Last post - for a wee while

Mountain pansies and violets

    After all the activity associated with the Queen's Diamond Jubilee celebrations I've been taking it easy the past few days, as befits a sporting octogenarian. Three runs amounting to a steady 17 miles is all I've managed, but noticed my 'steady' pace has become a tiny bit faster since the Ilkley Trail race on Bank Holiday Monday. The hardest sessions for me, which therefore tend to be avoided, are Tempo runs. Racing at a raised pace makes up for this deficit. The more I race, the fitter I become and the easier my overall cruising pace.

Anybody know the purpose of these spikes on fence posts?

    Ideally, on weekends when no races are planned, I should drag myself out of bed on Saturday mornings to take part in one of the popular 5K Park Runs and count that as a tempo run. Trouble is, they start at 9am, which means breakfast at 7am, which means getting up at 6.30, which is half way through the night as far as I'm concerned. I'm not at my best first thing in the morning, particularly in winter.  But we shall see.
    This could be the last posting for quite some time. Next Sunday (June 17th) we drive to Cornwall for a couple of weeks camping at one of our favourite sites, Higher Moor just outside Crantock. where we'll have complete rest from phones (no reception), emails, newspapers, radios or any other electronic devices. There'll no doubt be plenty to Blog about when we return. Meanwhile, I'm away to start packing.

Queen's Diamond Jubilee fun and games

Part of our little flotilla on the Wharfe

     So much happened over the Queen's Diamond Jubilee weekend, a thousand boats nosing their way down the River Thames, a pop concert outside Buckingham Palace, thousands of beacons being lit, street parties throughout the country and festive fireworks illuminating the night skies, that it's difficult to know what to write about, what to put in, what to leave out. I'm told Queenie wifie felt quite humbled by it all. Well, I'm not a Royalist, neither am I anti-royalty, but standing in a crowd waving a Union Jack would come an awful long way down my list of things to do. So what did we all get up to back in our sheltered neck of the woods? We'd great fun. That's what!
      

The Women's Institute crew - and shark!

      On Sunday while millions watched that utterly boring four hour procession of boats along the Thames, a couple of hundred hardy souls braved the rain by the River Wharfe to witness a far more exciting spectacle in the form of the Great Grassington Raft Race. Teams of four from various sections of the community launched their motley - some would say ramshackle - crafts into the freezing water ready for action. Fortunately there were no Health and Safety officers around to witness the ensuing fiasco, one vessel disintegrating on impact and another crewed by Kings and Queens performing a somersault.
      

The Kings and Queens had a slight problem

      Surprise winners of the first heat, by a distance, were the good ladies of the local Women's Institute, one of whom happened to be my wonderful partner. Indeed, they proved invincible throughout the tournament, easily winning their semi-final before storming away from the disgruntled pantomime crew of the 'Panto Liner' in the Final to raise their oars in a victory salute as they crossed the line to tumultuous applause. It could be something to do with male chauvinism that stories afterwards circulated in local hostelries that only three rafts took part and two of them sank, thus handing victory to the Women's Institute on a plate.  I'll admit there weren't quite as many vessels as on the Thames - but that was a bit unkind!     

       

On the long climb towards Middleton Moor

      There was further excitment to come. On Saturday we'd both been for a good paced six mile run around Appletreewick after which we decided that, for the first time since August, we were at last fit enough to enter a race. An email from Terry Lonergan a few days previously suggested the Ilkley Trail race on Monday June 4th. We took the bait and made our way to the race venue in good time to register, make nervous visits to the loo and wind ourselves up ready for action. Terry was there to greet us. "What's your warm-up routine?" he asked. "To take it easy for the first ¼ mile of the race" I told him. That wasn't too difficult at Ilkley where the first ¼ mile up Curly Hill is a rather steep 1 in 4 - or thereabouts - before allowing a slight breather through Middleton Woods.

      

 LV60 winner finishing with a smile

      The weather was perfect, good sunny spells with a healthy breeze to keep us cool as we negotiated the long climb onto Middleton Moor. Chris Watson, an unattached runner, joined me just before the drinks station and shared the pacemaking for the next four miles up the rising moorland trail through breath-taking scenery, over the Long Ridge serenaded by curlews and skylarks, and back down past the drinks station. We were well matched but I managed to get away from him as I increased the pace down delightful springy turf and back into the wood where I claimed the scalps of Andrew Bennett (Ilkley) and Kath Cambert (Roundhay Runners) who were getting plenty of verbal support.  I was in top gear by the time I reached the road and the steep downhill section to the Finish. I passed another Ilkley runner, Liz Price, and Helen Goldthorpe of Kirkstall Harriers, but almost got caught on the line by the unattached Steve Gilyead who seemed to come from nowhere.
      

