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:

We're back.....

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

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

Can't see the grass for flowers

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

Friendly lizard

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

Ready for the morning run

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

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

How it all began....

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

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

Pennine marathon trophy, the first thing I ever won.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Motivation, perspiration.....

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

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

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

That shirt.....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another 21 miles.......

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

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

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

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

Orchid on Cubert Common

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

     

Out again today.......

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beside the River Wharfe

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

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

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

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

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

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