I'll run if it kills me.......

I climbed onto the scales a week ago and didn't like what I saw. From a reasonable 140.8 lbs I'd soared to 145.2 lbs. The clever monitoring device further told me my body fat percentage had risen from 14.9 to 16.8 and my visceral fat from 7 to 8%. And all because I've hardly run at all over the past few weeks. A couple of visits to my regular Physio appeared to have eased the calf muscle situation a little but the doctor seemed unable to put her finger on my gut problem, a pain that bordered on excruciating in my lower abdomen whenever I exerted myself, e.g. ran.

But it was May Bank Holiday, for goodness sake.  Holidays are for enjoyment and how the heck could I enjoy myself if I couldn't run? There was only one answer to the situation - drugs. So, on Friday evening, out came those tiny but effective Voltarol tablets for the first 75mg dose which was washed down with a rather choice vintage. Not to mention a wee dram. This dose was repeated morning and evening for the next three days. The pills I hasten to add, not the alcohol.

Beside the River Wharfe

On Saturday morning I couldn't get out of bed quick enough in my anxiety to get into running gear and hit the trail. I chose a 4 mile route that was mainly flat, across fields into Grassington then back along the riverbank. I'd barely gone a mile before a nasty pain shot through the offending Rt calf muscle, as if someone had given me an almighty kick. I dropped to a walk, seething with frustration, then gritted my teeth, said a few unholy words under my breath, then broke into a jog - and sod the consequences. By some miracle the pain went away and by the time I reached the riverbank I was able to put in a few faster bursts, what I call 20's and 30's which refers to the number of times my Rt foot hits the ground. It's my own brand of fartlek. On a good day I'll get up to a hundred then reduce it by ten each time, back down to twenty, getting faster as I come down the ladder. On Saturday I only got up to 50 but I was happy with that.

On Sunday my wonderful partner was patrolling Barden Fell, on Ranger duty in the Yorkshire Dales National Park, so I ran alone - eventually. It didn't stop raining until after lunch so it seemed like I spent the whole morning ramming calories down to later convert into energy. It didn't really work. Gale force wind had me virtually running on the spot all the way up the Ghyll towards Yarnbury then, quite perversely, all the way back. After five miles I fell through the door and slumped onto a chair in a state of total exhaustion. I cannot even remember climbing into bed that night - and it was nothing to do with alcohol!

The weather on May Bank Holiday Monday was diabolical, the holiday hoardes conspicuous by their absence and our local ice cream seller having shut up shop. But our patience was rewarded around 2pm when a hole appeared in the clouds from which nothing was precipitating. We drove round to Yarnbury, parked the car and set off on a 7 mile run around Mossdale. It was a very slow start. My gut was erupting, my breathing became stertorous and I felt weak as a kitten. The first uphill section had me reeling around like someone drunk. I collided with a wall at one stage which prompted my wonderful partner to ask if I wanted to throw in the towel and go back to the car. I didn't. At a welcome downhill section my breathing pattern returned to normal so I was able to carry on at a steady pace. My calf muscle was no bother at all.

Track from Mossdale - or into Mossdale, depending which way I'm running!

The snares around the 'stink pit' at Mossdale were exactly as I'd seen them last time I passed several weeks ago, all of them disturbed and unset. The wire on one of them had been cut. It seemed to prove what I've always thought, that our local gamekeeper hardly ever inspects them let alone every 24 hours as he should do by law. The one redeeming factor was that none of them brought me to earth with an almighty bang as they have done on several occasions in the past. It's not much fun when I have to constantly be scanning the ground under my feet rather than gazing at all the wonderful views and wildlife. I wish this gamekeeper would move on. The moor would be a much better, and safer, place to run without him.

I made it back to the car but must confess there were a number of times I had to walk, mainly due to galloping guts ache. But hey, the weekend produced 16 miles of rehabilitating runs. The old legs are beginning to move again albeit not very fast, but I'll work on it, especially when we're savouring our wonderful running circuits in Cornwall during the last two weeks of June.

If it aint broke, don't fix it!

      I wish I was more computer literate, or even literate. I thought it might be a good idea whilst I've still got the galloping trots and swollen calf muscle -  and therefore not running - to set about uncluttering my hard drive. There were zillions of unwanted pictures in there amounting to zillions of megabytes of trash I thought might be slowing down my system. Best to get rid of them.  So I spent a happy couple of hours, or was it days, zapping them out of my system. Album after album of web pictures were sent scuttering down to the bottom left hand corner of my screen, where the Recycle Bin lives, then launched into their own little corner of eternity never to be seen again.

      A little later I reckoned it was time I updated my Blog, not that anything exciting or newsworthy had happened. I just thought people who regularly read my ramblings in such exotic places as Moldova, Tajikistan, Brunei Darussalam, Thailand and the Russian Federation might sink to depths of despair should they leap out of bed anxious to learn of my latest exploits (albeit such mundane things like massaging my calf muscle and popping pills in between visits to the loo) only to find there was nothing there to brighten up their mornings.

Old Runningfox in his den - having a break from fixing this Blog

      Anyhow, to my great horror, all the used pictures I'd merrily deleted from my web albums had also disappeared from my Blog. All that was left was a lot of empty boxes with utterly meaningless captions underneath. I'd mistakenly supposed once the pictures were published on the internet, they were stuck there forever and ever, Amen.  Not so.

      So in case anyone has been wondering why I haven't posted lately it's (a) because this is supposedly a running Blog, and I haven't really done any running to write about and (b) I've been busy hunting and retrieving pictures from various sources to make my Blog look semi-respectable again. Needless to say they're not always the same pictures as before. Most of the originals are floating around somewhere in cyber space and I've no intentions of nipping up there to retrieve them. Well, not just yet! 

A funny owd week.....

Running the Mossdale track.....

It started off well enough last Friday, the occasion of my 79th birthday (God, have I been around that long?) when my wonderful partner and I went for a  six mile run to Appletreewick and back to mark the occasion. I felt fine, energetic enough to turn the run into a fartlek session with lots of fast bursts and short uphill sprints. I was even beginning to think it was time to get back onto the track. Next year I'll be moving into the MV80 category and I'd like to have a go at the British 800m record if I can maintain my fitness. Evening was a social affair at our local hostelry, the Clarendon, where I was treated to a mouth-watering rib-eye steak and a wee drop of the hard stuff, MacAllan malt whisky, two of my favourite luxuries.