Finishing my first race as an MV80

      I was 165th of 219 finishers in a time of 67.24 (Results here). Always in control I'd run at optimal pace for the whole of the race, nowhere was I struggling and I was delighted to find I could raise the pace quite substantially over the last ¼ mile - just like it used to be. The old Runningfox could well be back in business! The hilly route (around 900ft of ascent over its 7 miles) was exactly to my liking besides being well marked, well marshalled and with the added luxury of a drinks station at 2 miles and 5 miles for those who required it.  Those attending the prize giving were somewhat taken aback to learn there was an MV80 winner, something that hadn't happened in this race before. Their applause was tremendous and quite humbling, so a big 'Thankyou' for that. Another pleasant surprise was to come. My wonderful partner, an LV65 runner fresh from her victory in the Great Grassington Raft Race two days earlier, was duly announced winner of the LV60 category. That really made our day!

..and winning a prize - a Fastrax shirt

   A gentle five mile leg stretcher was called for on Tuesday morning to keep the old system operational. I'd felt a slight pull in my Rt calf muscle while hurtling down the tarmac at the end of the Ilkley race, maybe because I was wearing minimalist trail racing shoes, but it felt OK twenty hours later.  For the following few hours I rested and did as little as possible - ready for a village street party beginning in the late afternoon and finishing around 9.30. I'm not a gregarious person by nature and freely admit to finding such occasions (and most other social gatherings) a little stressful. Having been dragged out of school at 14 and sent out to 'earn some brass' I've always felt a little disadvantaged as regards social and intellectual skills, so try to avoid situations where such things are required.  Physical skills are undoubtedly my number one asset.

     

Street Party

       However, when it comes down to eating and drinking I'm rather good at that too, so the next few hours went down rather well. Highlight of the proceedings, for me, was a hog roast that gave forth delicious aromas and succulent meat that melted in the mouth. It didn't suit everyone. One person couldn't partake of it because the hog's head was still on, but happily helped herself to roast ham from an indoor table stacked with goodies. Another 'didn't want it anywhere near her, or her house'. Their loss was other peoples' gain but, in truth, there was a wide variety of food to suit all tastes. Almost everyone in the village had contributed their special dishes, salads, quiche, assorted cakes and buns, vegetables, fruits, desserts, trifles - you name it - we lacked nothing.
      

Line-up for judging the fancy hats

   The music was rather loud but of an appropriate choice for the occasion. Among many of my favourites was 'Jupiter' from the Planet suite, the words to which (I vow to thee my country) was our old school song. We dutifully stood to attention whilst the National Anthem was played.  Amazingly, none of the children knew the words, claiming it was not played in their schools any more. Perhaps there's such an eclectic mix of pupils that, rather than take time playing all their national anthems, they play none at all. Or is it just another nonsensical bit of political correctness? 
     

Going - the whole hog

      The hog was duly demolished while tables were cleared and carted away just as it began to spit with rain around 7pm. We'd been lucky.  At 7.30 we assembled in a packed schoolroom for a closing concert by our local Folk duo, Vince and Nicky Willis - assisted by John whatever his name - for a wonderful selection of songs, some of them sad, some of them quite lively with sing-along choruses or refrains. Favourites of mine were a couple by Dougie MacLean of 'Perthshire Amber' fame and one I used to sing many years ago (and wrote a poem around) 'Will ye go lassie'.  Our celebrations drew to a close at 9.30 prompt and ten minutes later I was crawling into bed well and truly whacked. One way and another it had been quite a weekend.

