An interesting month

A wee dram to celebrate 21 wonderful years together

     Apart from one or two spells of atrocious weather that swamped our surrounding countryside and kept me indoors for longer than I'd like, July was a pretty good month. Best of all, it marked the anniversary of 21 glorious years with my wonderful partner. Little did we know how both our lives would change dramatically after she invited me to join her on a camping trip to the Lake District to help plan a route for a forthcoming mountaineering club meet.  I can't recall whether the route ever got planned, but do remember the lake hills and tarns being bathed in a bright new light and wild raspberries never tasted so sweet. Since that auspicious weekend we've run, walked, camped, climbed and swum together in all sorts of exotic places we'd never have otherwise visited. If ever there was such a thing as a 'born again' experience, that was it!

     Running-wise this month, I failed to reach a planned 100 miles - by just one mile, though I hadn't realized it until counting up today. After a hard ten miles around Mossdale yesterday I really don't feel like going out again today, the last day of the month, for the sake of one measly mile. However, another count up reveals I've just passed the 35,000 mile mark since my very first run on April 9th, 1986. Among that grand total are 118 category wins from 171 races - which I reckon is a fairly good ratio for a guy who knew absolutely nothing about running until the tender age of 54. Not that I know a great deal about it now!

Magic box

     Another funny thing happened in July that may or may not prove beneficial in the future. While visiting my physio for a routine sports massage I was introduced to his latest bit of gadgetry, a very clever device with the rather grand name of Cobjack Quantum Magnetic Analyzer which is all contained in something the size of an attaché case. I was linked to it simply by holding a metal cylinder in my left hand and relaxing completely for a few minutes while it collated vast amounts of data from my ancient body that hitherto only God could possibly have known about. To quote verbatim from the website:
    "This method of analysis is a rapid, accurate, noninvasive, safe, testing method and particularly suitable for comparing the curative effects of health products and for checking  sub-health conditions. There are more than 30 main analysis items, including cardiovascular and cerebrovascular conditions, bone mineral density, cholesterol, trace elements, blood lead, rheumatism, lung and respiratory tract, nephropathy, blood sugar, stomach and intestines, liver and gall bladder, cranial nerves, gynaecology, prostate, bone disease, the trace elements of selenium, iron, zinc, magnesium, calcium and more".
     I'm glad to say that after searching every dark corner of my anatomy the clever machine came up with an interesting list of facts and figures as long as my arm (both arms in fact) culminating with a 'Body form Assessment' of 92.8 which it considered 'Excellent'.  The only bad bit of news is that I'm severely short of Calcium and marginally low on Iron, Vitamin C and Folic Acid. Being somewhat sceptical by nature I've given it the benefit of the doubt and invested in a couple of months supply of high strength Calcium tablets after which I'll maybe ask for a re-test.

     What else happened in July? Oh yes, the Olympics have begun, so I'd better get away from this confounded computer and start watching the real stars of the athletics world.  Who knows, I may be inspired to rise to even greater heights.

Bentham Beagles Bash

Another quality 23 mile week culminated in an excellent 10K race inaugurated by the recently formed Bentham Beagles Running Club. Considering this North Yorkshire club only came into existence nine months ago the presentation and organization of this event was of a very high standard indeed, a real credit to members and all who turned out to help on the day.

Race route and profile

Prior to the 11am start lots of runners assembled on the sports field for some orchestrated aerobics to loosen and warm up muscles in readiness for the 'off'. It was by no means an easy race, and it began as it seemed to go on, and on - mainly uphill!  I believe I heard that dreaded word 'undulating' used to describe the course but, to my mind, anything in excess of 600ft is hilly. Moreover, the uphill bits seem to go on for most of the route whilst the downhill bit is a fast, steep descent over the last mile.

Warming up by the clubhouse

I set off as I meant to go on, at a comfortable steady rhythm I intended to maintain whatever was thrown at me.  The last three miles felt anything but steady but I was determined not to lose my placing. Cheered on by marshals and uplifted by the magnificent panorama over Wenningdale to Ingleborough, Whernside and Gragareth, I'd actually got into overtaking mode before reaching the high point at 560ft with just over a mile to go. I latched onto Julia Rolfe of Lytham St Annes for the final steep descent and we shared the pace-making to the Finish.  "Go on" I told her, "I'll follow you in". And off she went at a great rate of knots. I hadn't the heart to challenge her.  

Thankyou very much - but where's my shoe?

I finished 38th of 79 runners in 54.31 minutes with over half the field trailing behind me, including fellow octogenarians Mike Walsh of Wesham RR (61.24) and John Nettleton of Great Langdale A.C. (72.50). The animal was happy. Well, reasonably!  Most of the prize-winners were awarded an ornamental running shoe duly engraved with their category or placing, but there wasn't one for the MV80's.  They hadn't been expecting doddery old geriatrics turning up so had only ordered prizes up to MV70, or so I was told by the vivacious Valerie as she handed me a rather nice bottle of wine.  It wasn't until some time afterwards when my old brain clicked into gear, as it occasionally does, that I thought "Hang on a minute, I WAS the first MV70, so who took my prize?" Ah well, maybe next year.  Full results here:

Wild runner

I'll go with that.....