Mountain pansies

On Saturday things started to turn a bit pear-shaped. After less than two miles of a planned 10 mile run I felt an ominous ache in my Rt calf muscle. The call of a ring ouzel gave me an excuse to walk while trying to locate it but, when I started to run again, the ache was still there. In hindsight I should have quit running and walked gently back home but instead I carried on jogging but reduced the distance to less than five miles. Encountering my first ring ouzels of the year and seeing my first swifts did nothing to raise my spirits. Nor did the bright yellow mountain pansies that dotted the moorland trail.

By Sunday morning the ache had evolved into a pain as I made my way around Grimwith reservoir with a very pronounced limp. Running was out of the question. Time for rest, a bag of frozen peas and elevation. I was not a happy bunny though I was hopping - hopping mad!

...and where I'd like to be running

On Tuesday things got worse. To compound my miserable state, brought on by not being able to run, my tummy problem returned with a vengeance, so much so that I daren't for the life in me venture very far away from the loo! On Thursday, with great difficulty, I managed to make an appointment at our local surgery to see a doctor, supposedly at 11am. My regular GP was fully booked  but such was the urgency I agreed to see one of the other doctors who turned out to be a lady, a very young lady!  "She's running a bit late" I was told as I checked in to the surgery.  She sure was.  It was 12.15 and another loo visit later when I eventually got to see her - by which time my anxiety levels were rocketing through the roof.  "Are you alright with just me, or would you like someone else present" she asked as she screened my semi-nude body ready for an internal examination of the offending orifice. I felt so rotten I couldn't care less who was there. Just get on with it or, if you'll excuse the pun, let's get to the bottom of this. 

I was expecting to come away with a prescription for powerful anti-biotics but instead I was given a little tube into which I was asked to provide a 'sample' for analysis, or culture, at our local Path Lab. So, it will be another six days before we get the results by which time I'll probably have flushed myself down the loo!  

So, in the great scheme of things, did mother nature give me a nasty bowel infection to prevent me running until my calf muscle heals, or did she give me a painful limp to stop my gallop until all the nasty little tummy bugs have been well and truly zapped?  Answers on an e-card please!

I'm ashamed to say......

..... we never got to Keswick to run the ½ marathon on May 1st. A painful swelling on the ball of my wonderful partner's foot put paid to any thoughts she might have had about running it whilst a persistent tummy bug thwarted my plans. Being a blue-blooded Yorkshireman I'm not sure which hurt most, the abdominal pain or the mental anguish of having paid my entry fee and not getting my money's worth from it!  I could have run, while my partner spectated, but there's no way I could have given of my best. I'll freely admit, I don't race for fun. I might RUN for fun in all seasons through our beautiful countryside but when it comes to racing it's a bit more serious, it hurts, and I'll go through hell to get into the prize list. Some would call me a pot hunter and I suppose I am, but if that's what encourages me to run and keep fit well into my dotage, then so be it.  It's better than the alternative!

Street Party

So what did we do over the May Bank Holiday? Well, quite a lot really. It began on Friday with a wonderful Street Party that brought out almost everyone in the village for a three hour spree of wining and dining. There were a couple of brief interruptions, the first for mass participation in a funny sort of game called Heads and Tails, the second for a hilarious Duck Race where a dog jumped into the water and rendered the result void by decapitating two of the participants. There was a re-run while the offending animal was kept under control. I'd refused to 'buy' a duck on the grounds that none of them had any known form!  All this fun and frivolity was in celebration of some helicopter pilot who was marrying the woman he lived with.

Saturday was 'Three Peaks' day when we drove to Horton-in-Ribblesdale to watch my favourite race. We arrived ¾ hr before it was scheduled to start and couldn't believe the amount of traffic being funnelled into three large fields. Competitors from farther afield had camped overnight to make the 10 o'clock start.  A huge marquee (that cost the Association £2,000 to hire), a smaller one for registration, a Start and Finish gantry, trade stalls and loud speaker system were all in situ ready for the 'Off'. The whole shebang covered several acres of ground while 763 runners, plus an equal number of followers and spectators milled around.  I couldn't help thinking how vastly different this was from my first experience of the race in 1956 when there were just 23 starters and the entire 'furniture' consisted of the Entry Secretary's table and chair in a field behind the Hill Inn at Chapel-le-Dale.

Dog among the ducks

Although there was warm sunshine out of the wind it was cold and blustery on the tops, particularly on the highest summit, Whernside, where runners were in danger of being blown over. It didn't seem to bother Tom Owens of Shettlestone Harriers who skipped down the summit rocks of Ingleborough and disappeared across the moor before I could get a picture of him. I've never been more impressed!  No-one had a cat in hells chance of catching him as he went on to win the men's race by almost three minutes in 2.53.54. Young Robbie Simpson of Deeside Runners was second. Anna Frost, a Kiwi who specializes in mountain races, was equally impressive in the Lady's event. Her winning time was 3.30.00, four minutes ahead of Helen Fines of Calder Valley Fell Runners.  My old mate Bill Wade of Holmfirth Harriers, a few days short of his 70th birthday, got a rousing reception as he crossed the Finish line in 5.38.32.  The amazing Wendy Dodds had 281 runners behind her when setting a new LV60 record of 4.34.01.  Such achievements invariably evoke the odd tear as I watch them striding proudly down the finishing field to all the well-earned cheers. I know exactly how they feel as I reel with nostalgia and wish I was young again. Then again, if the Three Peaks Race Association ever introduce an MV80 category.......!

Sunday was declared a day of relaxation. Well, sort of. After numerous eruptions of my tummy problem over the past 24 hours I reckoned it a good idea to give Chapel a miss in the morning, thus retaining my stainless reputation! Instead, I took myself for a bumbly run in the great outdoor church of Grassington Moor to boost my spirits in the more natural surroundings of sun and wind and wild music.  Eight miles was all I could manage in my weakened state. The rest of the day was spent in a sheltered corner of the garden soaking up healing sunshine whilst partaking of copious amounts of fluid to flush out the offending bugs.  It seemed to work for on Monday we set off from Grimwith reservoir for a 10 mile walk/run around the nether regions of Wig Stones and Cranberry Moss, on the Nidderdale border, where we got hopelessly off route in the trackless bogs but still enjoyed our wild situation in glorious weather. My strength appears to be returning.  Roll on the next race.