All Trail racing pictures courtesy of Dave Woodhead (woodentops.org.uk)

Back to the old routine

Running in the sun

     It's felt good to be back to old haunts, old routines and running familiar routes in a minimum of clothing. I'll admit to being a sun worshipper. There's nothing I like better than running the hills in a pair of shorts and trainers, exposing my ancient body to warm sunshine and cooling breezes to gain a healthy tan. A sprightly neighbour approaching her 80th birthday intimated we're both a little vain, and she could be right.  But body awareness and active lifestyles has meant we've stayed young at heart, minimised the wrinkles and kept us within healthy BMI limits. Though I say it myself, neither of us could be taken for octogenarians.
     Whilst commuting today, and for want of something better to do other than gaze at passing landscape, I checked my pulse.  At first count it was only 38 which must have given me a bit of a shock because it immediately shot up a few beats to the mid forties. For some years now my average resting heart rate has been 42bpm. Anything less than that and I start to wonder whether it's due to extreme fitness, or whether it's slowing down ready to stop.  I always tell myself it's the former of those two options, but it can be worrying!
     Four runs last week resulted in another 24 miles being added to my training diary. I was feeling so fit after tripping through bluebell woods and over windswept hills I tried to enter a local off-road half marathon this coming weekend. Unfortunately, entries have closed and there are no entries on the day. So, I'm currently like an expedition with nowhere to go.

Suicidal sheep?

     On Sunday my wonderful partner persuaded me to accompany her on a wild walk over God-forsaken moorland in scorching heat where even the sheep appeared to be having suicidal tendencies. As we passed Wig Stones, a rocky outcrop far from the madding crowd, around ten of the woolly creatures were stood on high ledges while possibly contemplating the idea of throwing themselves head first into the abyss. We left them to their fate and set off across burnt heather and oozing bog in search of a parish boundary we'd previously failed to locate. We were amazed to find a line of new fencing stretching for miles along the boundary which, according to our compass, pointed in the precise direction we'd planned to go. Without that fence we'd never have found our route in such featureless terrain. I'm told it even confuses Google Earth!
     Anyhow, whether or not I'm now officially categorized as an old man, it doesn't yet appear to have cramped my style. Well, not much, but watch this space!

Stepping into my ninth decade

Our holiday resort - Los Cancajos

     In the past, even throughout my seventies, birthdays didn't bother me in the least but, as I've said before, I wasn't looking forward to my 80th. Eighty sounds OLD and if I allowed my brain to believe that then I'd probably start to FEEL old.  I looked upon eighty as an age when people OFFICIALLY become old men, or old women, and have great family parties to mark the transition before tentatively placing one foot in the grave. Maybe that was expected of me. Bottles of whisky arrived from well meaning friends, to maybe aneasthetise my decrepit brain and deaden all the aches and pains associated with latter years. I was having none of it. All I wanted to do was to get as far away as possible, far from the madding crowd, and do my own thing, like I've always done. 

With my wonderful partner at Roque de los Muchachos

     My understanding partner was with me all the way.Together we flew to the beautiful island of La Palma, reputedly the most mountainous inhabited island in the world relative to it's size, where we could climb and walk, run and swim, and celebrate the first steps into my ninth decade in glorious sunshine. It seemed to work for I came home feeling no older than when I set off. If anything, a little younger and a little lighter. Time flies backwards when you're enjoying yourself!

Jacaranda tree at Las Nieves

     Many months ago I'd decided exactly where I wanted to spend my birthday - at the highest point of the island on the Roque de los Muchachos which we'd failed to reach on two previous holidays to the area. Well, we finally made it, and in glorious weather. At 2,426m the Roque is almost twice the height of Ben Nevis and affords incredible views across to the other Canary islands of Tenerife, La Gomera and El Hierro. But the most vertiginous view lay beneath our feet, a staggeringly deep drop of around 6,000ft to the floor of a massive cloud filled 10km wide cauldron, the Caldeira Taburiente. Jay, our Thomson tour guide back at the hotel, reckoned it rivalled the Grand Canyon, and he's stood on the edge of both.

One of the huge Observatories at the Roque

     Also up there are a string of Observatories for viewing the night sky which is said to be clear on approximately 350 nights every year. There is very little pollution on the island, the only real industry being a necessary Power Station. Aircraft must land and take off over the sea. None are allowed to fly over the island - helicopters being the exception. Telescopes are absolutely enormous, the largest having a mirror measuring 10.4 metres across.  These aren't your common or garden telescopes where you stick your eye to an aperture and look through. Images from giant mirrors are fed into computers for nocturnal astrophysicists to study and analyse data on large screens. Their range and accuracy is phenomenal. As an example Jay told us that, were it not for the curvature of the earth, that amongst a great multitude of men in Red Square, Moscow, many thousands of miles away, these telescopes could locate one holding a candle in his hand.  The mind boggles. Well, mine does!