The wild unsettled weather continued throughout last week producing a somewhat wild but determined runner. On Monday, a day after the Kilburn race, I dragged weary legs around the six miles of the Appletreewick circular on what was planned as a recovery run, but sloshing through muddy puddles along the riverbank and spending a long time chatting to local character Geoff Lund (whose atmospheric pictures illustrate the book 'Yorkshire Dales Stone-waller) in Burnsall. By the time I reached the swaying suspension bridge at Hebden a coach-load of hikers were lining up and crossing it - and I was at the back. My annoyance must have brought on a rush of adrenalin for on reaching the far bank all the stiffness left my legs and I absolutely flew up the steep hill back into the village. It was the best I'd felt all day. Excluding stop time I'd clocked 6 miles in 58 minutes.
      

Burnsall

Tuesday was a none-day running-wise. Part of the route has been churned into such a boggy morass by farm beasties that I was quite unable to find a way past without sinking up to my knees.  I aborted after only ½ mile, returned home and mowed the lawns instead; surely the shortest run I've done in years! 1 mile in 10 minutes

On Thursday I jogged up and around Castle Hill with the intention of doing 12 x 200m fast repetitions on the flat sumnmit, but my mind was so engrossed with the wonderful scenery illuminated by rare sunshine that I completely lost count. My Garmin later revealed I'd done fifteen reps averaging 42 seconds each. Altogether, 7 miles in 71 minutes.

Spectators on Grassington Moor

Weekends are when I run in some of the wilder, more scenic parts of the Yorkshire Dales where I rarely meet another soul. A circuit via Bare House, another seven miler, was my chosen route on Saturday. Prior to this run I'd been watching a video of Kenyans training in the village of Iten and was impressed by their relaxed easy style, keeping the same cadence throughout.  For the first three miles to the top of Yarnbury Lane, all uphill, I found it hard to emulate them, but persevered, though at times I must have sounded like a clapped out old donkey. The next four miles down springy turf, through limestone pastures and grassy meadows with panoramic views across the dale to Pendle Hill and Rolling Gate were more relaxed and it was a very contented runner that returned home after 77 minutes of delightful running.

Wild runner in a wild landscape - passing Blea Beck dams on Sunday

Sunday's run was yet another seven miler up Hebden Ghyll, over Grassington Moor, alongside Blea Beck dams, over Hebden Moor past Grimwith reservoir and Backstone Edge, then home by the fish farm in Hebden Ghyll. This wasn't a training run, just a means of getting out into the fresh air and re-acquainting myself with an area I hadn't visited for many a month. 

Grimwith reservoir

There were changes. Local gamekeepers have built three well constructed shooting butts alongside the biggest of the dams at Blea Beck, though I can't imagine why. Rarely have I seen any wildfowl in that vicinity, the odd Canada Goose, an occasional Teal nesting among the reeds, but nothing to justify the expense of that lavish equipment. Beyond the dams many parts of the track have been churned up by mountain bikers and farmers' quad bikes. My feet sank deep into saturated sphagnum moss, a quite exquisite sensation on a warm summer day though something to loathe in winter. Other parts of the track were completely flooded after heavy rainfall. After circumnavigating the worst parts, stopping umpteen times to stand and stare, or take photographs, it was 95 minutes before I eventually set foot in the house again to round off a 28 mile week. I wonder why I'm aching so much?

Kilburn 7 mile race, 2012

Rain is alright for gardens - but not for me thankyou

A set of repetitions on Castle Hill and what should have been an easy run were my only two sessions in the seven day build-up to Kilburn's 7 mile race. The speed session incorporated into a seven mile run on Tuesday went well: 12 x 200m @ 43secs with 200m jog recovery felt fairly comfortable and I was happy with that. But after weeks of incessant rain the so-called easy run on Thursday was anything but comfortable. What's normally an enjoyable off-road route through wonderful countryside had sprouted waist high grass, nettles, brambles and various other flourishing weeds that soaked my shorts, tore my legs and covered me with mud. I stripped off in the kitchen and flung everything into the washer - including my trail shoes.

Looking good before the race

Race day dawned sunny and warm which augured well for the afternoon start. After an 80 minute drive we arrived early in Kilburn to secure a good parking spot behind the 'Mouseman' workshop where there are clean, handy loos and only yards away from the Start/Finish line. The normal parking field was soggy and unusable so scores of cars were parked along grass verges severely constricting the narrow road.

Around 265 runners lined up for the start of the race at 2pm.  Anticipating a bit of bumping and boring over the first few hundred yards of the narrow, congested street I'd lined up near the front to get an uninterrupted run from the start. It was a mistake for I got carried away a little too fast for my old legs and found myself struggling a bit on reaching the first hill in just over a mile. I kept saying to myself "slow down, relax, get your breathing back under control", but the damage had been done: I should have known better.

At least I was still running. Towards the top of the hill a girl (Helen Cowley of Kippax Harriers) was walking and sounded to be muttering words to the effect of "God, I'm hating this already" - so I offered brief words of encouragement. It must have worked for moments later she eased past never to be caught again! Unbeknown to her she became my pacemaker throughout the rest of the race.  

