The colours of autumn

As there's nothing running related to write about at the moment, and inspired by Bex, I've decided to release one of my poems into the great Blogosphere. It's called Morning mist:

From eiderdown dreams
Into tingling November

Burning bush

I slippered across to the window,
My morning ritual,
The unveiling of another masterpiece.
Strangely, nothing was there. Outside
The day was a blank page
Teetering on an easel of ivied wall.

I watched, waiting, and soon
The great artist working from the top
Swept his loaded brush across the emptiness
And with a wash of palest ultramarine
Created the sky.
A terrace of distant houses, eyes blazing
Crimson lakes of fire, hung

Autumn sunrise

Suspended in space
Whilst over there a barn
Trailing its charcoal shadow
Was a meteor defying gravity.

A leafless hedge pocked with berries
Snaked from its cotton-wool cave
To lasso a meadow of green mist
Where a blur of burnt sienna
I'd swear had moved was, of a sudden,
A steaming thoroughbred.
A tangled briar scrawled its signature
Of authenticity and in minutes

Morning mist

The canvas was complete, and lit
With glorious gamboge light.
A miracle.

Turning aside I concerned myself
With more mundane matters
Of toast and porridge.
Impressed?  Of course, but knowing too
That in the hours to come
This bright day
Like all the other days
Would self-destruct and vanish
Irretrievably
Into lamp-black
Oblivion.

Running can seriously damage your health

The least of my worries - I clouted this too!

    Some folk may have noticed a distinct lack of activity on old Runningfox's Blog over the last two or three weeks, and with very good reason. It's supposed to be a Blog about running but the plain fact of the matter is that once again the old legs have ground to an untimely halt. "Oh my goodness, whatever has the old codger been up to now?" I hear you ask. Ah well, just when everything was coming good I went and blew it again. This time I've really excelled myself and may be out of action for quite some time. Towards the end of a wonderful 10 mile run by the River Wharfe I reckon something must have jumped out of the ground just in front of my right foot and brought me crashing to earth. There was an ominous crack at the top right hand side of my chest as I hit the deck. I got up and tried to carry on running, as I usually do, but there was no way. I could hardly breathe. 

I took the trail to Grassington Moor. At least I can walk!

    An hour later I was sat among the lame and lamenting in Airedale Hospital with a suspected broken rib - or ribs. I say 'suspected' because it's no longer hospital policy to X-ray such things being that treatment is exactly the same regardless of whether ribs are cracked, broken, bruised, or barbecued.  Come to think of it, there wasn't much in the way of treatment either, unless three days supply of painkillers and a standard sheet of breathing exercises can be descibed as such! The sheet instructed me to take a few deep breaths, holding the last one for ten seconds, then give a big cough. This self-inflicted torture was to be repeated three or four times every hour. I'll confess, I didn't even do it once! There was absolutely no way I was going to cough (or laugh, or sneeze) if I could possibly avoid it. Merely clearing my throat produced excruciating pain. In fact, the pain was intolerable if I didn't do anything at all!  "How long will it be before I can run again?" I asked the all too jovial coloured doctor. He gave me a minimum of six weeks, but added it could take longer for an elderly person. At the time I certainly felt I belonged in that 'elderly' category but, after a couple of weeks, my younger self is slowly making a return.

One of the residents - Red Grouse

    Yesterday, while my wonderful partner was far away on National Park duty, I laced up my Inov-8's and sneaked off for a most enjoyable twelve mile walk over Grassington Moor and down into the wilds of Mossdale. In the past, people have asked, "Do you take a mobile when you're running in such remote and dangerous places?" to which I've replied "Sometimes, if I can remember". Out of curiosity I did in fact take a mobile yesterday only to discover there was no reception whatsoever in those nether regions. Not one blob! So I may as well leave it at home and just rely on the whistle that lives in my bumbag (not that I'd be able to blow the darned thing with a broken rib - even if there was anyone around to hear it).

Wild Mossdale - no phone reception here.

    I'm told Mary Decker Slaney underwent surgery on about twenty occasions for running related injuries, and still came back for more. I expect to come back too, stronger, fitter and as fast as ever. Maybe this is nature's way of resting me up before nudging me gently into the MV80 category in the Spring of next year. A text I read today from 2 Corinthians 4 - 16 is rather reassuring. "Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are renewed day by day".

Watch this space. I'm not done yet!