Dakota Jones arrives at the Roque

     We were up on the Roque for a second occasion on the day of the Transvulcania race, a hard 83 km route that began at Fuencaliente in the south of the island at 6am, followed the undulating GR 131 trail up the spine of the island, over several volcanoes to the Roque, dropped 7,000ft to the seaside village of Tazacorte, then climbed back 1,000ft or so to the finish in Los Llanos where thousands of people had turned out to greet each and every runner as they joyously ran the red carpet amid all the cheers, shouts, music and razzmatazz. It was a sight to behold, hair-raising, spine-tingling that brought a wee tear to the eyes of this old has-been who is no longer able to do such things. 

Anna Frost on the 7,000ft descent

     We stayed on the Roque until the three leaders had passed over (an American - Dakota Jones; a Spaniard - Killian Jornet; and an Englishman - Andy Symonds) then jogged/walked down 6,000ft of the race route to the Mirador El Time where we caught a bus into Los Llanos. The heat was intense. Across the water on Gran Canaria it reached 39ºC that day and some tourists died of heat exhaustion while out walking on Tenerife. It's a miracle these runners coped with the conditions, though more than one collapsed at the Finish - including Killian Jornet, the very experienced runner who finished third. Dakota won the race in a course record time of 6:59:07 with Andy Symonds 2nd in 7:00:34.   Anna Frost of New Zealand won the lady's race, also setting a new course record of 8:11:30.  Both winners are members of the Salomon racing team.

Jogging down the stony trail to El Time

     Our own morning runs were limited to a mere 4 miles which we ran on eight mornings straight after breakfast while it was reasonably cool - on days when we weren't setting off to walk the hills. All routes from our hotel involved some steepish uphill sections, our 4 miler having 384ft of ascent. My fastest time was a little over 37 minutes - finishing with a faster ½ mile of 3:25 which, try as I might, I could never improve upon. Maybe it was the encroaching heat, or running on a full stomach, but I was a little disappointed with my slowness. Back home I've run a bit faster than that. Maybe my Garmin was struggling with the heat too?

On Pico Bejenado

     Our forays into the hills involved thousands of feet of climbing up zig-zag paths and ancient donkey trails, some of them quite vertiginous. Our ascent of Pico Benjenado was one of the more memorable days, though another absolute scorcher. An email from a local lady said it was going to be colder so we only packed a half litre of water each. Lesson: never take notice of other people. Always use your own judgement.  However, an early start meant we reached the summit at 1,854m before the real heat of the day. From the summit I scrambled down a rock wall and walked to a Trig point at the end of the ridge to take photographs of the incredible Barranco de las Angustias - the Gorge of Fear. 

"They shall mount up with wings like eagles" (Isaiah 40 v31)
Staring into Barranco de las Angustias - or the 'Gorge of Fear'

     Back at the cairn we signed the Visitor's book before settling down for lunch amidst a multitude of lizards demanding to be fed. They climbed up my back, ran over my feet and tried to sneak into our sacks. They love chocolate biscuits!  Heat and humidity hung among the trees as we staggered down through the forest of Canary pines that can not only withstand heat, but forest fires that completely decimate their foliage. Their burnt trunks will blacken your hands if you touch them yet, after a few months, sap begins to flow through their branches again and green needles re-appear. Below the forest we walked a long exposed stretch of tarmac to the Visitor Centre where we refilled water bottles before catching a bus back to our village.

Banana plant with its gaudy flower

      Apart from it's amazing mountainous features another thing we love about this island is its wealth of flowers and vegetation that drench the landscape with a patchwork of colour. Even the bare volcanic tops are gaudily tinted with blues, reds, slate greys or orange according to different mineral deposits.  Banana plants too have bright flowers that give way to huge, heavy bunches of fruit.  Notice, I called them plants, though they're as tall as trees.  Like other plants they only have a year-long lifespan. However, such is the climate that crops can be rotated throughout the year meaning that, if a farmer has a thousand plants, around twenty can be harvested each week. These are 'proper' bananas, filling and flavoursome, as opposed to our local supermarket varieties.  We ate them every day.  

Flowering cactus

     Oranges, lemons and avocados are also grown whilst on upper slopes well tended vines provide grapes for the local wine industry.  The sub-tropical climate and sunny slopes are ideal for cultivation of tobacco plants used for making cigars that are said to rival the more famous havanas from Cuba. From a well stocked stall at the hippie market in Puntagorda I considered buying one to smoke with the birthday bubbly, then thought better of it.  It would have looked good on the photos though. 

