Harrogate 10K road race

     There wasn't a cloud in the sky as we set off to run the Harrogate 10K road race on Sunday. The lightest of breezes was struggling to turn the lofty turbines as we passed the wind farm near Kettlesing. We parked by Valley Gardens, resplendent with summer flowers, where runners were already beginning to warm up though the race was still more than an hour away.

     We walked to the Start/Finish area to view the list of runners and assess the opposition. Was the speedy Ian Barnes entered - the MV75 Darlington Harrier who beat me at Kilburn? No. Was Barbara Robins there, the LV65 Bridlington Harrier who beat my wonderful partner at Kilburn? Yes, drat! However, we discovered it didn't really matter for either of us when we read the Prize list pinned to the notice board. Although both the Entry Form and Harrogate Harrier's website said there were prizes in ALL VETERAN CATEGORIES this was simply not the case. We were a little annoyed to find there was neither an MV75 or LV65 category. Another lady was complaining there was no LV55 category - not that she'd any chance of winning it, she said, but chance would be a fine thing!  The race director apologized when I had a word with him and intimated an MV80 category might be introduced next year! Perhaps they might also print a true list of prize categories on their entry forms. 

Old Runningfox - storming home

     However, we were there, it was an absolutely beautiful day, so we might as well make the most of it. As we jogged to the Start a gentleman from the Harrogate Advertiser insisted on taking our photograph for publication in his paper. We can't imagine why.

     With over 500 runners crammed into a narrow street things were a bit congested so I stationed myself just behind the 40 minute marker to get a reasonably good start. I'm not sure why because the first two miles are predominantly uphill so I couldn't run very fast anyway, but at least I could get into my race pace sooner.

     Whether it was the heat or my lack of fitness, I was struggling so much on those first two miles I was wondering however I'd repeat them on the second lap? Thankfully, on turning into Cornwall Road I was able to recover on the gentle downhill back into the Town centre where there was a welcome drinks station. I knew without looking at my watch that I was slowing down the second time around but, strangely enough, I was beginning to pass some very weary looking runners a few of whom were taking walk breaks. I breathed an audible sigh of relief as I turned down Cornwall Road for the last time, knowing it was downhill, with the exception of the last 80 yards, all the way to the Finish. 

     How is it, in the last couple of hundred yards of a race, I seem to change from a clapped out old Morris Minor to a sleek supercharged Porsche? As I lengthened my stride to ease past the flying Emma Prentis of Edinburgh University the race commentator shouted my name, announcing me as the oldest man in the race, and invoking loud applause as I stormed over the line in 51.47 - 298th of 541 finishers. On a demanding course, and on a hot day, my wonderful partner was quite happy with her 62.32 in 484th position overall.
     Unofficially (because there isn't a category) I 'think' I hold the MV75 course record at Haroogate - 48.04 set in 2009 - but I'm sure the incredible Harold Dobson, who took the MV70 prize in 48.19 on Sunday, will have something to say about that when he moves into the MV75 category this September.
     Most unusually, we didn't stay around for the prize giving. Although it would have felt great to lie on the grass in that wonderful atmosphere we made our way home to soak up the sun and re-hydrate in our own garden. 

     The Harrogate 10K is a wonderful race, excellently organised and well marshalled, one we shall undoubtedly run again when, hopefully, they'll have the courage to abide by what they proclaim in their advertising material - prizes in ALL veteran categories.

Full results here:

A very special day...

Together after the Langdale ½ marathon, 2010

    Last weekend marked a very special anniversary. In July 1991 I received a note from a casual acquaintance, a friend of a friend, asking if I'd like to accompany her to the Lake District and help devise a route she was planning to do with her mountaineering club a few weeks later. The plan was to camp in Eskdale for a couple of nights, reconnoitre the route on our first day to ascertain whether it was feasible, then do our own thing on the second day.  "I'll bring all the food and cooking gear" she assured me, "just bring your sleeping bag".

   As she opened the boot of her car to unload our gear at a campsite in the wilds of Eskdale a curious look of concern spread over her face. 

Wild camp in the Western Isles, 2009

    "Where's your tent?" she asked. 