Bill Smith

Bill Smith

     Last Friday was a very sad day as news leaked through that a revered fell running friend had been found dead in the Trough of Bowland after he'd been missing for three weeks. I can't remember where I first met Bill Smith though it was probably at a Three Peaks race in the mid 90's. Being a pair of old codgers, and having things in common, we always struck up a conversation that invariably included stories of our latest injuries. He'd undergone keyhole surgery to cure a problem in his left knee. On another occasion he'd turned an ankle on the Tour of Pendle but his physiotherapist, a chap named Phil McAuley, had taught him strengthening exercises and methods of taping it that had him back running in no time at all. He also spoke of 'minor health problems' which he didn't elaborate on.

.    One of my first questions in those early days was always "Have you found me a copy of your book yet?" In October '97 I received a letter from him, addressed to 'Fellrunner, Hebden', telling me that Peter Knott had unexpectedly found five copies of 'Stud Marks on the Summits' and would I contact him immediately. I did and the book has become a treasured possession. Bill began writing this history of amateur fell racing in 1978 thinking it would finish up the size of a Dalesman paperback, but things got a bit out of hand. When finally published in 1985 it was quite a hefty tome with 582 pages of text, maps and photographs.

    In his younger days Bill played Sunday League football and followed Everton F.C. but also did a bit of fell walking. Long distance events like the Fellsman Hike and Todmorden Boundary walk, where runners competed too, aroused his interest in fell running and it wasn't long before he became hooked on fell racing and said goodbye to football. His interest soon bordered on obsession. If he wasn't racing or training he was either researching and writing about fell racing or marshalling at far-flung events at which he'd invariably arrived by public transport - all the way from Liverpool. His encouraging words to runners at strategic points during races have lifted many a flagging spirit, including mine.

   He'd little interest in other forms of racing though he'd run about ten road races including the Derwentwater '10', Windermere to Kendal '10' and the 22 mile Buttermere Round. The only road marathon he ever did was at Barnsley where he'd expected to finish in two hours thirty or two hours forty. "After about seven miles I lost interest and began daydreaming" he said. "I'm afraid I found it very boring after what I was used to and eventually finished in three hours five minutes". On one occasion when I broached the subject of road racing I was cut short in mid sentence with a curt "Gordon, I'm only interested in fell racing".

   He was a true gentleman, a dedicated sportsman, a talented writer and a name that will live forever in the annals of fell racing history.

Rest in peace Bill - and thanks for all the wonderful memories.

For everything a reason

Ravencragg

    For the serious athlete I'm told every training session should have a specific purpose relevant to the distance, or type, of forthcoming race. After five weeks of inactivity a lot of strength had gone out of my old legs so my primary purpose over the last week has been to restore some of that strength - one way or another. So, along with my wonderful partner, I took to the hills. We based ourselves at Ravencragg, on the shores of Ullswater, in a flat kindly loaned to us by mutual friends.

Approaching Sharp Edge 

   On a warm day of bright sunshine we plodded up the steep path that borders Scales Fell bound for the rocky heights of Blencathra, or Saddleback as it's sometimes called, a 2,847ft peak at the northern end of the Lake District. Passing Scales Tarn a gravelly path leads to the start of an imposing ridge. From hereon to the top we enjoyed an airy scramble, sometimes on delicate holds where the route was not always obvious.This is Sharp Edge, a name to strike terror into the minds of more timid travellers but a sheer delight for enthusiastic rock athletes. 

Climbing Sharp Edge

    At times a gusting wind threatened to tear us from the rock, making progress a little 'interesting', but it was a warm wind, blowing from the south, that helped restore our fading summer tans. Wearing shorts and a support round my injured knee, I finished up with a two-tone leg! Ravens 'cronked' their joy as they were flung hither and thither in strong updraughts, enjoying the situation as much as us. There were no flowers to be seen, yet there were late butterflies warming their delicate bodies on reflected heat in sheltered corners of the rocks. 

    On the slabby knee-wrecking descent of Hall's Fell I realised just how unfit I'd become. Not many years ago I'd have danced down here in no time at all. Now I was wincing at almost every downward step - for 2,000ft. By the time I reached the bottom my legs were crying out for more pain-killers! We returned to Ravencragg, took chairs onto the lawn and enjoyed the luxury of healing sunshine on our aching limbs.

Martindale's old Church and ancient Yew trees

   Rather disappointingly, the next day dawned cloudy with distant hills fading into a milky haze, but it was fine and still rather warm. We drove to Martindale, past the old Churches and parked at Dale Head for a walk up Bannerdale. It's a kind of pilgrimage we make every year in the season of 'The Rut' and we hadn't gone far before the sound of roaring came drifting down the dale from the direction of a high cone shaped hill known as The Nab, a designated deer forest.  Watchers were already installed with their powerful telescopes set up for long distance viewing. We continued for another mile up the dale, climbing to a high grassy platform under Heck Crag that afforded a grandstand view over the extensive deer forest.