     So, all in all, celebrations of my 80th year on planet earth went down pretty well, lasting for a couple of weeks and getting me away from all the hype and horrors of great family gatherings people seemed to expect. Sorry if I disappointed them. Maybe on my 90th, if they're still around!

Too busy to Blog

I'm currently over the hills and far away, celebrating my 80th birthday in style in the wonderful Canary Islands, so not much time for posting anything much on this Blog. For the time being, here is where I am and what I'm doing:

Found this bottle of bubbly in our hotel room when we arrived back from our day
 in the hills, courtesy of the management. We'll come here again!

On top of the world, 2,426m up at the Roque de los Muchachos, La Palma

I'm told they have clear skies here on 350 nights per year for star-gazing

A more comprehensive report in a week's time. Meanwhile I'm too busy enjoying myself,
 running, walking, swimming and soaking up the sun.

Peaks and troughs

Race venue and Penyghent - first of the three peaks

     It's a couple of weeks since I last posted something in this Blog but rest assured, I haven't stopped running. Well, not quite.  With all the vile weather we've been having lately (reputedly the wettest April since records began in 1910) my mileage has slipped a little but, with 368 miles under my belt this year, I've still maintained a planned average of three miles a day. This tends to fluctuate a little due to various commitments, but I'll be quite happy if I can notch up a thousand miles for the year.

     My knees appreciate my running on softer ground - but not the ankle deep slutchiness of waterlogged fields and trails as it has been over the last two to three weeks. Lately, after each run, all my clothes, and often my shoes, have gone straight into the washing machine to get rid of mud and grime. Some people, as I noticed in the Three Peaks race last Saturday, can race through the filthiest conditions and come out with hardly a splash or a stain.  I'm not one of them. 

Winner, Joe Symonds, arrives on Ingleborough alone

     Fortuitously, the rain stopped and the sun peeped out for the annual Three peaks race, though it was bitterly cold. We walked from Horton to the top of Ingleborough to cheer runners over their third and final peak. With all our layers of clothing we were absolutely perished yet, in spite of being warned of freezing temperatures on the tops, many of the runners wore only skimpy shorts and sleeveless vests. Brrrr!  Of the 744 starters, 103 failed to make it to the finish.

     Joe Symonds, the eventual winner in 2:55:58, arrived on Ingleborough with not another runner in sight whilst the newcomer, Sarah O'Neil, won the ladies race by a good 15 minutes in 3:28:43.  Both winners are members of Hunters Bog Trotters, a club based in Edinburgh. 

Afraid I wont look like this
for much longer!

     After watching the elite men traverse over Ingleborough I ran the five miles back to Horton as fast as my little legs would carry me to escape the biting wind. Back on the race field I wallowed in nostalgia, recalling the days when I too was one of those mud be-spattered runners with cramped legs running joyously towards the Finish line amid scalp-tingling applause from an appreciative crowd of supporters. The odd tear still escapes me to see the expressions on faces of happy finishers who have obviously given it their all in this greatest race of all.  Of all the races I ever ran, none ever compared to the 'Peaks'.

     This may well be my last Blog entry as a spritely septuagenarian. Next Sunday, 6th May, I'll officially become an old man - and I can't say I'm looking forward to it.  I keep imagining my hair turning grey overnight, my skin becoming horribly wrinkled, legs bulging with varicose veins, arthritis creeping into my joints and, worst of all, not being able to run. As I jogged by the River Wharfe yesterday, where swallows hawk around the tree tops and sand martins skim the surface of the water, I spied an elderly gentleman stood motionless by the bank with a fly rod extended over the water. The thought crossed my mind - maybe that's what my undecided loved one should buy me for my birthday, a nice willowy fly rod and all the fishy accoutrements that go with it. Then again, maybe not!