..and a bit embarrassed by all the fuss after the race

In the last mile she started to pull away, overtaking four or five runners and opening up a gap. I went with her but one of the group, Richard Hughes of Quakers Running Club (though he wasn't wearing their vest), decided he was having none of it and broke away with me to match strides over the next ¼ mile or so. Nearing the finish I decided it was time to cut loose but to my amazement he managed to wind me back in and beat me to the line. I believe it's only the second time I've been beaten in a sprint finish (the first being 26 years ago) and I haven't quite got over it yet.  It seems I'm reluctantly going to have to accept the fact that age is beginning to take its toll.

Having a bad day, though you wouldn't know it

After the race I'd words with the organisers who'd put me in the results as 2nd MV75 instead of 1st MV80. This was corrected in time for the prize-giving but not on the official results posted to UKresults.net.  My time was 62.42 - a little quicker than 9 minute pace over the 7 miles 351 yds - and finished in 165th position of 261.  My wonderful partner had a bad day (she doesn't like running on tarmac) finishing 257th in 79.50, unusually out of the category prizes though she was awarded a nice bottle of Chilean wine by way of consolation.

Next up on July 22nd is a 10K road race promoted by the newly formed (October 2011) Bentham Beagles Running Club. It's described as a scenic course with stunning views over Wenningdale towards Ingleborough. If anyone is interested they can find the Entry Form here. I'll be looking for a good pace-maker @ just under 9 minute/mile pace!

Crantock, 2012

Ending an al fresco meal with clotted cream - and choice of wine

Natural arch at Park Head on a misty day

Herring gull among the thrift

Poppies and corn marigolds by Polly Joke

      Well, it wasn't the best of holidays we've had in Cornwall. I don't think we've ever spent so much time sitting in our tent listening to pattering rain, or drunk so many mugs of tea.  A silver teaspoon used to stir our tea was stained a deep mahogany brown by the end of the first week.  Our stove ran out of gas half way through cooking an evening meal. My wonderful partner's nose spent an awful lot of time buried in her Kindle whilst I ploughed through a paper version of Laura Hillenbrand's fairly disturbing but brilliantly written biography of Olympic athlete, Louie Zamperini, in her book 'Unbroken'.
      But it wasn't all doom and gloom for us.  Weatherwise, by all accounts, we fared better in the south west than people elsewhere in the British Isles who'd experienced terrible storms, severe flooding and a great deal of structural damage.  We managed to run on twelve of our thirteen days and only once got wet, though it wasn't the weather that prevented me from running on that blank day. To put it plainly I felt absolutely knackered after eleven consecutive days when I'd notched up 56 miles along five and six mile routes with a fast interval session thrown in for good measure. After a day's rest we both clocked our fastest times of all over 5.10 miles which augurs well for our next race, a seven miler at Kilburn on July 8th.
      Not satisfied with our morning mileages my wonderful partner was chomping at the bit for more action in the afternoons.  So we roamed coast paths under threatening skies, marveling at the wondrous rock formations, natural arches and nesting haunts of noisy seabirds. We searched for seals in the thrashing seas, found wild orchids raising their red/purple heads among cowslips, trefoils and yellow rattle.
      Particularly beautiful were the riotous reds and yellows of poppies and corn marigolds at West Pentire, a real feast for the eyes on a day of boundless blue sky. Carpets of pink thrift were still blooming along the coast, for some reason attracting herring gulls that spent hours picking their way amongst it, obviously finding something nutritious. Wild mountain thyme, as it's often called, seemingly isn't confined to higher hills but grows in profusion on sandy heaths where it forms divinely scented purple cushions.

Out walking on one of the few sunny days

      We stayed at Higher Moor just outside Crantock, a campsite we've used for several years because of its wonderful situation, integrated market garden that supplies delicious accoutrements to our barbecued chickens and, most of all, because it lies at the heart of some of the best running country in Britain. We call it our warm weather training camp and usually return home fitter and trimmer than when we left. This year we could easily strike out the word 'warm' though in all other respects it satisfied our needs. If the site lacks anything, it's an 11pm curfew which I once suggested to the owner but which went unheeded.  

      I got particularly annoyed this year when a group of five Italians set up camp next to us. Italians speak very loud and very fast and can be fascinating to listen to. But not when they don't settle down to sleep until dawn is breaking and birds are singing their morning matins.

Wild thyme growing by the coast

      On the very next night a group of eight boisterous children and two adults arrived on the other side of us who were also prattling away when I thought it safe to remove my ear plugs at 4am. I'd had words with the Italians, who'd apologized profusely, but who, I'm told, still yapped into the wee small hours with lights blazing away in their tents. Generally speaking, I like Italians, their food, their wine, their coffee, their land, their music and, after they'd knocked England out of the European Cup, was rooting for them to go the whole way and beat Spain in the final. I may well change my mind!
      Having reached a certain age, I find myself becoming increasingly intolerant of such behaviour and, sadly, may have to revise next summer's warm weather training plans.

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!