Looking up Bannerdale - deer country

    The sun broke through, lighting up the landscape. There were deer everywhere. A herd of possibly eighty hinds grazed peacefully below us. A lone stag bellowed his territorial rights from a vantage point just below the skyline - one of very few that was actually roaring. We wondered if recent strange weather patterns had altered the time of the rut, whether it was nearing its end, or only just beginning? 

    On our side of the dale, in the broad confines of Heck Cove, another stag with a huge set of antlers was wallowing in a mud hole, usually the prelude to a fight. Instead he went stomping after his parcel of hinds, apparently with other ideas in mind. They were having none of it. "Go and get yourself cleaned up before you come anywhere near us" we could almost hear them saying!  On this occasion we saw more deer than ever before, but fewer signs of the actual rut.

Yacht race on Ullswater

    We returned to Ravencragg for a bite to eat before setting off for another relaxing walk to Auterstones and back along the track to Swarthbeck. A yacht race was in progrees on Ullswater, a mass of what looked like little paper boats, all with red sails, skimming along in a stretched out line round the spaced out buoys. A mewing cry attracted our attention to a buzzard circling above us before gliding into a nearby tree to survey his domain. By 4pm the sun had disappeared again, and so did we. Back to the comfortable confines of Ravencragg, back to our books, a beefy casserole and a fine wine to round off the day.

    The following morning, following a relaxed five mile run as far as Martindale, the weather finally broke. We loaded the car and returned home. 

John Le Mesurier as M's chauffeur on Grassington Moor for the filming
of Casino Royale. I don't think the sheep were supposed to be there!
Picture courtesy of t' internet

    Finally, to assess the effects of the past week's strengthening programme, I went for a lone eight mile run over Grassington Moor, a route that rises 1,000ft in four miles, and I was determined to run every inch of it. The turning point is on desolate moorland where the opening scenes of Casino Royale were filmed way back in 1966. Today there was only sheep for company and a fair number of Grouse that had luckily escaped the ravages of the Glorious Twelfth. 

    As I turned for home a pair of vociferous ravens circled overhead and stayed with me for almost a mile, one of them hanging virtually motionless, riding the wind. The other had a curious high pitched 'cronk' which had me wondering whether it was the female of the species or whether some stray shotgun pellet had wrought havoc in it's nether regions? 

    The last three miles were sheer enjoyment, running easily down springy turf before reaching the stony track running parallel to the beck all the way into Hebden. Old Runningfox is back in business, I think!

Yay, I'm back!

      I hope the four buzzards circling the sky near Appletreewick didn't have their beady eyes on the scaled down carcas running below them along the riverbank. After weeks of massage, stretching and various recommended exercises to rejuvenate my dodgy knee and strained hamstring Old Runningfox was back in action. And boy, did it feel good.

    After the recent shock of discovering how I'd piled on the pounds during three weeks of inactivity I was determined to get back to my running/racing weight. Such things as bread, potatoes, anything with sugar in it, butter and 80% of milk all went by the board until such times as the scales registered 140 lbs and I was back running again. That day was last Saturday. 

    Rather nervously I laced up my old trail shoes, did one or two warm-up exercises and stepped out the door for a 5 mile circuit by Grassington Bridge and back along the riverbank, past all the old chestnut trees displaying their gorgeous autumn colours. After taking it steady to the half way point I felt fresh enough to turn it into a fartlek session, pushing the short hills and launching into 50-60m acceleration runs along the flatter parts of green turf. I couldn't believe how well I was moving. 

    Rather predictably, in spite of having finished my run with some warm-down stretches, I was a bit stiff the following morning. Getting down the stairs was not easy! There was no pain, not in my knee or anywhere else, just that general muscular achiness that follows a good work-out, the sort you can laugh about rather than cry over. 

Body-hugging Fastrax top and Bandarf

    After breakfast on Sunday I could hardly wait to lace up my shoes and set off again on a slightly longer run, along the river to Appletreewick and back, a very pleasant six miles. This time I took it steady, all the way, revelling in the renewed joy of freedom, movement and rhythm. It felt absolutely effortless so I could only assume the five week lay-off must have done a power of good, enabling me to recharge the batteries and fire up the old engine again.