Chi running - I think

Sandy path for running

   Last Thursday I set out in glorious sunshine to do a nice bumbly six mile route around our local woods, listening to birdsong, striding out by the babbling beck, smelling the gorgeous blackthorn blossom, all at a nice easy pace - but it didn't quite work out like that. At the precise spot where I'd normally finish a two mile warm-up before launching into some serious intervals my old brain automatically switched into training mode so that I churned out the next 200m along a wonderful stretch of sandy path in precisely 44 seconds.
    Hmm, I thought, that felt good, perhaps I'll do a few more. So I did another eleven, enjoying the sense of speed, and was quite surprised to learn from my trusty Garmin that I was getting progressively faster without actually trying. From the initial 44's I got down to 42's with the odd 41 to finish. So I was happy with that and trotted home full of the joys of Spring - literally!
    Now, the surprising thing is I haven't run that particular set of intervals so fast, or so easy, for quite some time. Lately I've averaged around 48 seconds for each one and been happy to just maintain that pace - apart from the very last one when I'll put in an extra effort that inevitably leaves me gasping. So what brought about this amazing change of speed when all I'd set out to do was a relaxed run in the sun?

Will it really do all this?

    Well, all I can think is that for some weeks now I've been dipping into Danny Dreyers popular book, Chi Running, that's subtitled 'A revolutionary approach to effortless, injury-free running'. Without a qualified coach to correct my faults and explain the finer points my old brain is finding it difficult to absorb. As the saying goes, you can't teach an old dog new tricks, and dogs don't come much older than this one. But each time I go for a run I spend part of the time trying to put some part of Danny's theory into practice.
    What supposedly makes it 'effortless' is the use of gravity to propel you forward, rather than using muscles to push off with your legs. All you do is lean forward to a point when you have to stick your foot underneath you to prevent yourself falling flat on your face. Rather than wasting energy pushing off with your feet, all you do is lift them up and plant them down again. Speed and stride length are governed by the amount of lean - more lean, more speed - although cadence remains the same.

    It was that forward lean I was practicing while doing my set of intervals last Thursday and for once it seemed to work. Each run did indeed feel comparatively 'effortless', and when I increased my lean I found myself running faster without any extra perceived effort. I was enjoying myself and could probably have done another set of twelve without tiring. Problem was, I felt a bit self-conscious as bemused dog-walkers constantly had to move aside as I swept past. I really must get into the habit of running in the early mornings before things get busy.

    That's the theory of Chi running in a nutshell but, believe me, it's a lot more technical than that. I'm persevering, ever hopeful of learning the perfect art of running that's truly effortless and injury-free - before it's too late.  And hopefully without crashing forwards to the ground and giving myself another serious injury! 

Easter in the Inner Hebrides

Running on Ulva

Walking a trail on Ulva, showing snow on Ben More

     I think it can be safely said without fear of contradiction from my wonderful partner that large lumps of our eight day Easter holiday in Scotland are best forgotten. For starters, we worried about ever reaching our planned destination. A petrol shortage due to a threatened strike by tanker drivers had precipitated panic buying so many of the pumps were empty. Garages that still had petrol were 'making hay while the sun shines' and selling at vastly inflated prices to needy holiday motorists, i.e. at £1.43.9 for a litre of Unleaded.      Notwithstanding, we reached the ferry terminal in Oban with time to spare and three hours later were setting up a wild camp at Loch na Keal on the west coast of the Isle of Mull. At night it rained, and rained, while thick clag descended from Ben More almost to sea level.

    The following morning, still swathed in mist and drizzly rain, we packed and moved to the island of Ulva for a couple of nights, farther away from the high hills where we assumed there'd be less precipitation.

At Whale Bay - before the snow

    We were right, and enjoyed a sunny 4 mile walk from the ferry to our 'secret camp' by the south facing shore only feet away from the sea. As usual, the seals were there to greet us, a solitary heron stalked the seaweed covered rocks on the opposite shoreline while greylag geese bugled back and forth across the bay.

    Out of the sunshine it was bitterly cold, in sharp contrast to the unnaturally warm temperatures of the previous couple of weeks. Instead of shorts and t-shirts we were back to winter thermals under various other wind-stopping layers. On a 4 mile morning run we were amazed to see Ben More, just across the water, plastered with fresh snow.

Beasties sheltering from the wind at Fidden Farm

    On a subsequent walk to Whale Bay hunting for otters we too were caught in a brief but vicious little snow flurry. And if that wasn't enough it showered us with stinging hailstones. But patches of primroses, a trail strewn with early violets and a thrush singing from the ruins of an old croft cheered us on our way.

    After three days we moved to an official campsite at Fidden Farm opposite the sacred island of Iona and once again pitched our tent in a delectable grassy spot only yards from the sea. But apart from another short run and a few bumbly walks very little got done due to wild, wet and windy weather.

Iona Abbey before the arrival of the pilgrims

    Unlike last Easter, the campsite was almost deserted, causing the lady owner to complain bitterly of the lost revenue. Lambing time had not yet begun so the lucky wee creatures were still tucked up in warm wombs. A herd of cows, along with their calves and a huge lumbering bull, spent an awful lot of time sheltering in the lee of the old farm cottage.

    Our last day was spent on Iona where a host of pilgrims had crossed the water for the annual Easter Day service in the Abbey. Between hundreds of Allelujas the leader of the Iona Community, Rev Peter MacDonald, preached a relevant message on the meaning of the resurrection, how it was so totally unexpected and how it dramatically changed the lives of those who witnessed it and all those, including us, who later came to hear and accept the astonishing news of the risen Christ. They were never the same people again, nor ever could be. We came away refreshed, uplifted and renewed in faith.

Sunset from our wee tent

Early birthday for 'Yours truly'

   
After the service we moved back onto Mull for an early getaway on the first ferry back to the mainland the following morning. That evening I was treated to a mouthwatering seafood meal and fruity wine at the Mediterranea restaurant in Salen which, I'm told, marked the start of my 80th birthday celebrations. My daughter, Sue, recently began her 60th birthday celebrations with cards and presents many days prior to the actual event. "I'm having a birthday week, it's brilliant" she said on Facebook. With a month to go I suppose the same can be said of mine.

    So, in spite of inclement weather, a soggy tent, chilled bones and other inconveniences we'd rather forget, I suppose it can be said that all's well that ends well. What can also be said, and agreed upon, is that we'll never take our tent to the Hebrides again so early in the year.

Almost like summer

Blackthorn blossom

     Strewth! I've been writing about Spring but here in Yorkshire temperatures have been more akin to summer this past week. Unbelievably, I've lain in the garden wearing nothing more than shorts and sunglasses while bees went about their business among the flowers and birds sang their warm little hearts out.

    Runningwise, it's been shorts and vest weather as I trotted through dried out fields and sussed out new (unofficial) paths through local woodland where buds are beginning to burst and various feathered songsters are already proclaiming their territorial rights, amongst them an early chiffchaff. A pair of buzzard entertained me for a while as they circled overhead and a woodcock shot off at great speed from almost under my feet. 

I frequently run past Jean-luc Picard's house, currently available
for rental at a mere £2,500 per calendar month - but you may have
to be beamed up in winter!

      It's amazing how much better we feel with the sun on our backs. On Sunday it even inspired a little speedwork over a couple of measured miles. The fastest according to my Garmin was 7.05 which, if my maths are correct, equates to 6.36 over 1500m. That's interesting because the British MV80 record currently stands at 6.39.  OK, I'm not 80 yet but, God willing, I will be in another six weeks and my form usually improves as summer approaches. 

Frost on the grass by the riverbank - before the heat of the day

      Problem is, there's nearly always someone else at the British Master's Track & Field Championships with the same idea as me. In 2007 I totally anihilated the MV75 1500m record only to finish 10 whole seconds behind a guy called Brian Ashwell who'd reached his 75th birthday a couple of weeks before the race. There was some bittersweet compensation the following day when I took gold in the 800m.  However, being the length of the finishing straight ahead of the second runner I foolishly slowed approaching the line to finish in 2:46:71 - less than one second outside the British record of 2:45:82. Ah well, that's life!

More signs of Spring

Daffodil haven near Appletreewick

    After each dreary winter, nothing is so heart-warming as sights and sounds and scents of the onrushing Spring. It's like a drug. I can't get enough of it, especially as I get older. I have to be out there running new paths and seeking out odd corners where I suspect something exciting might be happening. In dark days of winter it's very easy to procrastinate, staying within confines of my cosy cottage when weather is inclement. Invariably my weekly mileage falls below average but status quo is quickly restored as days lengthen, stimulating body and soul to join that colourful unfolding pageant.

Spring lambs

   During the past couple of weeks events have rapidly accelerated. Daffodils and primroses have burst into bloom, lapwings are whirling out their joy over the high pastures, goosanders are paired and seeking out nest sites by the riverbank, bumble bees are feeding happily on my flowering currant, a trio of gaudy bullfinches brightened up a woodland glade, new-born lambs sprawl in sunlit fields and frog spawn is floating in many a pond (not to mention in an old bath used to store water on a nearby allotment).