Mull, Iona and Ulva

Iona Abbey

Nine days of relaxation on three of our favourite islands is hardly an appropriate way to train for a long, hilly race. I've a feeling I might suffer a little in the forthcoming Keswick ½ marathon on May 1st. Nevertheless, there are other things to enjoy in this short span besides running and racing and I intend taking my fill while I'm still in a fit state to do so. The islands in question were those of Mull, Ulva and Iona that form part of the Inner Hebrides off the western seaboard of Scotland.

'Crucifixion' by Roy de Maistre

I've returned to Iona on a regular basis ever since living and working there way back in 1949. My goodness, how it has changed over the years! The people I worked for, Neil MacArthur and his wife, Ena, are long since dead but a daughter, Jeanetta, still works the little farm at Clachanach and was tending to an early lamb when I met her for a chat. She loves Iona, the farm and the way of life, but is seriously considering reducing her stock and winding down on account of the ridiculous amount of paperwork she is legally bound to do.

I joined worshippers from across the globe for a stirring Easter day service and Holy Communion in Iona Abbey.  Many had started their walk on the mainland and trekked all the way across Mull to the sacred isle. Over the years it has become traditional for pilgrims to gather in Reilig Oran, reputed burial place of 48 Scottish kings (and John Smith, once Labour party leader), to sing and celebrate the resurrection before their short march to the Abbey amid a chorus of Allelujahs. The preacher was the Rev Peter MacDonald, leader of the Iona Community, who delivered his sermon to a packed congregation, scores of whom were standing in the aisle. I left this service with my spiritual batteries well and truly re-charged. 

Washing at 'The well of Eternal Youth'

Outside the Abbey a corncrake was rasping to his fellow creatures but his vocabulary was somewhat limited.  We walked up Dun I which, at a mere 321ft, is the highest hill on Iona and quite manageable for most senior citizens. The views from here are truly magnificent and I've toyed with the idea of my final remains being scattered around its summit. But which of my relatives or friends would be willing to make the long trek to perform this ritual?  And besides, if I continue to bathe in The Well of Eternal Youth, just below the summit, I may well outlive that chosen one!

On some mornings we did a little running at an easy, relaxed pace. None of your strenuous speedwork, intervals or hill reps. Our legs were on holiday too.  On Mull we ran along the shore of Loch na Keal to the soothing sounds of the waves, of wild geese and, would you believe, an early cuckoo on April 18th. 

Cheers! - from Ulva

On Ulva we jogged along velvety green trails lined with primroses and violets, where peacock butterflies danced and bumble bees buzzed in the gentle breeze, and all this as seals sang their moany songs on sunlit skerries while herons stalked the seaweed shoreline. In the afternoons we walked the hills in the realm of ravens and deer, watched an eagle drop from his cliff and go sailing off over the headland, saw a peregrine seeing off marauding crows, spied a colony of wild black and white goats inhabiting a small island and wondering where they found water to drink, sent an adder scurrying off into the heather and photographed early orchids.

A sunset to match the wine

In the evenings we relaxed by our tent with a glass of wine, red wine that vied with the flaring sunsets that lit the western skies as evening dissolved into night. In our sheltered bay the tide crept in and went out again without a sound. The birds fell silent and, apart from the occasional splash of a visiting grey seal, all was peaceful and quiet.

As I said, there is more to life than running and racing - though I may well revise that statement after Sunday's ½ marathon.

Some years ago I picked up a pebble in St Columba's Bay that inspired me to write the following poem which I think is appropriate to copy here.

IONA STONE

Gem hunters, I suppose, would call you semi-precious
Or little more than a bauble of common marble
Green-veined with serpentine
The like of which litter the pebbled shores
Of many a far-flung Scottish isle.

Yet on a day
When white horses came cantering into Columba's Bay
You were the one in a million shining stone
That leapt into my hand, sun-bleached,
Tumbled and polished by aeons of breaking tides -
Fair fragment of Iona.

Semi-precious?
How do you value the wind
Whispering through the marram on white dunes,
Gulls mewing in the Hebridean blue
Or skulking corncrakes rasping out their joy
In meadows thick with summer flowers?

Bright stone,
You are the whole shimmering isle in magic microcosm,
The Bay at the Back of the Ocean,
Spouting caves and seals singing on black skerries
That rise, fall and rise again in the green swell.
You are litanies of lilting Gaelic -
Traigh Ban nam Manach, Eilean Chalbha,
Sithean, Port na Curaich and Traigh Mor -
You are wild thyme exploding in purple pools
On banks of sweet machair.
You are the bell booming in the granite tower,
The green goblet of the Eucharist,
Candles guttering on grey walls,
Chanting and bowed heads -

Bowed heads
Washed in Holy blood and each of them praying
That they too, like you, might be
The one in a million shining stone
On the long beach
Of eternity.

                                                           

Snared!

Last Saturday was a funny sort of day but unfortunately not very ha-ha. In view of a forthcoming hilly half marathon, at Keswick, I decided it was time for some long, slow enjoyable runs while taking full advantage of the warm Spring-like weather. 2½ miles into my run I passed a jolly group of people with a pack of dogs, all on leads. As I jogged by, exchanging pleasantries, one of the dogs growled and took a flying lunge at me, its bare teeth scraping my chest as I instinctively backed away. Had I not moved quickly I reckon I'd have been missing a pound of flesh.

Stink Pit with dead fox on top - and a snare to catch the next one

Perhaps it was a rush of adrenalin that made me move more freely after that incident. Three miles farther along I was flowing down a heathery ramp towards a shooting hut in the wilds of Mossdale when suddenly I was brought to earth with an almighty bang that knocked the wind out of my sails and laid me motionless for a wee while.The wire noose of a fox snare was encircling my ankle and biting into my Achilles tendon. Had I been moving faster that tendon may well have severed leaving me stranded many miles from civilisation with only a whistle to attract attention. 

This was the third time Old Runningfox had been brought to earth - courtesy of our over zealous gamekeeper. Round one 'stink pit' (a heap of decaying carcases to attract foxes) I counted eight of these lethal snares at the edge of moorland where sheep and inquisitive young lambs were grazing. One farmer admitted to finding one of his sheep with a badly lacerated leg. Another local farmer, in his seventies, was also brought down with one of these snares. Yet they are tolerated by farmers and shepherds alike. Live and let live is their attitude. There is room on the moor for everyone, including runners. Each to his own interests. I didn't bother to reset the snare as I hobbled off over the incongruous new bridge for the last seven miles of my run. My anger eventually melted in the sun's healing warmth and the soothing sounds of a myriad moorland birds. Maybe, next time, I'll remember to take my mobile phone!