    If all goes well the next five weeks will be spent gradually building up the miles in preparation for the Guy Fawkes 10 mile race at Ripley on November 6th. I'm looking forward to pinning a number on again and getting out there snapping at the heels of my contemporaries. Roll on, let battle (re)commence!

    PS. With a cold nip in the air I donned my new Fastrax thermal top for the first time (courtesy of a voucher I won in the Arncliffe 4 mile race) and must say it kept me wonderfully snug and warm. It's tight fitting enough to almost display my six-pack - and probably would if it wasn't hiding under it's layer of fat! The buff I'm wearing in the picture is actually a Bandarf. I refuse to pay the crazy price 'Buff' charge for there minuscule bits of material. Bandarfs are just as versatile, fit more snugly, cost around ¼ the price, but don't, as yet, come in the same range of colours. There are many different ways of wearing them. I never go anywhere without one.

Resting uneasily

    Little did I know when I stepped out the door and took my first tentative steps at the tender age of 54 that running could become so addictive, nor how frustrating it can be when injury strikes and I'm unable to get my four times weekly fix. To paraphrase a quote on radio today, running in the great outdoors is my drug, my gym and my Church, so it's perfectly understandable why I'm currently experiencing withdrawal symptoms.

My drug, my gym and my Church

    Although the pulled hamstring seems to have resolved itself my Rt knee still aches slightly and isn't quite ready to start pounding the trails again just yet. Walking is no problem as proved on the island of Arran where we stravaiged many, many miles and scaled thousands of feet of rock, bog and heathery slopes. It's when I sit in the same position, for example when driving with my foot on the gas pedal, that it aches most. Various straight leg exercises, stepping forward down a small step then back up again, anti-inflammatories and massage with 'Green lipped mussel extract and Glucosamine' gel appear to be having the desired effect. Hopefully by next week I'll be pulling on the old trail shoes again and starting to build up the miles. 

   In the meantime, to maintain motivation, I'm dipping into a vast collection of running related books and watching the likes of Usain Bolt or Yohan Blake streaking across my television screen at speeds of around 44mph. This afternoon Mo Farah will be scorching around the streets of Newcastle in a two mile race while later in the day local Yorkshire lads Alistair Brownlee (World Champion Triathlete) and Andy Hodge (World Champion and Olympic Gold medallist in the coxless fours rowing team) will be gracing our TV screens. Tomorrow, I'll be glued to the set yet again, trying to spot one or two acquaintances competing in this years Great North Run, a ½ marathon of world-wide renown. This year it's predicted 54,000 runners will take part. If that lot doesn't inspire me to get out the door next week, then nothing will! Who says running isn't addictive?

Five days on Arran

High on Beinn Tarsuinn - feeling good
to be back among mountains

   Being a mere 19 miles long by 10 miles wide the Island of Arran is often described as Scotland in miniature and that's a very apt description. It's an island with something for everyone, for walkers, mountaineers, runners, golfers, pony trekkers, geologists, archaeologists, for shoppers and beach bums, for visitors to breweries and distilleries, for swimmers, wildlife enthusiasts, landscape artists, photographers, fishermen, for browsing around ancient castles, listening to the skirl of Pipe bands, watching traditional Highland Games, meditating with Buddhists, exploring dark caves - and a host of other things. And all this set among the most breathtaking scenery with accommodation in some of the prettiest villages you'll ever see. It was my first visit to Arran but I'm sure it wont be my last. I was VERY impressed. 

Part of the wild life

   Not that the weather was conducive to seeing much of it whilst we were there. Storm force winds estimated at 48mph, and gusting to nearly 70mph, roared through the glen driving torrential rain for hour after hour after hour. Our tent, a Hilleberg Kaitum, rattled and clacked and danced about like a mad thing. The noise was such we'd great difficulty hearing each other speak. But it held firm. Not a peg came loose or one drop of water penetrated through to the inner sactum. Elsewhere, tents were flattened and a campervan awning was blown away never to be seen again.

Path up Goatfell

   We were more than a little concerned after reading a notice stating 'This campsite floods after heavy rain' - and it didn't come much heavier than this. The river, only feet away, rose alarmingly as water poured from the surrounding hills till we imagined a tsunami type wave sweeping us away in the twinkling of an eye. Mercifully, it never came. Eventually, blotches of blue appeared in the sky, the sun peeped through and a rainbow spanned the glen. We pulled on our boots and set off to gain the high tops in the cool freshness of a rain-washed landscape.