Pair of goosander on the Wharfe

    In this vernal landscape running is pure joy, besides being a most natural and wonderful form of exercise. My philosophy dictates that I get out there and 'just do it'. Former Olympian, Catherina McKiernan said ‎"Running is meant to be enjoyed, not endured" and I couldn't agree more. Run easily. Ignore the figures on the watch. To us ordinary runners it doesn't matter if we're a few seconds off the pace (what pace?), we don't have to run once more round the block to make up a pre-planned mileage. It's not against the rules to stop and admire the view from some vantage point or watch a peregrine falcon soaring against the boundless blue. For me, there are no hard and fast rules other than that most important one - enjoy it!

Troller's Trot

Ready for the off

     The Troller's Trot is organised by the Long Distance Walkers Association, but don't be fooled by that word 'Walkers'.  By far the biggest percentage of entrants are runners. The event is mainly off-road over some wild, rough country and as such attracts some of our top fell runners, both male and female. It's a Challenge, rather than a race, but nevertheless it invokes a keen spirit of competition among participants who either want to better last years time or beat familiar rivals.  Walkers can set off as soon as they've collected their tally cards at 7.30am and are well on their way by the time runners line up for a mass start at 9am.
    It was drizzling with rain as I left the dining hall in Threshfield School at 8.55am, fortified with an extra jam butty and two cups of well sugared tea. Thick mist shrouded the hills and a sneaky wind was blowing from the south west. I pulled on a baseball cap to shield my specs and donned a lightweight jacket. I made the mistake of lingering at the start, taking photographs of other runners, quite forgetting the various spots where hold-ups would occur along the way. After climbing high into the mist and dancing across the oozing black bogs of Threshfield Moor the worst snarl-up came at the first checkpoint where I found myself queueing for seven whole minutes to clip my tally card.

Route map

    Of the 400 or so entries for the 20th anniversary of this event, only about fifty were entered for the 12 mile half Trot and I'd no idea how many of them were runners. I suspected most of them, as in the full 24 mile Trot, and had a sneaking suspicion all would now be ahead of me after that checkpoint fiasco.  The next four miles were mainly downhill and easier running so I'd time to get some sort of rhythm going while ticking off as many runners as I possibly could. The mist had lifted, sunshine shafted through the clouds, curlews called and larks were singing as we ran to the 2nd checkpoint near Winterburn reservoir. In just over two miles our routes would split, the 24 milers to the right and the 12 milers to the left. That's where my race would begin. I made good progress though I was flagging a bit on a mile or so of tarmac to the 3rd checkpoint at Rylstone Church.

Disappearing into the mist on Threshfield Moor

    Although the route had otherwise been well marked there was no sign to point the way of the shorter route from the Church and I finished up getting hopelessly lost in a sprawling farmyard where cows eyed me curiously as I ran hither and thither, frantically trying to find a way out. To make things worse a brief glimpse along the lane I should be running along, but couldn't get to, revealed a runner disappearing into the distance. And who knows how many were ahead of him? I retraced my steps, climbed through a gap in the wall and tore down a short grassy slope onto the lane. I was back on route.  

Running over Boss Moor

    Things were getting serious now. I rolled up my jacket and tied it round my waist, replaced my cap with a headband and rolled up my sleeves ready for action. That guy who'd long since disappeared into the distance just had to be caught in the next five miles before the finish. After a series of zig-zags through the back lanes of Cracoe the route came out onto a long straight bit where it was possible to see quite a way ahead. There was no sign of the runner. The next section was a twisting roller-coaster of a lane with little chance of seeing any distance ahead but, after a couple of miles, just past Far Langerton, the guy suddenly appeared about 300m in front of me. In a mile I'd caught him, quite by surprise as he slowed to take a drink.
    "Come on" I shouted in mock encouragement as I slid past.
    "I needed that drink, I'll be with you in a minute" he replied.
   "Oh no, you jolly well wont" I muttered to myself. I was on home ground now. My old legs found new life over the last two miles down steep fields, back along the familiar riverbank, across Grassington Bridge and up the hill to the deserted finish area outside the school. I was the first runner home. A couple of minutes later the second runner arrived, offering his congratulations, and after that a steady trickle of runners including my wonderful partner alongside the lady who'd inspired us to enter and train for this cracking day out.
    As we regrouped in the dining hall for an excellent post-race meal and more reviving cups of tea we couldn't help but sing the praises of all concerned with the brilliant organisation of this wonderful event. All being well, we'll be back next year when hopefully they'll have signposted the way out of that perishing farmyard!