    "Er...I didn't bring one, you told me to just bring a sleeping bag" I reminded her. The rest, as they say, is history. 

    Last Sunday we awoke together after twenty glorious and unforgettable years. Curiously, we've never been back to that spot in Eskdale though we've since camped in wilder and equally beautiful places; by otter-haunted shorelines on remote Hebridean islands, by laughing rivers and sparkling waterfalls in deserted glens, beneath the Eiger and other Alpine giants where, amongst other things, we've run the Eiger Trail and climbed the Schwartzhorn during our annual jaunts to Grindelwald and Kandersteg. 

Climbing on the Schwartzhorn, 2008

    We've raced together on British roads and Spanish promenades, through Swiss forests and manicured vineyards in the World Masters Mountain Running Championship, waded rivers and run the high hills of energy-sapping fell races and tough off-road Trails in the Cumbrian hills.

    We've talked and run with 'Island Parish' celebrities in the Scillies. We celebrated my 70th birthday at a wild camp in Glen Shiel while walking and running some rough miles to complete the last 23 of 284 Munros (Scottish mountains over 3,000ft) when many of the high tops were swathed in snow and ice. Many of our exploits and victories have been chronicled in the local press. We even appeared, albeit briefly, in 'Calendar Girls'' a popular film that swept the nation.  

After The World Masters Mountain Running
Championships, Switzerland, 2006

   We've run the hills and shorelines of Crete, Grand Canaria, Fuerteventura, Lanzarote and La Palma.

    On annual Great Outdoor Challenges we've backpacked our way through some of Scotland's most spectacular scenery from Strathcarron and Lochailort in the west to a seemingly faraway Montrose on the eastern seaboard. 

    Remarkably, in all those years there has never been a raised voice, argument or cross word between us.  We've learned to accept each other just as we are, warts and all.

Here's to the next 20 years - La Palma, 2011

   I didn't hear very much of the sermon in Church last Sunday, in fact I couldn't concentrate much on anything at all. "What page are we supposed to be on?" I'd to ask the person behind me. My mind was too busy reminiscing about those twenty action-packed years and privately thanking God for all the manifold blessings bestowed upon us since that fateful day, July 17th 1991, after we'd eventually come to terms with having just the one tent. Judging by our amazing experiences since then, I reckon God has either long ago forgiven my frivolous misdemeanour or, what is more likely, He jolly well arranged it!.

Kilburn Feast 7 mile race

Bee orchid

     It's been a relaxing weekend of walks by the Wharfe, bee and butterfly orchids, strawberries and cream, raspberry meringues, roast pork and crackling, wines from France and Portugal, bimbling through Burnsall.....and a scenic seven mile race thrown in for good measure.

     It felt good to be back racing again after three months on the sidelines with a dodgy calf muscle. Our recent two weeks holiday in the slightly warmer climate of Cornwall apparently worked wonders, though I must admit to feeling a little anxious, wondering how the affected muscle would react to the stress of racing.  I needn't have worried. All went well.

     It was raining heavily as we arrived in Kilburn. The main street was deserted, stalls were covered and the Start/Finish line across the road was in danger of being washed away. We sat in the car hoping it would abate.  Shortly before the race gaps appeared in the clouds, the sun broke through, the road steamed and runners arrived in their hundreds. After a short warm-up we lined up for the 2 o'clock start. 

At the Start/Finish line on a deserted wet street

     My usual tactics are to set off towards the front of the pack so as not to lose time at the start, then settle into my race pace as the pack thins out before winding things up towards the finish. At Kilburn I started farther back and ran a slower than usual first mile to monitor my recovering calf muscle.
     The route is quite hilly (though the race organiser calls it 'undulating') so my mile splits were rather erratic: 7.52, 8.22, 8.14, 9.12, 8.57, 9.16, 8.08 and 55 secs for the last 351yds. Guess where the hills were.

     I finished in 61.01, about ¾ minute faster than last year, and in 171st place of 308 finishers. After the race we all congregated at the Village Hall for our free sandwiches, cake and tea as we waited for the race adjudicators to compile the results.

Runners passing the White Horse

     Unfortunately, in the MV75 category I was beaten by the same person who beat me last year, the speedy Ian Barnes of Darlington Harriers who also ran a faster time than last year. The good news is, when I run this race next year I'll be competing as an MV80, a category above Ian, so will have two or three years respite before he catches up again.

     In the LV65 category my wonderful partner's 74.56 was only good enough for second place against the excellent 71.07 of Barbara Robins running for Bridlington Road Runners. However, there was consolation for both of us as all finishers over 65 years of age were awarded a free bottle of wine to either celebrate or drown our sorrows, as the case may be. 

     There was a humorous end to these proceedings when, by some oversight, my name failed to appear on the list of twenty nine eligable recipients. 

Courting couple

    "Hey" I shouted as he was about to wrap things up, "I'm 79 so surely qualify for a bottle".

      "Blimey, at your age it's not wine you want mate, it's Sanatogen" he quipped and winked as an excellent bottle of Portugese red was slipped into my hand! According to Stuart Pailor, the race organiser, all their wines are recommended by Jane McQuity of The Times. None of your 3 for £10 rubbish!

    I can highly recommend Kilburn, famous for it's 150 year old White Horse and Mouseman associations, to all who live within travelling distance. The race is run in conjunction with the Village Feast incorporating a hog roast, crockery smashing, children's face painting, a hole in one game, various stalls, a clown and stirring music from a Thirsk band. There is also a quality gift shop and tempting cafe at the Mouseman Centre.  

     Interestingly, according to the race instruction leaflet, car parking depends on the silage harvest!
Full results here:

We're back.....

The seven mile route that decided I was fit to race again.

  ...after our annual camping holiday at Higher Moor in beautiful Cornwall where the weather once again did us proud.  I'm privileged to have a partner who not only shares my passion for running but actively encourages it. This year she ran on all fourteen days and managed to clock up more miles than my own 63! Mind you, I was nursing a persistent calf injury at the start of our holiday but, after a lot of Stick and stimulating massage, it came good again during our second week. So good, in fact, that I allowed myself to be talked into running the Kilburn 7 mile race on July 10th which will be our first race since Arkendale back in April.  Prior to giving consent I'd to satisfy myself I could actually get the distance so, armed with my Garmin, I set off running and didn't stop until the infernal instrument had registered more than seven miles. In spite of undulations amounting to nearly a thousand feet of ascent I felt reasonably good so our Entry Forms were duly posted. I can't wait to race again.

Can't see the grass for flowers

     We share other passions too, mostly connected with the great outdoors.  Strangely enough we sometimes walk (!) usually ladened with camera and binoculars to observe and photograph flowers, butterflies, birds and other creatures of the wild. One of our missions this year was to go seal hunting to a little island off Kelsey Head where we'd seen odd ones on previous visits. We chose a time when the tide was ebbing and revealing rocky skerries that appeared to rise out of the sea. We watched, fascinated, as the seals homed in and eased themselves onto these rocks soon to be left high and dry in the sun's heat as the tide receded. On one occasion we counted nineteen, some of them huge bull seals that voiced their disapproval to any others trying to share the same rock.

Friendly lizard

     We found fields, bordered with wild roses, where you could hardly see the grass for masses of blood-red poppies, white and red campion, blue scabious and others I couldn't put a name to - but I've no doubt my wonderful partner could.  Red and white lily pads floated on the fisherman's pond whilst round the edges purple loosestrife, fragrant water mint and giant Chilean Gunnera grew in rich profusion.  Wild thyme and yellow bedstraw cushioned the edges of turfy paths we ran on each morning whilst a myriad butterflies danced on the scented breeze. We almost trod on a green lizard sunning itself unconcernedly on the path though resident adders were keeping a low profile.

Ready for the morning run

     We also share a passion for such delicacies as local Cornish steak pasties piping hot from the Treago Farm shop, for Rodda's Cornish cream on freshly baked scones with strawberry jam, for tasty barbequed chickens served with mixed herb salads straight from the garden of John and Sue Dennett at Higher Moor where we camp. For an extra special treat before returning home we trot along to the Cosy Nook tea garden and restaurant in Crantock, usually for a mouthwatering steak, but on this occasion we opted for grilled lamb cutlets with a viscious nut chocolate sundae to round things off. This establishment is unlicenced but welcoming staff encourage diners to bring their own tipple. Glasses are provided and there is no corkage charge.

      So that's what we did for a whole two weeks - ran in the morning, stuffed ourselves silly to replace all the calories we'd burned, imbibed just sufficient wine to help things on their way and repeated this each day till it was time to come home. If this is what's called a catch 22 situation, bring it on!

How it all began....

     Like thousands of others I started running to lose weight and restore my neglected body to some sort of fitness. Manual work had kept me reasonably fit, together with frequent excursions into the hills at weekends, walking, rock climbing and mountaineering. When Maggie's axe fell in the early 80's I found myself with no work and no money to pursue my al fresco hobbies. My marriage broke up too, though not acrimoniously. We agreed to differ and go our different ways. It was the end of an era but, little did I know, it was to be the start of another.

     It was on April 9th, 1986 when I took my first tentative steps into the wonderful world of 'jogging', completing an off-road circuit round the fields which I estimated as one mile. On the 2nd and 3rd days I ran two miles and on the 4th day I ran three. Shortly afterwards I joined a 'jogging' class at Huddersfield Sports Centre led by a chap called Alan Taylor, a very good marathon runner. Under Alan's guidance and supervision I was transformed from a jogger into a 'runner'. It was Alan who persuaded me to run my first race, a 2½ mile fell section (with 800ft ascent) as part of a four man relay team. We came away with 24 cans of beer! In September of the same year I was talked into running two 10K's and two ½ marathons thus achieving my first ever PB's - 42.34 and 92.56. I ran eight races before the end of 1986.
      The following year I continued to improve my PB's with a 41.59 10K, 63.36 for 10 miles and 85.33 for the half marathon. 

Pennine marathon trophy, the first thing I ever won.

I reckoned it was time to have a crack at the big one, and the 'big' one' so far as Huddersfield was concerned, was the Pennine Marathon held each year on the first Sunday in July.  It wasn't a popular race. It had too many hills amounting to around 2,000ft of ascent - all very well for those of us who happened to be mountaineers!

     374 runners lined up for the start on what turned out to be the hottest day of the year. After only 15 months of running I wasn't sufficiently experienced to have a race plan. Nor had I done much training. In the twelve weeks prior to the race I'd only averaged 23 miles per week and two of those weeks were spent on a coast to coast walk across the Highlands of Scotland!  I didn't even have a watch to record my splits. Time wasn't a factor. My sole intention was to survive and, by some miracle, I did.

     I crossed the 'Finish' line in 3.30.04, in 82nd position of 316 finishers.  58 runners failed to finish due to cramp, blisters, dehydration and heat exhaustion. I was one of the lucky ones but totally knackered and quite surprised I could still walk!  "Let's get home so I can have a good soak in the bath" I said to my sister, but she wanted to stay to watch the prize-giving.  I collapsoed on the grass, wallowing in the luxury of warm sunshine on my aching muscles.

     Then something happened that changed the course of my life. My name was called out and as I struggled to my feet people were clapping, I was being photographed, almost in tears as they presented me with a silver cup and £25 gift voucher for winning the MV55 category. I was dumbstruck, just couldn't believe what was happening to me.  I'd never won anything in my life before and here I was stood on a platform receiving the adulations of the crowd for coming first of my age in a MARATHON of all things.

     I struggled to hide my emotions as my sister drove me home. When she dropped me off I went in the house, locked the door and cried like a baby, thanking God for what I considered could only have been a miracle. 

     That was 24 years ago but I remember it as though it was yesterday and still shed the odd tear of joy when I look at the trophy and remember the crowd praising my performance.  It was a humbling experience. I've never been the same person since!

Motivation, perspiration.....

       Last week I'd a bit of a clear out. My wardrobes, cupboards and drawers have got so full I'm hanging things over the backs of chairs, dumping them in corners or up the sides of the stairs. More cupboards would solve the problem but neither Oxfam nor British Heart Foundation have yet come up with anything suitable. So I've been busy rooting out clothes and clobber that are surplus to requirements and putting them quietly to sleep.

      Among items disposed of were between twenty and thirty race T-shirts many of which had hardly been worn. Most ot them were too big. In days gone by I guess race organisers were of the opinion that most of the entries would be from fun-running rugby players. Nowadays there is usually a box to tick on the entry form to indicate what size you require.

      I've kept a few of the more meaningful ones. I don't normally train in T-shirts, preferring sleeveless vests with RUNNINGFOX emblazoned across the back, my internet name I try to live up to. However, today was an exception. From the remaining few I chose a shirt I'd been given at the 2005 Horbury 10K - where I'd also managed to wheedle a prize out of them even though there wasn't officially an MV70 category. They were agreed my 43.39 at 73 years old deserved it! This shirt is one of my favourites, (a) because it fits and (b) because of all the motivational words imprinted upon it. I needed all of them today. 

That shirt.....

      With my Rt calf muscle still playing up I shouldn't really have run, but it was such a nice day I couldn't resist. The benign sky was almost cloudless, the temperature a cosy 70ºF and the gentlest of breezes barely moved the leaves on the trees. Skylarks were singing above the fields below Castle Hill. From the gorse bushes yellow hammers were singing for lunch - 'A little bit of bread and no cheeeeeese'. Tortoiseshell butterflies settled on stone walls and dried mud wallowing in the reflected heat. The stream through Mollicar wood had diminished to the merest trickle. Bluebells have long since faded away, but under the old oaks and beech trees was a wonderful sense of quietness and calm, like in a Church. 

      Beyond the wood the path is exceedingly steep, at least 1 in 4 for around 300m. At the very top is a seat where an elderly couple sat, soaking up the sun and watching my progress. Drat!  I hate to be seen struggling so tried to keep a steady rhythm until it levelled off and passed behing some screening trees where I could ease off. I was knackered! Not to mention soaked in sweat.

      A little farther along I passed a grey hair and bearded gentleman wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, running shoes and headband. If he was a runner he must have stopped for some reason when he saw me. I glanced back later, but he was only walking, slowly.

      The light breeze became more of a wind as I ran over Castle Hill, strong enough for a traction kiter to be scurrying along at an enjoyable pace. I decided against my usual fast finish. Five miles of hilly X-country was quite enough for my gammy old leg today. Ah, if only this weather would last throughout the summer.  Then I could really knacker myself up! 

Never look a gift horse in the mouth......

      I'm not sure what to do about this confounded calf muscle that continues to ache and tighten every time I run. It's really cramping my style and making me run awkwardly. I tried three times to get in touch with Ian Sinicki, my capable Physio, to eventually learn he's on holiday in Thailand where, I've no doubt, he'll be learning new skills to add to his extensive list of treatments. I feel like a guinea pig in waiting. 

      In the meantime, to prevent the grass growing under my feet, I puffed and panted my way up Castle Hill today, keeping to paths where I'd be least likely to meet people. On good days I'll float effortlessly past neighbour's houses, wave jauntily at the same old dog walkers, local farmers and kite flyers, revelling in my fitness.           

      On bad days I'll purposely avoid everyone, sneaking out of the house when people have gone off in their cars and I think all is quiet. Instead of shorts I'll wear tracksters and take a bumbag containing  a jacket which I can slip on to rapidly change into a walker rather than be seen as a hobbling runner. At the tender age of 79 I find it most embarrassing to be seen running like an old man!  If I'm not fit I don't even want to talk about running.

....oh, and there was this letter.......(click to enlarge)

      Maybe the sub editor of our esteemed local newspaper, the Huddersfield Examiner, caught me in a bad mood when he rang one evening to tell me that I'd been nominated for their annual 'Sports Personality of the Year' award and was invited, along with two friends, to be a guest at the presentation dinner being held at the Galpharm Stadium (home of Huddersfield Town F.C. and Huddersfield Giants Rugby League Club) on the evening of June 6th. I told him I'd think about it. I suppose what I really meant was, if I can get back to running normally in the next few days then the answer will be 'Yes'. Failing that I wont be worth knowing and my reply will be a very definite 'NO'.

      Well guess what. In spite of visits to the doctor and my trusted Physio the problem to my Rt calf muscle persisted. My wonderful partner said I was 'running funny'. I was grumpy, morose and far from happy. There was no way I could remotely regard myself as 'Sports Personality of the Year' in my current state. If my old body was currently not fit enough to have this honour bestowed upon it, then I would not accept it.  I emailed the powers that be, declining the offer, saying there must be other sporting personalities in Huddersfield far more deserving than me. Predictably, they didn't reply!
PS. I subsequently found out the eventual winner of Huddersfield's 'Sports Personality of the Year' award was Robert Read, a snooker player. I wasn't aware snooker was a sport, more of a pastime, something to do in between runs!

Another 21 miles.......

      Another week has gone by and the Old Runningfox is still some way from racing fitness.  I've missed two scheduled races so far and it looks very much like I'll miss a third - the Lanhydrock 10 mile race at Bodmin on June 26th. It's a wonderful undulating off-road course that really suits my style of running. Last year at the tender age of 78 I pulled out all the stops to strike Gold in the MV65 category! 10 miles is not beyond my capabilities now, but there's no way I'm going to race when I'm only firing on three cylinders. I might get beat!

A gradely do!
Janet & Arthur Stockdale's Golden Wedding Anniversary dinner

      On another four runs over the past seven days I churned out another 21 miles in runs of 5, 3, 6 and 7 miles. I'm still struggling to maintain any sort of speed, but I'm working on it. Between two 'Watch your speed' road signs towards the end of a regular run I can't resist accelerating to 6 minute mile pace for 96 secs over what the Garmin says is 0.27 of a mile. (Being a mainly off-road runner I like to get the boring road bits out of the way as quickly as possible!).  If I can maintain that sort of speed for another twelve months then the British MV80 400m record that currently stands at 93.26 should be within my grasp. 

    The seven mile run on Monday was to work off all the excess calories from a magnificent dinner at the 'Rendezvous' in Skipton to mark the Golden Wedding Anniversary of Janet and Arthur Stockdale, two of our village stalwarts. It was a real privilege and honour to be invited to celebrate with them. We look forward to their 60th!

Orchid on Cubert Common

    From June 19th we'll be in Cornwall for two weeks of sun, sea, sand, swimming and RUNNING. We've been returning annually since 2003 to the same quiet campsite run by John and Sue Dennett at Higher Moor where we're always referred to as 'the runners'. Each morning around 9 o'clock we set off on a scenic six mile circuit by Crantock beach and round the coast path to Holywell Bay before returning by an orchid strewn path across Cubert Common. On occasions we run in the late afternoon too, or swim, to sharpen our appetites for the barbequed treats, herb salads and choice vintages that constitute our evening meal. Life doesn't get much better.

     

Out again today.......

      With no pain-killers or anti-inflammatories to calm my troublesome calf muscle over the last two days I was a bit apprehensive about going for a run today. With regard to my galloping guts ache I saw my  own doctor yesterday, not the sweet young lady who rummaged around in my nether regions before - and he reckons I may be suffering from an irritable bowel following an infection. That could account for the intense pain and need to 'go' whenever I break into a trot. He handed me a prescription for a hundred 60mg capsules of Alverine Citrate and gave a reassuring nod as I left, as if to say "That'll do the trick!"

Gorse in flower on the way up Castle Hill. Yellow hammers love it.

      It was 2 o'clock when I eventually forced myself out of the house for a three mile trial run to test things out. Today's weather was beautiful, warmer than I'd anticipated in the south westerly wind, so I'd to remove my thermal after the first mile. As a result of very little running over the past few weeks I was feeling the strain up the steep sides of Castle Hill to the half way point, but I rallied and managed a faster ¼ mile burst at a downhill section on the way home. Sweat was pouring out as I stretched, trying to push the wall down, and gave my leg muscles a fair amount of Stick before knocking back 500ml of Zero Sports drink to restore my fluid levels.

      I'm happy to say that, apart from a lot more huffing and puffing than usual, the old body coped very well indeed. I returned home with no aches or pains whatsoever. The animal is happy!

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!