18ft Standing Stone on Machrie Moor

   Heather was at its purple best as we clambered by white water streams, noisy waterfalls and up high angled boiler plate slabs to the summits of Beinn a' Chliabhainn (675m) and Beinn Tarsuinn (826m). Since becoming a runner, 25 years ago, I've missed the mountain environment. It felt good to be back, getting to grips with rock again and be surrounded by serrated towering giants in this wonderful wild landscape. 

   I was reminded of a time on Ben Nevis when Hamish Brown, just returned from Ireland, was so happy to be back in familiar surroundings he was jumping up and down with excitement while proclaiming "I don't wanna go down". I know what he meant! We climbed Goatfell too (874m) by an amazingly well constructed stony path that must have taken years to complete.

Lochranza Castle

   On another dreich day the sacred landscape of Machrie Moor transported us back 4,500 years as we explored it's stone circles, cairned burial chamber and giant standing stones.  By contrast, the ruined Lochranza Castle only dated back to a comparatively recent 13th century.

The pretty village of Corrie

   Further imminent storms strafing across the Atlantic in the path of Hurricane Katia forced an early departure from the island, but our appetites were well and truly whetted, enough to ensure a return visit in the not too distand future - but hopefully in more clement weather.

Going wild

     It may be some time before my next Blog posting. On Sunday, after welcoming our new Methodist Minister, Rev Janet Clasper, to her very first Communion service in our Chapel, we're taking off to the Island of Arran for a week of camping and mountaineering. I'm not sure how my dodgy Rt knee or tight hamstring will react to this but I'm hoping another week's rest will help ease them back into running mode. With lots of stretching, and a few strengthening exercises, they're definitely improving so I'm keeping my fingers crossed they'll be ready for the exceedingly hilly Guy Fawkes 10 mile race on November 6th.

David & Rev Janet Clasper

    Another penalty of not exercising, but still eating the same amount of food, is we put on weight.  That has certainly happened to me, to the tune of nearly 3lbs in the last couple of weeks.  My body composition monitor tells me I'm up from 142 to 144.8 lbs. It also tells me I've got 16.8% body fat, my BMI has risen to 22.7 and my visceral fat is up 1% to 8%. My resting pulse has also risen from 42 to 48bpm. It's amazing how an old body can deteriorate in such a short space of time but hopefully I'll be getting back on track after raising the tempo somewhat on the rocky heights of Arran.
    A text I read this morning assures me "all things work together for good to them that love God" (Romans 8.28). I'm pinning my hopes on that!  Here's Kari Jobe with a few other people who love God:

Hebden Sports

View from under 14's turnaround point 

    Being injured and unable to run throughout the whole of August Bank Holiday was very frustrating, but I was still able to get involved and watch others participating in our noble sport throughout the weekend. Three of us spent Saturday afternoon flagging and taping the various Hebden Fell race routes for the brave people who'd be giving it their all on Bank Holiday Monday as part of our local Sports day programme. Races vary in length to accommodate under 9's, under 12's, under 14's, under 17's and seniors.

Under 17 boy making it look so easy

Tiny tots simply run twice around a sloping field adjacent to the main arena. We couldn't flag it on Saturday because it was full of sheep and nobody, including the farmer who rents the field, had any idea who they might belong to!  On Sunday I put on my shepherds hat and herded them into another field where they were eventually fastened in for the duration of the sports. All went well on the day as the miniature fell runners trundled round with much verbal support both from proud parents and our animated race commentator, Ian Douglas.

Under 17 girl

    Much as I'd like to have done, I've never run the Senior fell race. Most of it I could cope with, the short 300ft ascent, a rocky scramble to the white stone at the top of the crag, the bumpy path through tall bracken and swift descent back into the ghyll. What I can't manage at my time of life are the three high walls with deep drops to a downhill slope on the landing side. My old bones aren't as solid as they used to be whilst my balance and co-ordination leave much to be desired. 

Tom Adams of Ilkley leads the senior
race up the crag

   This year I was marshalling at various vantage points where I could watch some amazingly keen youngsters, talented under 17's and experienced seniors making it all look rather easy as they flowed gracefully over each obstacle of the uneven terrain. There are times when I regret not having started running until the tender age of 54. I seem to have missed out on an awful lot!

One more false start young lady
and you're out!

    Meanwhile, back in the Sports field, there were flat and novelty races for all age groups. Those who regard running as too much like hard work could try their hand at Bat the Rat, Knock down Ginger, Field Quoits, Putting Contest, Football game, Train Game, Treasure Hunt or Tombola. With children in mind there was a Bouncy Castle that got rather crowded, a Bran tub and ever popular Face Painting. Long queues snaked out from the barbeque tent, tea and cake stall and ice cream van as folk sought to replace lost energy. After a Fancy Dress parade at 7pm the day's proceedings ended with the traditional singing of Rimington (aka 'Jesus shall Reign'). Well, it should have but no-one seemed to know the words! 

