish and nodding moorhens. We watched a female Kestrel regularly hunting, and catching, voles and mice in a newly mown field. 

The campsite we've patronised for the last six years was much busier than usual for the time of year. On occasions we've been the only ones there but this time it was more than half full over the nine days. Every other tent had a dog, all of which were suitably behaved, so it seems people can no longer afford to put their pets into kennels whilst they fly abroad and are opting for the cheaper alternative.

Holywell Bay

We'd booked for two weeks but sadly had to leave after nine days on learning of a death in the family. However, our departure was made easier by the weather breaking on our very last day. Just ten minutes after we'd packed away our big tent with all its accessories it rained! Until then we couldn't have ordered better weather.

We refer to it as our 'warm weather training camp'. Altogether this year, we clocked up 45 miles of delightful running including two sessions of 15x150m fast repetitions to sharpen up for the Lanhydrock 10 mile Trail race. It obviously paid off, as you'll have gathered from my previous post. Roll on next year's camp!

The Great Lanhydrock Trail Run

Arriving at 09.10 we were among the first to register and pick up our numbers for this 10 mile trail run through the beautiful estate grounds of Lanhydrock House, a National Trust property in the heart of Cornwall. The race was scheduled to start at 10.00. We'd been on holiday in Cornwall for the past week, clocking up around 35 miles of mixed training including two sets of 15x150m fast repetitions and some swimming in rough seas, so we were reasonably fit. As prize categories only extended to MV65 I'd no expectations of winning anything but felt pretty sure my wonderful partner would take one of the LV60 prizes.

The start was a little congested so we back markers were slowly away, round a sharp left turn onto a narrow woodland path where it was impossible to pass anyone. It suited me fine, giving me chance to settle into a rhythm I intended to maintain throughout. Soon we were onto a wider track and the group thinned out as the tough got going. After a two mile loop we passed the start line to much spirited applause from the many spectators and supporters. We needed that encouragement to help us up the next hill.

Lanhydrock

The temperature rose to around 24ºC so a little hot for running, but most of the route was through sheltering trees as the trail wound it's way through delightful countryside, by a meandering river, past farms and wide open fields that were a joy to run. At some point I passed a young guy (compared to me) who spotted 'Runningfox' on the back of my vest. "I was looking at your website last night. Very impressive" he said. I only hope I lived up to those first impressions and didn't disillusion him!
As there was no category for geriatric 78 year olds I'd told my wonderful partner that my sole intention was to RUN rather than RACE this 10 miles, for there was no way I could beat the fit youngsters in the MV65 category. I'd settled into a steady pace and was running for sheer enjoyment.  Or so I thought!
As the route rose somewhat steeply up then along the top of a grassy field at 7½ miles I found myself catching a grey haired gentleman I guessed was an MV65 veteran and the old brain suddenly switched into racing mode. I surged past him.  The adrenalin was beginning to flow and my pace increased as I cruised along 'running loose, running with style, step by step, mile after mile', cutting down the distance to the group ahead. At 8½ miles I passed another tall, grey haired bespectacled gentleman who was running well but was destined to finish another place down his category as I began to think I might even finish in a medal position, maybe bronze. The last ¼ mile was downhill and I was flying by now (5.37 pace, according to my Garmin) overtaking other runners racing each other to the finish, one of whom was Hannah Clitherow, 3rd LV45. My time was 1.35.46 in 102nd position from 161 finishers. Not bad for a route with 1,520ft of ascent.

Gold for Old Runningfox

Until I actually saw the results in black and white I couldn't believe what I heard at the prize giving. Results for each category were in reverse order, bronze first, silver 2nd and gold last. A chap called John Gilbert was called out for silver in the MV65 category.  I said to my partner "Hey, that's the chap I passed at 8½ miles".  I got the shock of my life when the next name to be called, for GOLD, was mine. And to put a little icing on the cake my wonderful partner was awarded Silver for finishing 2nd in the LV60 category.

Years ago, too many to remember, I saw a film starring a young Paul Newman based on the life of Rocky Graziano, the middleweight boxer. It was called 'Somebody up there likes me' . I can echo that statement. At Church next Sunday there'll be cause for some special thanksgiving. Maybe even a few tears....

Results here.  Click on Lanhydrock 10.

Time for some proper training!

My first race of the year is in twelve days time and it dawned on me this morning I haven't actually done any specific training for it. For the past nine months I've been nothing but a plodder, gently going through the motions, avoiding anything that hurt, or seemed likely to get me out of breath, and mainly on days when the temperature felt the same outside the house as it did inside.  Lying in bed, where I do most of my planning, it struck me some sort of crash programme is called for. Last Saturday's 10.38 miles could, I suppose, be regarded as my 'long run'. So that's done and out of the way. Time now for some speedwork.

After breakfast I set out at a gentle jog through dewy fields  to a local landmark known as Castle Hill where I do my 'altitude training'. At a mere 900' the air up there is not exactly rare, but the effort involved getting to the top certainly wakes up the old cardio-vascular system and prepares it for the series of repetitions I do along a slightly uphill path towards the summit. I'd planned to do 12 x 180m but failed miserably and jogged back down feeling a bit disgusted with myself after only six.

My local Cricket field - for speed training

But I wasn't going to give up so easily. Closer to home is a perfectly level cricket field which I also use for doing fast repetition runs and my steps turned towards there for another six reps to bring my total to twelve. These reps are shorter, a mere 130m, but I run them quicker. After six reps I ran four laps of the field to warm down (where a  portly gentleman who'd been watching proceedings while leaning on his garden fence remarked "You're a very fit man, Sir), then jogged home. After 'Sticking' my quads, hamstrings and calf muscles I plugged my Garmin into the computer to read the results.  It told me I'd run 5.98 miles with 469ft of ascent in 63 mins 9 secs. But what pleased and surprised me most were those reps on the cricket field. I kid you not, I'd been churning them out at 5.54 min/mile pace. Hmmm, I reckon that's not bad for starters!

With Lanhydrock in mind

A misty River Wharfe at Burnsall

My old body doesn't seem to be getting any fitter, but my mind is positive and anxious to get back racing again. From 20th June we'll be on holiday for a couple of weeks, camping in Cornwall, and quite by chance we discovered there's a 10 mile Trail run around the grounds of the National Trust property at Lanhydrock on 27th. Against my racing principles (the prize list only extends to MV65 category so I'll only be there to make the numbers up) I suggested to my wonderful partner that we might do it.  Much to my amazement she agreed, depending upon the outcome of a 10 mile trial run before posting the Entry Forms. 

And so it came about that last Saturday she set off along an undulating path by the the River Wharfe with a gusto that was quite mind boggling, leaving me trailing in her wake. She was determined to complete the 'trial' in a time that would satisfy her she could complete the Cornwall race without too much stress or discomfort. This she certainly achieved, which is more than can be said for me as I huffed and puffed and sweated buckets in my determination to catch her before reaching home!  I managed this, just, by the thickness of my vest!  My Garmin registered 10.38 miles with 936ft of ascent in 1 hour 46 minutes - which might just keep me out of last place!

Unbelievably, the Entry Forms are on their way.

Easing back into racing

After a wonderful nine mile run through some favourite Yorkshire Dales countryside in warm sunshine last Saturday, I came to the conclusion it's time to start racing again. Over the past year and a half I've suffered a painful whiplash injury that was much aggravated by any form of jolting or running. Now, after months of physio, neck exercises, sleeping with neck supports, applying homoeopathic creams and ointments, Collagen capsules, Devil's Claw, not to mention six-hourly doses of painkillers and anti-inflammatories, the pain is at last beginning to subside. 

78th birthday run, Isle of Mull

After twenty four years of running, racing and lolloping through some of the most beautiful countryside in the world I've reached the stage where I can no longer visualize life without running. So, throughout all this treatment I've endeavoured to keep moving, gently gliding along at a sedate pace to keep ticking over as best I could. Last weekend I decided to unleash the 'Old Runningfox' and discovered to my delight that I could zip along, for short distances at least, with no apparent adverse effects.

It will take time and hard training to get back into racing mode  but, to speed things up, I've posted an entry form for my come-back race in just over a month's time. I've opted for the low-key Kilburn Feast 7 mile road race in north Yorkshire on July 11th where, even if I fail to win my age category, every competitor over the age of 65 gets a free bottle of wine. So, I can't lose, can I?  Watch this space!

Pre

Pre

As I read this it suddenly dawned on me that the current date was 30th May and a little shiver ran down my spine as I realised it was the 35th anniversary of Steve's death, to the day.  I felt I was getting a little poke from beyond the grave, prompting me to train harder and aim for greater heights. One of Steve's inspirational quotes is worth repeating:

"Some people create with words, or with music or with a brush and paints. I like to make something beautiful when I run.  I like to make people stop and say, 'I've never seen anyone run like that before.' It's more than just a race, it's style, it's doing something better than anybody else. It's being creative."

I'll go with that, but in my case people will have to say 'I've never seen anyone so old run like that before!'

Thanks Pre, message received.

Ten

Hebden Ghyll

Towards the end of May when trees have come into full leaf, when the dawn chorus has risen to a rich ear-splitting crescendo, where every meadow, pasture and roadside verge puts on a multi-coloured display of wild flowers, then nowhere on earth is more beautiful than the Yorkshire Dales. It is a real privilege to be able to run through such a wild landscape. Last Sunday we took full advantage of all that this sensuous environment has to offer.

We set off up Hebden Ghyll with its babbling beck, primrose banks and flowering wild strawberries, over the old Miner's Bridge and past Loss Gill Side where a dozen or so black, and very lively, Aberdeen Angus stirks decided it would be great fun to race us for a couple of hundred yards or so.  Of course, they won and stood there looking very pleased with themselves as we plodded on past old lead mine workings towards the gaunt hill top hamlet of Yarnbury. 

Limestone country

The walled lane towards Bare House provided some welcome relief from a keen wind that became colder and stronger as we rose higher. Otherwise the sun shone from an azure sky with bright fluffy clouds.  From the top of the lane a breath-taking view opens up to reveal the whole of Upper Wharfedale with Buckden Pike and Old Cote Moor dominating the north west horizon. All this is rich, well drained limestone country with walled fields, old barns and turfy paths that are a joy to run. 

Black beasties

More black cattle were determined to bar our way, but we shooed them off, crossed the well trodden Dales Way and continued by old Iron Age settlements and field systems into the jaws of Conistone Dib. The  wide upland pasture  narrowed and funnelled us into a tight, rocky gorge with steep-sided walls made even more dark and gloomy by overhanging trees. 

Eventually we emerged into bright sunlight to run through the charming little village of Conistone before taking a rising track with fine retrospective views of Kilnsey Crag, a monolithic landmark with an overhanging roof where rock athletes can test their superhuman skills over 150 different routes.  

Looking back to Kilnsey Crag

Our track deteriorated into a rocky path that required care through another steep sided Dib that finally deposited us along the fringes of Grass Wood and Bastow Wood. Fairly soon we re-crossed the Dales Way and put on a bit of style as we ran through Grassington from whence it was but a short jog along High Lane, through the old hospital grounds and back to Hebden for some welcome refreshment. It had been a most enjoyable ten miles with a further ten out of ten on the scale of beautiful surroundings.

78 years young

The 'Western Isles'

My birthday fell on Polling day this year - May 6th - when all radio, TV and newspaper coverage was about the country electing a new head of the Westminster Mafia. To escape the election hype and literature - and 'discreet' Funeral Pre-payment Plans that sneak through my letterbox from people who seem to think I'm getting old - I got well away from it all among the hills of Knoydart, Mull and the beautiful little island of Ulva.

KNOYDART.
From Mallaig we took Bruce Watt's 'Western Isles' ferry to the isolated little village of Inverie which, according to the Guinness book of Records, boasts Britain's remotest pub - The Old Forge. We resisted it's temptation, ignored the comforts of the bunkhouse, and took the primrose lined path for seven miles/1,500ft to the head of Mam Barrisdale where we found a delectable spot for the tent facing Meall Buidhe (3,107ft), one of Knoydarts most impressive Munros. A Red Deer stag gave nervous little barks, resenting our intrusion into his territory. From far below, by the Loch an Dubh-Lochain, came the incessant call of the Cuckoo, a sound we'd have to get used to for the duration of our holiday.

Facing Meall Buidhe

We'd arrived in glorious sunshine but our ascent of Luinne Bheinn (3,083ft) found us scrambling around in clouds and rain on compass bearings that were not always reliable due to the presence of magnetic rock. After a quick photograph we left the summit cairn on a dodgy bearing but thankfully when the clouds briefly parted the compass was pointing in the exact direction of our tent. We returned to Inverie, scattering the deer down Mam Barrisdale, closing our ears to the insistent Cuckoos and howls of resident Inverie Peacocks, and caught the ferry back to Mallaig.

ISLE OF MULL.

At Loch na Keal

For many years we've kept returning to one of our favourite wild camping spots on the gorse scented shore of Loch na Keal where eagles fly. On this occasion some untidy louts had left unsightly litter all over the place and burnt brown rings in the grass where they'd thoughtlessly placed hot pans. After putting up the tent we spent a good couple of hours bagging up all the rubbish and burning whatever was combustible. A local farmer kindly took the rubbish away for us and order was restored.

Birthday treat

We went for a five mile run, as far as the Gribun Rocks, to work up an appetite for a gorgeous Italian meal at the 'Mediterranea' restaurant in Salen, a birthday treat courtesy of my wonderful partner. We opted for local seafood, Mussels in a wine and garlic sauce for starters, seared scallops with red peppers, strips of streaky bacon and Mediterranean salad for the main course, mixed berry pavlova for sweet, and all of this made more appetizing with a rich red Sicilian wine. My partner was also given a complementary dish of black and green olives. I don't ever recall a nicer birthday meal. We returned to camp, watched a blazing red sunset over the Western Isles and slept like babies.

On the A'Chioch Ridge

We arose early next morning to warm sunshine, filled ourselves with porridge and set off up Gleann na Beinne Fada to a col below the towering A'Chioch ridge. The adrenalin flowed thick and strong as we clambered upwards, making the height and exposure all the more pleasurable. From the summit cairn of A'Chioch (2,770ft) we descended 300ft to another col before the long airy ascent of Ben More (3,169ft). At an exposed section near the summit we were joined by a happy little Jack Russell terrier jumping from ledge to ledge on its way down. Then it's owner appeared accompanied by a rough coated Deerhound lurcher both of whom were equally adept in negotiating the steep, rough terrain. On the sun warmed summit there wasn't a breath of wind. We lingered a while, over a bite to eat and mouthful of juice, wallowing in nostalgia while chanting a litany of well loved names of all the beautiful islands and places we'd visited together in the past - the sacred Isle of Iona with its shining sands, Staffa with it's basalt pillars and famous Fingal's Cave that inspired Mendelssohn's 'Hebrides Overture', Bac Mor like a giant sombrero floating on the sea, Lunga with it's incredible population of nesting Puffins, Guillemots, Razorbills and Shag. Beyond the Treshnish Isles floated the white fringed island of Tiree and the more rugged island of Coll. We descended Ben More by its easy north west ridge and were back in camp by lunchtime. After a well earned brew and a bite to eat we packed the tent and drove west along the coast to catch the ferry to our 'secret camp' on the island of Ulva.

ISLE OF ULVA.

Welcome to Ulva

After days of running, walking, scrambling and Munro-bagging we went to Ulva for a weekend of relaxation. We've been to this island on many occasions before, always camping at the same spot, just yards from the sea and a large colony of seals that usually swim across to investigate our arrival with great interest. This time they didn't. There was a waning moon and tides were unusually low so that skerries, where the seals bask and rest, were always clear of the water. The seals hardly moved until our third and final day when, after a somewhat higher tide, the whole colony vanished. I suppose if they'd been human they'd have left a notice saying 'Gone Fishing'. On a grassy islet beyond the skerries wild geese were cropping the lush vegetation. Curlews were calling and a Grey Heron was stalking around the seaweed shore in quest of a seafood supper. Soon a delicious smell of cooking was wafting from the tent and a gradely bottle of Australian Shiraz made it all the more enjoyable. Well, half a bottle!

Note. I wish they didn't put screw tops on wine bottles. Hearing the 'Pop' of a cork was all part of the pleasure, arousing the senses to mouth watering anticipation of the gastronomic delights to follow.

Ben More from Isle of Ulva

In truth, not a lot was done on Ulva. We sauntered around the 'Livingstone Trail' and took photographs of the ruined house where the grandparents of the famous explorer, David Livingstone, once lived. It was tiny, making it hard to believe whole families lived and slept there in such a small dwelling. We found a huge cave, excavated recently by a group of archaeologists from Edinburgh University who found human infant remains that indicated people lived there as far back as 5650 BC. Farther along, monolithic basalt pillars rise from the shoreline and on the grassy top of one of these we stretched out to sunbathe among a myriad flowers.

Ulva is a botanist's paradise. We strode among millions of Primroses and Celandines with lesser numbers of Violets, Wood Sorrel, Wood Anemones, Sea Pinks, Bugle, Milkwort, Lousewort, Lady's Smock, Speedwell, Tormentil, Marsh Orchid, Wild Strawberry, Dandelions and Daisies, Herb Robert, Ramsons, Lady's Mantle and Birdsfoot Trefoil. As summer progresses, hundreds of other different varieties will burst into flower.
Deer peered warily from the safety of crested hill tops like bands of renegade Red Indians ready to descend at dusk. One hundred and twenty three different species of birds have been recorded on Ulva and some of these were hardly ever out of our sight. At times we could have done without the noisy Cuckoos that called non-stop until darkness fell, then began again as dawn faintly tinged the eastern horizon as early as 3.45 am. Fearless black-faced sheep leapt about the rocky heights with the agility of mountain goats, their tiny bleating lambs keeping close at heel.

'Secret camp' on Isle of Ulva

We visited two Standing Stones of seemingly unknown origin and an overgrown graveyard, Cille Mhic Eoghainn, with ancient weather-worn headstones recording the final resting places of MacQuarries, MacNeills, Blacks and MacArthurs, amongst others.
Since leaving the ferry, on arrival, we saw only two other people, gentleman walkers striding out purposefully on a circuit of the island. For the duration of our jaunt we'd no contact with the outside media world whatsoever, which is just what we'd planned. We returned happy and refreshed - not to mention a little sunburnt - went for a five mile run to loosen our mountaineering legs, then indulged in a fabulous pork casserole with a rich red Shiraz all the way from Namaqualand - wherever that is - to nicely round off my wonderful birthday gallivantings! Roll on my 79th!

A  Loch na Keal sunset

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!