Later, as I relaxed in the garden with a cooling drink, I heard a most beautiful sound, that wonderful distinctive twittering that heralds the arrival of summer.  Now, I know 'one Swallow doesn't make a summer' but there were four of them. Time to slap on the sun cream!

Arkendale 10K race

Sunnyside farm in the picturesque little village of Arkendale certainly lived up to its name. Blue skies, balmy Spring air and birdsong greeted us as we stepped from the car opposite the 'Bluebell' where the only occupant, a teddy bear, stared at us from the deserted dining room. Everyone else was going to the races. Due, we suspect, to Ripon's Jolly Holly Jog being re-scheduled to the day before the Arkendale race the number of entries was somewhat depleted although a few hardy souls ran both. Consequently, only half the imposed 400 limit lined up at the start which must have been a major disaster for the organisers. We were told the race would not be run again. It's a shame because Arkendale's quiet location is an ideal venue for runners and the whole organisation ran with clockwork precision. In addition to trade stalls there was tea, cakes and a barbeque for hungry runners. I would certainly have run it again.

More silverware for Old Runningfox

I lined up in the middle of the pack and at the appointed hour someone atop an elevated farm trailer shouted 'Go'.  200 runners surged along the slightly uphill farm track and out onto the road. Compared to my usual training routes this was comparatively flat so not much chance of making up ground on the downhill bits. In just over a mile we turned right down a rough track adjacent to the noisy A1 for the next mile or so. Then it was back onto tarmac for the approach to Coneythorpe where a marshall was shouting "93, 94, 95.." and I thought "What a coincidence consecutive race numbers should be running together, must be a block entry from some club...".  Then it dawned on me these were our race positions. Silly me!

Cliff Simm, MV80, at Arncliffe

I lost a couple of positions at the water station when I slowed to a walk to get some fluid down. It really takes my breath away and I struggle to get back into rhythm. Usually I can regain places lost, and so it was on this occasion. Back at Arkendale we were diverted into a vicious loop through a couple of long fields, over a footbridge and along a farm track back to the road. Wearing Roclites I was in my element over the rougher stuff and managed to move up two more places. In the latter stages of the race I cunningly drafted behind a tall well built gentleman I dubbed 'the man in black' and now it was his turn to be shown a clean pair of heels as we arced around the slightly bumpy, grassy field to the 'Finish'. I was 89th of 200 finishers in 51.30 - good enough to pick up yet more silverware for 1st MV70.
After the race I'd the pleasure of meeting Painted Runner - currently in her tapering stage before the London marathon - and the spritely, energetic Cliff Simm of Easingwold Running Club who scooted in to take the MV80 prize.
After a very pleasant day two happy but race-weary runners returned to Hebden for a meal at the Clarendon (courtesy of my wonderful partner's Canadian sister-in-law) that was rounded off nicely with sticky toffee pudding and a celebratory dram of Laphroig before retiring to bed. Racing days don't come much better!
Full results here:

Thirsk 10 mile race

New bit of bling....

The weather was cool with high cloud and hazy sunshine for Sunday's 10 mile Championship race at Thirsk. This was the race that was cancelled last November due to icy conditions, so all the trophies and T-shirts are dated 2010.  It was the flattest course I've raced on for quite some time, possibly years, and I'd quite forgotten how to handle it.  Apart from a slight incline over a railway bridge the rest was flat as the proverbial pancake. With almost 800 runners crammed into a narrow road for the Start I lined up as close to the front as I dared so as not to be held up. As a result I got carried away a bit fast, for me, averaging  7.41 over the first four miles. Inevitably, the old legs started to seize up and with the exception of another 7.41 for the sixth mile all the rest were in the 8's with an inexcusable 9.06 for the 8th mile. I finished 455th of 741 runners in 80.29 (chip time), fast enough to take the MV75 title in the Yorkshire Veterans Championship. That time also takes me top of the MV75 10 mile Rankings for 2011 though there are nine months left for someone to topple me.

....and a new T-shirt

I was a bit miffed about the lack of category prizes in the North of England Championship race that finished at MV70 and LV70. Considering pre-entries closed before race date, organisers knew full well there were runners in the MV75 and MV80 categories and, to my mind, should have catered for them in this prestigious event. They were even mean enough to limit prizes to the first two in the MV70 category (which was effectively three categories in one) as opposed to first three places in all the others. Anyhow, so far as I'm concerned I was 1st MV75 in the Northern Championship - albeit unofficially - along with the remarkable John Johnson of St Theresa's who turned out to prove he was best MV80 in the north. We train hard for these events and at our end of the age scale need all the encouragement we can get rather than being dismissed as eccentric old fuddy-duddies!  Rant over.

With limited training my wonderful partner and I both found this race particularly hard and returned home somewhat drained. Unlike the incredible Runningbear (1st lady in 58.38) who, along with her speedy partner (a PB of 58.01), chose to celebrate their victories at a local hostelry, we retired to bed early after our Sunday roast and a rather nice bottle of wine..

Today, I was back out running on the moor with the whirling plovers and warbling curlews for company whilst my wonderful partner somehow found energy for a bit of cavorting - aka Scottish country dancing. Roll on next weekend's 10K at Arkendale - I think!
Full results here:

Old age and decrepitude

A summary of last weeks activity - and reasons for inactivity.


Monday: Feeling a wee bit blah after fifteen miles at the weekend but set off in the morning on a regular 6 mile run to the hamlet of Yarnbury - and back. This scenic run incorporates two fast miles which I completed  in 6.52 and 6.48. I've run them faster, and recently, but was happy with the day's performance.

Tuesday: Maybe it's old age and decrepitude that every now and then manifests itself in what I call 'a banana back' when I've difficulty getting out of bed and walking is painful. With a very distinct lurch to starboard running is out of the question, and so it was today. At such times when I can hardly hobble out of the door I keep myself motivated by reading other people's running Blogs (like that of Julia Armstrong), or inspiring books (such as John L Parker's Once a Runner), or by affirming choice mantras like one recently sent me by Julie Reyes, aka The Hotlegs Runner, that simply states 'I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me' (Philippians 4:13). 

Julie's Mantra below the picture in my quiet corner

Wednesday/Thursday: My aching back continued to cramp activities so very little got done on these two days. I figured my body was trying to tell me something, i.e. "It's time to take a short rest from training activities, I'll let you know when you can start again". Yeah, OK body, message received.

In the meantime a large and exceedingly healthy looking rat was playing about on my lawn. It seemed to think food I'd put out for birds was intended for it, and maybe it's family, so was storing it in a neat little tunnel under the compost bin. It was fascinating to watch but might be different if six of its mates arrived, especially if I happened to be sunbathing on the lawn at the time! I phoned the pest control officer who plugged various holes with little sachets of something exceedingly nasty and assured me I wouldn't see the little critter again. 

Friday: Got out of bed to discover I could walk straight again. Had the pain really gone, or were the umpteen grams of Paracetamol merely masking it?  I decided to give it another day before running again - mainly because I didn't have much time anyway. I'd run out of food so there was shopping to do. Bulbs and seeds needed planting and other annoying little jobs reared their ugly heads. Ah, that necessary evil of good weather - gardening!

Saturday: Dawned warm and sunny, so couldn't resist donning shorts (for the first time this year) and vest to set off along the River Wharfe on one of my choice runs. My Garmin registered 10.42 miles for the out and back route and the good thing about it was it only took 7 seconds longer for the return leg from the turn-around point at Barden Bridge. Those few seconds might well have been eliminated if I hadn't slowed briefly to talk to a couple who were training for the Dales 100 mile race that takes place in May. When I caught up with them at Howgill they'd already covered 18 miles and still had another 6 or 7 to do on their way back to Grassington. Wish I could do that!

The afternoon was taken up introducing our next Methodist Minister, Rev Janet Clasper, to the delights of Hebden Chapel, in the Grassington Circuit, where she'll take up her preaching duties in early September. Important things for her to note were (a) the pulpit can only be accessed from the right side of the Chapel. If she enters by the steps on the left she's likely to fall down a hole at the back. And (b) there's an almost invisible swing-arm in the Communion rail to gain admittance, so no need to inelegantly stride over to take our offerings, or when administering the Sacrament.

Sunday: We'd intended parking at Barden Bridge and running a 5 mile circuit to Cavendish Pavillion, and back, but by 9.30 in the morning every available parking place was occupied by weekend visitors to this lovely stretch of the River Wharfe. We'd chosen that area because my wonderful partner had been thrilled to spot a Kingfisher when she ran there a few days previously. I wanted to see it too! Not wishing for a particularly long run after yesterday's 10 mile effort we backtracked along the road to find a suitable parking place and ran a different stretch of the river. It was a very pleasant and relaxed four miles, but no Kingfisher.

The evening was spent eating, drinking and generally being quite merry in the company of friends who'd recently returned from their earthquake ravaged home in Christchurch, New Zealand. Despite all the groans and grumbles about this country of ours, and how it's run, I'm not sure I'd like to live anywhere else!

Spring in my step

Last week was another reasonable one training-wise, with a tough 24 miles, but feel sure I'd achieve more if I'd a running partner of equal ability, or perhaps slightly faster, to sprinkle a bit of competitiveness into my solo efforts. Some years ago I trained with a a chap called Donald Bamforth, a butcher who sold some wonderful pies.  He was five years younger than me and ever so slightly faster. After a reasonable warm-up he'd say "Come on, time for an effort" and he'd be away like the clappers for anything up to a mile in distance with me nearly killing myself trying to catch him! 

Our runs were always off-road, often along one or more legs of the Calderdale Way Relay, anything up to 14 miles and hardly ever slower than 7½ minute mile pace. We'd no Garmins at that time, we just pressed 'Start' on our watches at the beginning of a run and 'Stop' at the end, so no way of knowing the exact speed we were running at any given time. I'd guess our 'efforts' were run at around 5½ - 6 minute mile pace. After 8 or 9 miles when I was feeling decidedly weary Donald would say "Come on, last one now" - and I'd think "Oh God, not another" - but it was amazing how the old legs would immediately respond, the adrenalin would kick in and I'd go all out to run him down. Donald boasted the distinction of having won the MV50 category in the London Marathon against tough world-wide opposition, and with his help and encouragement I emulated his performance by winning London's MV60 category - twice.

I miss those sessions. Nowadays all my serious training is done alone, no-one to chase down, no-one snapping at my heels, but the idea of 'efforts' still holds strong. On Saturday I went for a wild off-road run around Mossdale, a route of 11 miles with over 1,300ft of ascent. Towards the end, when I was slowing down and beginning to feel quite knackered, I suddenly imagined Donald's voice saying "Come on, time for an effort". Miraculously, my old legs sprang to life and I churned out a last mile at 7.15 pace. It just goes to show, the human body is capable of achieving far more than we'd normally think or allow.

Spring is in the air

Spring is early this year. On the very first day of March when morning frost contrasted sharply against a brilliant blue sky the countryside was alive with birdsong.  Scores of new lambs snuggled up to their mums in sunlit fields around Bolton Abbey. Catkins shook like little lamb's tails in the gentle breeze. In village gardens crocuses saluted the sun, opening their purple, white and yellow petals to full extent. A local farmer said his fields had never looked so green so early in the year.

On Saturday we were joined by my eldest son for a walk around Burnsall in the morning and Hebden Ghyll in the afternoon. Alasdair is an environmentallist and wildlife enthusiast whose keen observations alerted us to all the exquisite sights and sounds of an enchanting day. Like the Dipper that bobbed and curtsied on his favourite stone before disappearing under the gushing waters of the Wharfe for some tasty morsel. Like the striking male Goosander that rode the rapids with his three crested wives. Like the Oyster Catchers, Lapwings and Curlews that filled the air with their joyous pipings. Like the wonderfully formed multi-coloured lichens which, when magnified, resembled miniature coral reefs. Like the recently arrived Redshank that sifted through the sandy shore of Mossy Mere. It was a truly memorable day that ended with a celebratory meal and a suitable vintage to mark the occasion.

High pressure dominated throughout the weekend as Sunday dawned clear and bright over a sparkling frosty landscape. After re-charging my batteries with some lusty singing at morning Eucharist I changed into running gear and set off along the banks of the Wharfe for a 'long run'. Not so long ago, in marathon training days, I would have clocked 18 - 22 miles. Nowadays, in my dotage, I rarely run more than 10. However, I have a 10 mile Championship race coming up on March 27th so felt obliged to run at least that distance, if not a little more. My Garmin actually registered 10.18 miles in a comfortable 1 hour 44 mins.  Enough!