Not my day x 3

Burnsall and the River Wharfe - before the rain

   After a steady week's training (a delightful five miles cross-country, a good interval session on the track and six miles gently trundling along the River Wharfe) affairs took a steep downward turn at the weekend. My old body is getting a bit out of control.

   On Saturday we went along to Burnsall Feast Sports to spectate, socialize and take a few photographs of friends and acquaintances competing in the 10 mile road race, the Classic Burnsall Fell race, not to mention the hilarious Mummers doing their stuff on the village green. 

My old mate, Bill Wade. 1st MV70
in the 10 mile race - 1:21:32

   So what could possibly go wrong when I wasn't even competing? Well, for starters a curbstone had craftily twisted itself 45º so that it's upward edge formed a nice point that crunched into the nick of my posterior when I tripped and crashed down on it. To complicate matters, a little bit, my Rt knee hit the ground with an almighty crack - the same knee I twisted in a rabbit hole 12 days before.

   Fortunately, this happened towards the end of the day, ages after Alan Buckley had stormed home in the 10 mile road race in a fairly creditable 55.26, long after the keen as mustard kids had swarmed to the base of Burnsall fell and come hurtling back like miniature maniacs (all of whom ensure us that fell racing has a very healthy future) and just before local lad Ted Mason came scorching home in the rain to score his first ever win in the Classic Fell race.  I limped back to the car to be driven home for more Voltarol, more Paracetamol, more Arnica.

   On Sunday with the old adage in mind that attack is the best form of defence, I dragged my protesting body onto Grassington Moor, supposedly to get some good shots of the heather at it's wonderful purple best. Guess what? The sun went in. I wandered around for ages waiting for breaks in the cloud but eventually gave up and set off home. Back down in the ghyll the sun sneaked out again - "Yoo-hoo!" - so I retraced my steps, only to find the battery in my camera had given up the ghost. Definitely not my day - again!

Leaders at the start of the Classic Fell race

   Monday dawned clear, sunny, warm and very inviting. The umpteen grams of pain-killer, lashings of Arnica and yet more anti-inflammatories appeared to have done their job so nothing wrong with a gentle jog down the riverbank, I thought. After ½ mile I parted company with my wonderful partner, on the premise she might be going a bit too far, or a bit too fast, and struck off in the opposite direction towards the stepping stones by Linton Church. Feeling rather fresh after a couple of miles I reckoned it might not be a bad idea to do a few wind sprints, maybe ten times 75m at a fairly fast lick with a walk recovery. I was enjoying them so much I somehow lost count. On the final one, which turned out to be number fifteen, and which I'd decided to do 'really' fast, there was a sharp pain at the back of my Rt thigh. You've guessed it. My perishing hamstring had thrown a wobbly and yelled 'Stop'. According to my Garmin that last intense burst measured 3.36 min/mile pace on the Richter scale which I was rather proud of!  But I limped home a bit disconsolate, back to the pain-killers, the anti-inflammatories, the bag of frozen peas, the Arnica - and a tearful partner who can't bear to see me injured or hurt.  You'd think she'd be used to it after twenty years!

Local lad makes good. Ted Mason of Appletreewick
storms home alone for his first ever win in this Classic Fell race

   However, all these annoying little setbacks of mine were well and truly put into perspective when we learned of the drama that unfolded after we'd left Burnsall on Saturday. We'd watched in total admiration, not to mention a furtive tear, as a 62 year old totally blind man crossed the finish line with a broad smile, along with his 'guide', to complete the 10 mile road race in 1:34:28. A magnificent achievement. The applause was tremendous. Imagine my surprise when this very same person ran past me, with that self-same smile on his face, to begin his ascent of Burnsall Fell in the Classic race. I couldn't possibly comprehend how a totally blind person could negotiate thick heather, hidden boulders and high walls in the slippery conditions of the deteriorating weather. Two days later we heard the sad news that he hadn't in fact made it. It was rumoured he'd suffered a massive heart attack on the way up and died almost instantly. His name was Mike Ogle a member of Chorley Harriers and his 'guide' was Jackie Redmayne who is understandably devastated by his death. Both of them had looked so happy setting off up the fell.

   I'd like to think he died with that same big smile, doing what he enjoyed doing most, running the wild and lonely places, a free spirit who refused to give in to failed faculties but got out there and still endeavoured to live life to the full. Rest in Peace Mike. You were a credit to humankind and an inspiration to us all.

The rocky road to Arncliffe

Recovered - to take MV75 prize

   Last week was not the best of weeks, a most unsatisfactory preparation for a forthcoming race, but it finished on a high. For starters, my Monday morning training session was painfully interrupted by a severe bout of tummy trouble that had me dashing for cover along the riverbank in order to 'go'.

   Things got worse in the afternoon during a walk from Conistone to the site of an old Iron Age settlement above the aptly named Bull Scar. I say 'aptly named' because a huge bull and his assorted multi-coloured harem came trundling up the path behind us towards the stone circles. (How is it whenever I see a bull words like Rump, Ribeye, Sirloin, T-bone and Porterhouse spring to mind?). Thankfully, he was not aggressive. I didn't feel like running.

   Funnily enough (!) about half an hour later I was actually rendered incapable of running. While looking for a huge cairn 18m across by 1½m tall that had mysteriously melted into the landscape my foot jammed in a rabbit hole throwing me sideways and twisting my Rt knee. It proved a very painful limp down the steep hillside back to the car.

Middlesmoor and Lofthouse Silver band doing their stuff

   On the way home we came across an elderly gentleman crouched by the side of the narrow road trying to remove a cagoule that had got tangled around the rear wheel of his electrically operated mobility buggy and brought him to a halt. It was jammed solid and I'd to tear the offending garment to pieces to get it off.  I wondered why he was not responding to any of my questions and comments. It turned out he was virtually stone deaf, not to mention almost blind! He was a braver man than me to drive his contraption along a winding Dales road hardly wide enough for two cars to pass each other.

LV65 winner

   Back home the offending knee was smothered with Arnica and 75mgs of Voltarol was swallowed day and night for the next four days. By Thursday I was hardly aware of any pain so decided to try a short run. After a mile warm-up I launched into ten very fast wind sprints on the local cricket field, then jogged home. Everything felt OK, so it was all systems go for the Arncliffe 4 mile race on Saturday.

   The morning dawned wet and cloudy, as it had done for days, (or maybe weeks!) so we worried about the state of the field used for parking cars at this event. Our fears were unfounded and we'd no problems getting in or out. Crowds were a little sparse for this years event which, besides the road race, sports a fell race, welly whanging, strong man competition, bric-a-brac stalls, stirring music by the Middlesmoor Silver Band and a colourful commentary from the irrepressible Dales character, Roger Ingham.  

   Sadly, there was a much smaller turnout than usual for this smashing little race. Although mildy undulating it's quite a fast course as it follows the road by the River Skirfare for a couple of miles to Hawkswick, then crosses the bridge before returning up the other side of the river and back into Arncliffe. 

Ted Mason - winning the Fell race by a distance.

   With only 66 entries there was hardly any congestion at the start so we were all away pretty fast behind some decent club runners. A bit too fast in my case. I was struggling a bit along the flooded road mid-race but managed to rally again in the last mile to finish 44th in 32.25 - 24 seconds faster than last year but a long way short of my MV75 course record of 29.30 set in 2007. It was quick enough to take the MV70 prize and the added bonus of a kiss from the delightful lady presenting the vouchers!  I was invited to return next year to set a new MV80 course record. God willing, I'll be there to give it a try.

   My wonderful partner was 1st lady over 65 but missed out on a category prize which were a bit thin on the ground this year due, we suspect, to the very low entry and consequent limited budget.

   Surprisingly, we were still capable of running on Sunday, a gentle seven mile trot to wallow in the heathery delights of Grassington Moor.  A week that had begun in pain for me ended in joy and feelings of satisfaction for both of us. And long may it be so!

Full results here:

My running week

Castle Hill

     Last week began with one of my regular five mile circuits run at a fairly sedate pace around Farnley Hey and Castle Hill, through waving woods and fields where harvesters were at work threshing the ripe, golden corn. With goodness knows how many hundreds of feet of ascent along this Pennine route, some of it steeper than 1 in 4, I've little option than to run at a sedate pace, though I always finish up feeling a little disgusted with myself, thinking a man of my experience really should do better! Tuesday's effort took all of 55 minutes.

     The following day I made up my mind to run it faster and to assist in my quest decided to enlist the help of my Garmin 'Virtual Partner', a facility I've never yet used. After setting my watch for 53½ minutes I pressed 'Start' but no Virtual Partner appeared to set the pace for me. Possibly he realised how arduous it was going to be and refused to run it with me! Oh well, I'd set off, the countdown had begun, so I wasn't going to stop and fiddle around to see where he/she had got to. (I really must give my Virtual Partner a name, like Freddie, or Paula, someone I can chivvy when they're getting behind). I plodded round, retracing my steps of the previous day, and finished in a time of 53.13 - 17 seconds inside my target. I was happy with that.