In spite of aching quads and painful backache I couldn't resist taking advantage of further good weather on Monday to slot in a bit of speedwork. After a couple of Paracetamols for breakfast I eased myself into gear with a two mile jog past the waterfall in Hebden Ghyll as far as Yarnbury. From the high point of Moor Lane, I unleashed a fast measured mile towards Grassington in 7.06. After another steady jog along Edge Lane and Tinker Lane I churned out another fast mile in exactly 7.00 minutes. It might have been faster if some agricultural vehicle hadn't got in the way down a narrow part of the track!  From there on it was only a short jog home to complete a scenic six mile circuit.

And that, you might like to know, is how aspiring octagonarians spend their Spring weekends!

Huddersfield Road Runners 10K race

For last Sunday's race the forecast was for fine weather, but a coolish 36ºF - ideal for racing - and for once it was right. Entries had reached the limit of 600 runners several days before the event so there were no entries on the day. We arrived in plenty of time to hydrate, locate changing rooms and showers and have loo stops before a longish warm-up to ease the old muscles into smooth working order.

At 11am prompt a hooter sounded.  We were away. After a flat 150m around the front of the sumptuous clubhouse in Lockwood the route began to climb, up, up and up again for over two lung-bursting miles through the village of Netherton till I began to wonder if there was any strength left in my old legs to prevent them buckling at the next section down Crosland Factory Lane. They survived, but not as well as those young whippersnappers who came thundering by with no respect for geriatric joggers!
We looped left, crossed a rushy dike and began another steady climb almost back into Netherton. I could grow to hate that place!  My quads were singing by now and it took a little time to get into full flow down Moor Lane and Bankfoot Lane to the five mile point at Armitage Bridge where we crossed the River Holme.  Here, I managed to sneak past two younger club mates I'd been shadowing since the start.

Profile of Huddersfield 10K

After yet another short steep ascent we burst out onto the busy Woodhead road with easy going to the six mile marker before a flat, fast bit of tarmac along Waterside to the Finish.

I placed 233th of 491 finishers in 52.33 so was well satisfied with my performance over this strenuous course with its cumulative 1,000ft of ascent. It's some time since I finished in the leading half of the field so figure my training must be paying dividends. All finishers received a classy Fruit of the Loom T-shirt emblazoned with Huddersfield Road Runners logo.

To make it an extra special day my wonderful partner's 433 placing and time of 64.21 gave her 1st place in the LV65 category, 7 minutes ahead of the LV60 winner. We each received vouchers to the value of £25.00 towards running related products.

It was a good day all round for our club, Longwood Harriers, for besides our two category wins, in the MV75 and LV65, Ian Mitchell won the MV55 category, Donald Kennedy took the MV45 prize and Brian Boothroyd the MV80 title.  The Longwood raiding party was in top gear!  Full results here.

Back to La Palma

Hotel Playa La Taburiente                                   

It felt so good to escape our chilly British winter and languish in the soothing warmth of La Palma in the beautiful Spanish Canary Islands.  Our Hotel, the Taburiente Playa in the resort of Los Cancajos, boasted four stars and pampered us like Royalty. Neither of us have ever seen such a vast variety of excellent food that catered for every nationality and taste, carnivore or vegetarian. It was awfully tempting to overeat but after the first day of unbridled indulgence I gave my greedy belly a good talking to and disciplined myself to concentrate on healthier choices of fish, salads and fruit, albeit in quite large amounts with just the right measure of wine to aid the digestive processes! 

The temperature in the pool hovered between 25º - 27º so was always warm enough for swimming, even for nesh Yorkshire people who can be a bit reluctant to doff their woolly hats and mufflers! Between walks and runs we spent many hours in or around the pool soaking up the sun, watching the world go by - or in my case unashamedly taking sneaky peeks at topless ladies!

Bougainvillea

La Palma is reputedly the steepest island in the world, a walker's paradise but a little exhausting for runners, particularly very old runners, like me!  But on eight occasions, to keep ticking over, we ran our breakfasts off with an undulating 4 mile loop around our resort before cooling off and recuperating by the pool. 

On other days we took off into the hills reaching heights of around 6,000ft on a couple of occasions, on Pico Bejenado and Pico Birigoyo, and almost 6,500ft on the day we walked/jogged the 19km chain of seven volcanoes from El Pilar to Fuencaliente in the south of the island. Thankfully, none of the volcanoes on the island have erupted since 1971. The Caldera de Taburiente, six miles across and a mile deep, is said by some to be the largest volcanic crater on earth. It's rim around the 8,000ft contour, almost twice the height of Ben Nevis, was draped in snow and inaccessible for much of the time. We never got there.

Running the Volcano route

Neither did we venture into the lush rain forest area to the north of the island on this occasion, but many of the places we did visit were equally flambuoyant. Laurel, Canary Pine, Prickly Pear, Palm, Orange and Lemon trees, White Broom, Dragon trees and countless acres of Banana plantations covered the landscape. Flowers were everywhere, of every colour, and wherever there were flowers there were butterflies. Frustratingly, we could put names to very few of them but our hearts were always uplifted by the masses of Bougainvillea adorning gaily coloured walls and patios. Kestrels hovered over the bare lava fields, presumably hunting lizards. Chaffinches begged for food on the very summit of Pico Bejenado and in many places shiny black Choughs honoured us with their striking presence.

Almond blossom

To the west of the island Almond trees carpet the slopes with delicate pink blossoms. To celebrate the occasion a festival is held at Puntagorda on the first weekend in February when crowds fill the streets in their thousands for music and dancing, eating and drinking - and in some cases maybe imbibing a little to excess. Perhaps it's an indication of how enthusiastically they tend to celebrate when local police and ambulances were lined up to presumably deal with any emergency that might arise. So too was the local Fire Engine, though I'm not sure why. Maybe they were just intent upon enjoying the festival along with everyone else.

Many of the people holidaying on the island were from the same area of Yorkshire as us, three of them living less than 7 miles away in the village of Meltham where we ran our 10K race only hours before flying south.  One of them, Martin who'd spent four years learning to speak fluent Spanish, was good enough to share a taxi to El Pilar on the day we scorched along the volcano route. Another, along with his charming wife, was a gentleman called Andy Styan who is something of a legend in fell-running circles on account of his longstanding record in the Langdale Horseshoe race. He ran the 14 miles with 4,000ft of rocky ascent in 1:55:03. That record was set way back in 1977 and no-one has yet broken it. It was a privilege to shake his hand and I just hope some of his speed and prowess rubs off on me! I'll soon find out.  My next race is less than two weeks away.

A bumper week

Last week was a bumper week mileage-wise, the old Runningfox having clocked up a grand total of 39 with some fairly fast ones - five @ average 7.18 pace and lots of 48 sec intervals @ average 6.45 pace. I'm not quite sure why (!) though there's a 10K race at Meltham this weekend (Jan 30th) which I might do if I don't get too excited about jetting off to La Palma in the Canary Islands a few hours later for some warm weather training. A New Year resolution was to try to do twelve races, one for each month of the year, so Meltham is very much on the cards.

Maybe 39 miles was a few too many because I'm currently feeling a bit Blah, though my powers of recovery, especially when the adrenalin starts flowing, are usually pretty good. Not having raced since the Derwentwater 10 last November I'm dying to know how my 2011 form measures against that of my geriatric contemporaries. Have the festive indulgences, and restricted training in all the snow, taken their toll?  Or has the rest been beneficial? I can't wait to find out.

 Addendum: Well, we did run the Meltham 10K race after all and conditions were perfect, a bit chilly as we lined up for the start but cool enough to keep the sweat down as we got under way over the rolling Pennine hills. Not being a 'morning' person I was feeling the pressure a bit with the 9.30am start but soon settled into a steady rhythm that got me round in 51.56, enough to win the MV75 category and beat the MV70 winner in the process. My finishing position was 206 from 363 finishers. So well satisfied. My wonderful Longwood Harrier partner clocked 63.02 in 332nd position, one place ahead of the legendary Ron Hill.
Full results here:

After the storm

It started raining on Friday evening, driven by a fierce westerly wind that rattled the Holly bush and arm wrestled the Silver Birch. It continued all weekend until the Wharfe burst its banks, flooding fields and  footpaths. Hills were cloaked in grey mist, streets deserted and smoke blowing in the lane as we stoked our fire against the dank chill. The only time we ventured out was to bring in more coal, more logs. Then, as we lay in bed on Sunday night, stars appeared one by one through gaps in the cloud and an almost full moon sailed majestically past our window, its silvery light creeping stealthily across the room, across our bed. What bliss. The storm was over.

On Monday morning after three days of slothful inactivity the temptation to lace up my Trail shoes and go for a run was irresistable. I'd mileage to make up so I opted for a favourite ten mile route along the riverbank to Barden Bridge - and back. The temperature had risen to double figures. Blackbirds were churning out their melodious tunes as if it were Spring. Mallard must have thought likewise for most of them were already paired, ducks bedazzled by the drake's gaudy plumage.

Water levels had dropped considerably though the river was still in noisy spate.   The path on which I was running to Barden had dried out remarkably fast. I waved to a heron that flapped lazily upstream on umbrella wings but, except for a neighbour with her dog and a friendly farmer at Woodhouse, there was nary a soul to be seen along the whole stretch of river to Barden Bridge. To find a better viewpoint for a picture of the bridge I decided to cross it. That done, and still feeling strong, I continued running for another mile, as far as the next bridge at roughly six miles. 

This was a bit farther than my computer brain had been programmed for, but I was enjoying it. The sun was out and I could feel it's wondrous warmth on my body as I turned for home with only my silent shadow for company. Hebden beck was still in spate as I crossed my last bridge by the Fish Farm.

My Garmin recorded 12.05 miles. It had taken 2 hours 8 minutes, not a great rate of knots but all the more enjoyable for taking time to absorb all the unfolding miracles of a rather magical day.

Ajit

An article in a fitness supplement of last Saturday's 'Guardian' about my old friend Ajit Singh brought back some very happy memories of our early association. I first met Ajit on a sultry July afternoon in 1992 after the last runners had crossed the line in the Pennine Marathon. My attention was drawn to a diminutive turbaned figure at the edge of the crowd watching the prize-giving. I doubt if he weighed 7st, his spindly legs were bandaged to above his knees and he sported the long grey beard and moustache of a typical Sikh. To my amazement his name was called to collect a prize in the MV60 category. He'd just completed this strenuous marathon with it's 2,000ft of ascent in 3.51.27. Here was a man I just had to get to know and it wasn't long before we became firm friends.

As a 'good for age' veteran he'd automatic entry into London '93 and insisted I should apply for an entry too to run it with him.  

"Sorry Ajit, I can't possibly afford a night in London, I'm out of work and on the breadline". 

"No problem, you can stay with me and my friends in Dagenham, it wont cost you a penny" he said. 

"But it costs money to get to London, and I don't like big cities". I countered. 

"It's only £15 return fare on the coach" he said, "you must come, you will easily beat all the over 60's".

Eventually I gave way to his positive persuasion, sent off the appropriate form and was granted a 'good for age' entry. 

Ajit - No. 22168

Thankfully, Ajit was familiar with London so knew where to pick up our numbers, where to catch the Tube to Dagenham and how to get to Blackheath for the start of the race the following morning. He made everything seem so easy. His friends and relations treated me royally, so I arrived at the Start Line in the form of my life, well rested, well fed and well prepared.

Only yards from the front of the Red Start I was over the line in seconds and straight onto automatic pilot, closing eyes and ears to all the race day razzmatazz and focusing all my faculties on the job in hand. My body responded like some well oiled machine programmed to get from A to B in the shortest possible time. Apart from obvious landmarks like Cutty Sark, Tower Bridge, Canary Wharf, I remember very little about the race, no elation (or otherwise) at the finish, or quite where I met Ajit to be guided to Victoria Bus Station for the journey home to Huddersfield. All I wanted was to get out of London as quickly as possible. I felt terribly claustrophobic. I hate crowds, I can't stand noise! 

It wasn't until three days later that the reality of what I'd done finally began to sink in and invoke an air of well deserved smugness. I'd picked up a copy of 'Athletics Weekly' in WH Smiths, turned to the Results section and learned what Ajit predicted had indeed come true. My time of 2.54.18 was good enough to win the MV60 title among runners from all four corners of the earth in what many regard as the world's most prestigious marathon, a virtual World Championship. 

I am deeply indebted to Ajit for bringing about one of the highlights of my racing career. Without his friendly persuasion and help of his friends in Dagenham I would never have got to London. Maybe it was something to do with his Sikh religion that Ajit experienced great joy from being the catalyst of my success. At the Pennine marathon he'd recognized a wee spark within me and fanned it into a flame. Thankyou Ajit, you are a truly magnanimous and wonderful friend to whom I'll be eternally grateful.

A time out from running

Village carol singers

I'm back, from the Yorkshire Dales, after celebrating the Holy birth and welcoming the New Year in some style!  For a period of twelve relaxing days it felt marvellous to be cut off from the world in a tiny village, away from my computer with absolutely no television, just a couple of newspapers and occasional snippets of news on the radio. Carol singers were out with their lamps and lanterns, braving the bitter conditions, harmonizing their voices around the village on Christmas Eve with all monies collected being donated to charity. Being somewhat croaky with the remains of a cold I declined to join them. 

For much of the time we couldn't get out of the village. Although there were Severe Weather warnings we tried  to get to the Ribble Valley 10K race in Lancashire on 27th but ungritted roads were like glass so we returned to the comfort of our warm cottage. It later transpired the race had been cancelled after a milk tanker slid down a hill blocking a bridge part way along the course. 

Christmas dinner

In spite of our lack of activity (no running at all between Christmas Eve and New Years day) we consumed a vast amount of food, though not the traditional Turkey. There are far too many days-worth of meat on a Turkey for our small athletic frames to cope with. And besides, we discovered a couple of years ago we can purchase a fair sized Chicken, a joint of Pork, a joint of Beef rump, lots of streaky bacon and Pigs in Blankets, giving us much more variation, all for less than the price of a Turkey. So we repeated that order again. Amazingly, after consuming a mountain of these calorific goodies and some delectable vintages my weight remained constant, though I dare say the fat/muscle ratio may have changed a little!

Icicles on Rivwr Wharfe at Linton Falls

For the first time in thirty years stretches of the River Wharfe froze from bank to bank. Temperatures dropped to -10ºC creating problems with burst pipes in local houses and farms. Even our Methodist Chapel fell foul of an act of God so our Covenant Service was conducted in perishingly cold conditions. Ironically, it was one of the best attended of the year with insufficient Service Books to go round and more wine having to be sent for half way through Communion!

Hungry Heron by the fish farm

We're normally in Scotland to celebrate New Year but after some tricky experiences with roads and weather last year we reluctantly stayed at home this time. Instead we invited friends around on New Year's Eve for a traditional Scots supper of haggis (suitably saturated with a wee dram of Famous Grouse), tatties and neeps followed by rich Christmas pudding and brandy sauce to hold it down. A somewhat larger dram of single Islay Malt accompanied the midnight chimes amid cries of HAPPY NEW YEAR to us and all our friends. I'm not sure whose idea it was, though possibly mine, it was then decided the New Year might possibly be made even Happier with further applications of that wonderful amber nectar. We retired to bed at half past one, merry as Christmas!  That little session marked the Grande Finale to our festive activities. Nine hours later, after 2011 had dawned dull and grey with an arctic north wind sweeping down from Great Whernside and across the moor, I went out and ran ten miles.

Afterwards, as I climbed onto our new-fangled bathroom scales I learned my weight is exactly the same as it was pre-Christmas, body fat measures 17%, visceral fat 7% and my BMI remains at 22.1  It will be interesting to monitor these figures throughout the year. Ideally, I'd like to get my body fat down to around 13% but that means a lot of running, quite a bit more than the 944 miles I churned out in 2010.

Time for reflection

And here's a final thought for you to ponder as you ease into 2011. A septuagenarian fell running acquaintence, George Arnold of Preston Harriers, was asked by his doctor "Have you been a runner all your life?" George replied "No, not yet!"  I like that. None of us have reached completion yet. We are all 'work in progress' striving towards wholeness and our ultimate goal.  To paraphrase what Paul says in Phillipians 4  v13-14, "One thing I do, forgetting what is behind (in 2010) and straining towards what is ahead (in 2011) I press on towards the goal to win the prize for which God has called me". 

A Very Happy New Year to all my fellow Bloggers, readers, and all our loved ones.

Runningfox routes (3)

Along the Wharfe.

Due to treacherous icy conditions on the hills in and out of Grassington we'd to abandon the car three miles from home on Saturday morning and walk the rest of the way on untreated roads.  After half an hour two snow ploughs came hurtling by, as if they were racing, but neither was salting or gritting. That came later. We got our car home around mid-afternoon. A bottle of neat Concentrated Screen Wash buried under our shopping in the boot had frozen!

Snow ploughs - at speed

Sunday was a truly magnificent day when we couldn't resist going for a run. With a covering of snow and temperatures down to -10ºC the landscape glittered like diamonds under a mainly cloudless sky. We opted for one of our regular runs along the River Wharfe where long flat fields are ideal for fast repetitions or fartlek sessions. Each of us wore Yaktrax to ensure we stayed upright.

Leaving the village on a slippery road

Winter wonderland by the River Wharfe, though a bit cold for the
resident Goosanders, Mallard, Heron and Little Grebe

Striding out towards Linton Falls in her Yaktrax

Feed my sheep.......

Linton Parish Church, St Michael and All Angels,
 a place of worship since the 12th century

Gulls on the river by the old corn mill at Linton

The 'Tin bridge' over Linton Falls

The weir above Linton Falls - the farthest point of our run today

Mist rising from the river by Hebden suspension bridge

Stepping stones for those who prefer not to use the bridge

Nearly home after a stonking good run!

Yaktrax

Last year when people were crawling across the streets of Huddersfield on hands and knees, terrified of standing up on the treacherous black ice, my wonderful partner's Canadian sister-in-law sent me a pair of Yaktrax to hopefully keep me upright. Typically, there was an instant thaw! 

Sunset by Victoria Tower, Castle Hill

So it wasn't until the recent freezing conditions that I was able to give them a test drive. On a day when temperatures plummetted to -18ºC in Yorkshire I strapped them to my Trail shoes and set off across the gleaming white landscape bound for the highest point on the horizon, a place called Castle Hill which, at 900ft above sea level, is where I do most of my repetition runs. I call it altitude training.

I must say the Yaktrax performed far better than I'd expected considering that under my feet was nothing but rock hard shiny snow/ice. I didn't slip once. I was a little frightened they might spring off my Trail shoes when I moved fast but the rubber bindings never moved.

It was wonderful to wander in sub zero temperatures on top of the world, in the shadow of Victoria Tower, with absolutely no fear of slipping or sliding. Whilst many elderly people were afraid to venture outside their warm homes this happy septuagenarian was marvelling at the breathtaking sunset as the great ball of fire gouged a great hole in the western horizon. I like my Yaktrax.