Miner's bridge over Hebden beck

     Thursday was declared a day of rest, mainly because it was chucking it down and I don't mind admitting at my time of life I'm very much a fair weather runner. But on Friday, for the very first time this year, I reckoned it was time for a bit of Track work. Whatever brought that on you may ask? Well, I'll tell you what brought that on. While studying the results and statistics from the previous week's Park Run it came to my notice that two people have deigned to get ahead of me in the overall Age-Graded League table. Being of a competitive nature I decided to do something about it and make the top of that League Table my very next goal. That should keep me motivated!

     Based on my 5K time of 24.36 my optimal speed for 400m intervals is 1.46 - according to the McMillan Calculator - so, after a mile warm-up I ran 8 x 400m with 200m jog recovery. In a mile warm-down I incorporated half a dozen wind sprints to reintroduce my old legs to more intense speedwork. The whole session took 54 minutes, a good workout which, if I can repeat it a few more times, should produce a PB at my next Park Run. Well, that's the plan!

Heathery heights

     It chucked it down again on Saturday which gave me another nice excuse for a rest. After Church on Sunday I went for a ten mile run into the wilds of Mossdale. You might call it my other Church for many of these solitary runs trigger a rich spiritual experience. I ran past cushions of trembling harebells in Hebden Ghyll, over the old Miner's bridge and up to the heathery heights of Grassington Moor, scattering the day-feeding rabbits that fled to safety in nearby rocks. A late curlew called a plaintive goodbye as he sailed across the purple landscape, no doubt bound for coastal feeding grounds where he'll spend the winter. Most of his friends left ages ago.

     A solitary walker enquired the way to Middlesmoor. I directed him as best I could but couldn't help thinking he shouldn't be wandering in such a remote area unless he carried the relevant map, and a compass, and knew how to use them. In which case, he wouldn't need to be asking me!

     Leaving Mossdale I slowed a little over Kelber pasture so as not to spook a great herd of cows that became a little agitated when their calves started carreering about at my approach.

Mimulus in Hebden beck

     Two equestrian ladies rode past, one of whom was quite well proportioned compared to the size of her horse, a scene that invoked an involuntary chuckle as a Thelwell drawing sprung to mind.

     Sheep at High Garnshaw scuttled away noisily as I bumbled past. It's so long since I passed that way they must have forgotten who I am. Hopefully, they'll get used to me again and hardly turn their heads.

     My legs still felt strong as I trundled back down the ghyll, racing the chattering beck bright with yellow mimulus, down to the bridge, and home. All in all, it was a pretty good week with another 25 solid miles into the old legs.

Huddersfield Park Run

Some of last Saturday's fun runners

Park Runs apparently began in Teddington way back in 2004, the brainchild of Paul Sinton-Hewitt, and have since spread throughout the British Isles. Only recently did I learn they'd actually been taking place in my home town of Huddersfield at 9am each Saturday morning for the last 17 weeks. Curiosity lured me along to sample the 18th event last Saturday, July 30th.

Park runs are not strictly races, but more for fun, fitness and friendly rivalry. Whole families can get involved to test their prowess over an accurately measured 5K route. They are free to enter but each participant must be pre-registered and be in possession of a barcode that must be brought along to each race and is vital for recording results. No numbers are worn and the whole race can be set up in five minutes flat - the length of time it takes to align the cones for the finishing funnel.

All smiles approaching the Finish funnel

It was an ethnic mix of 126 runners that lined up in glorious sunshine for the 18th running. Some wore fancy dress. Ages ranged from under 14 to the 79 years of yours truly. After a few brief instructions from a guy dressed as Robin Hood we set off around the beautiful Park on a three lap course. 

This was only the second 5K race I've run in 25 years and I haven't quite got the hang of them yet. Basically, I settled into what I considered to be a maintainable race pace, then just hung on to the guy in front for as long as possible, hoping he'd pull me round to a half respectable time. I think he did. My 24.36 in 39th position actually gave me 1st place in the overall age-graded results. I was happy with that though I'm sure there's room for improvement. 

My wonderful partner finished 87th overall in 29.27 and 1st lady in the age-graded results. Surprisingly, after our very first run, both of us now rank top of our age categories for the whole series - so I reckon we've set ourselves up to be shot down!
Full results here:

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: