Eight miles, three villages

Me....many moons ago in the Fannichs

Over the last seven days the pageant of Autumn has passed it's best. On Saturday, as I ran between avenues of trees and along the River Wharfe, leaves were gently parachuting down, littering the ground or twirling downstream like fleets of tiny coracles. After a disastrous summer, the worst most of us can remember, a couple of weeks of autumn sunshine went some way towards restoring our flagging spirits before, once again, we're plunged into the gloom of winter. Many moons ago, in common with other outdoor friends, I looked forward to winter with mounting excitement. Snow and ice was an added challenge to our mountaineering skills, elements to be enjoyed as we cramponed over snowy summits, chipped our way up icy gullies, camped  by frozen rivers or shared the sparse comforts of remote highland bothies. My blood was thicker then, my joints more supple, my bones less sensitive to arctic temperatures, and I'd far more strength to withstand the buffetting blizzards that would sometimes blow me off my feet.

Appletreewick with Simon's Seat rising in the distance

Now, in my dotage, I'm ashamed to admit that winter has become a mostly unwelcome season of the year. The change likely coincided with the installation of central heating in my humble cottage about ten years ago. My old bones have grown accustomed to the soothing warmth so that now I can no longer function properly without it. However, there are usually a few enjoyable spells when I'll strap on my Yaktrax to run icy trails or hurtle down snowy slopes, generating enough heat to maintain body temperature for a few hours, but it always feels nice to creep back into my cosy cottage. (Not that it's very cosy at the moment. A new central heating boiler installed four days ago lasted all of five hours before deciding to go on strike. It still hasn't been fixed).

Burnsall

To get back to the present, I've been taking it easy this week, a gentle 25 miles over four days, trying to hone my uphill technique with a view to running a couple of very hilly races early next year. My longest run, an eight miler on Saturday, linked three of Yorkshire's prettiest villages, Hebden, Appletreewick and Burnsall. It was warm enough for customers to sit outside the Craven Arms quaffing pints of fine ale while watching the world (and me) go by. A party of girls taking part in the Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme marched along the riverbank towards Howgill, heavily laden with large rucksacks but all smiles and chattering away happily in the marvellous conditions. They always seem happier than their male counterparts!

Squirrel at Burnsall - probably no more!

While running through Burnsall it occurred to me that the population of squirrels had decreased somewhat in recent times. In fact, I only saw one whereas usually there are quite a number flitting among the branches of riverside trees. A few years ago one of them was tame enough to leap onto people's shoulders as they passed by, frightening the life out of more timid walkers.  On mentioning this current dearth to a local lady she said most of them had been trapped, and killed, by someone in the village 'playing at God' - deciding what can live, and what can't. The poor lady seemed quite distraught, not to mention annoyed, as if she'd lost some cherished pets. I could sympathize with her, I missed them too.

Back into Hebden

On Sunday we awoke to grey skies, mist and dampness, but we managed a steady six mile run before the threatened rain arrived with a vengeance later in the morning.  I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for our minister, Rev David Macha, who'd be running in the rain after sneaking away for the weekend to take part in a two day mountain marathon among the rolling Howgill Fells between the Yorkshire Dales and Cumbria. I wasn't sure who'd be suffering most, David or his stand-in, Rev Fiona Jenkins who'd already conducted three services before arriving to take ours in Hebden. Understandably, she was a little hoarse and could find no kind words for David's fondness for hill running which she referred to as a form of self abuse. I kept my mouth firmly shut!

Whatever happens...let me run

Autumn tints at Burnsall

      Every now and again, for want of something better to do, I flip through my running notebooks and tot up the total mileage amassed since I began running way back in April, 1986. I'm always amazed, or even astounded, at the incredulous figure that comes up. When I began jogging, to hopefully lose a bit of weight and get myself back into shape after three years on the dole, I never in my wildest dreams imagined that in the next 26½ years I'd clock up 35,250 miles. That's 1.4 times round the earth - if I could stick to the equator. It's also 1.2 miles for every day of my life. I've absolutely no idea how many pairs of shoes I've worn out, or at what cost, but there could be a good argument in favour of barefoot running.

Misty morning - fishing for trout by Hebden suspension bridge

      Being long since retired I've maybe got too much time on my hands, which causes me to delve into phenomena I wouldn't otherwise entertain - like biocharts. I've always regarded them as a load of bunkum but a short study of mine the other day came up with some interesting data. For instance, a couple of those bad runs I mentioned in recent Blog postings occurred on so-called critical days of the physical cycle when I'd have been better off staying in bed. Conversely, some of my better runs occurred during the plus side of the cycle, days 2 - 11 when physical work is said to be easier. Last week's activities all took place in the 'recuperative' or recharging state (days 13 - 23) when exercise can apparently cause tiredness.  Ah, so that's what it is.  All this sleepiness is nothing at all to do with my eighty and a bit years, just that I'm doing things on all the wrong days!

The nifty Nederlanders, Theo and Stefan

      Last week was a wonderful time for running, or anything else. Red, russet and gold tints, woodland aromas, misty mornings, frosty filigree on plants and trees, robins returning to gardens for winter hand-outs, spider's webs like beaded netting, holly berries and strings of gossamer were all part of another 22 glorious miles. With my mind thus pre-occupied with this annual unfolding pageant running was easy. The watch was totally forgotten as legs and body surreptitiously adjusted to their optimum rhythms as I jogged through a kaleidoscope of abstract colour. All very relaxing - regardless of what the biochart would have me believe. And as if to verify this statement, my resting heart rate has dipped to 38bpm. Perfect.

Theo and me by the River Wharfe approaching Appletreewick

      Mostly, I run alone, engrossed in my own thoughts, stopping every now and then to point my camera at striking features along the way, but yesterday I was accompanied along the riverbank by a couple of nifty Nederlanders, my friends Theo and Stefan, who are regular visitors to the Yorkshire Dales. Theo has dodgy deteriorating eyesight (a bit like mine!) so I was a little worried about the many hazards lurking under the carpet of fallen leaves, like protruding rocks, tree roots and suchlike, but he took his time, lifted his feet and thoroughly enjoyed our relaxed canter to Appletreewick and back. Maybe it was a bit too relaxed for the younger Stefan whose 'Runkeeper' was shouting at him to go faster, faster, but we took no notice of the over enthusiastic gadget!  It was good to have company, for a change, and look forward to their next visit - especially if they bring another packet of those rather nice biscuits!

Stefan and Theo running the Autumn riverbank

      All in all, it's been another great week and, let's face it, each one is a bonus at my time of life. I dread the day I can no longer go out and enjoy such things. To reiterate a phrase I came across in one of my midweek readings, written maybe 28 centuries ago: "Whatever happens.....let me run"  (2 Samuel, Chap 18, v23 - NKJV). I can empathize with that young son of Zadok the Priest but for vastly different reasons - except one: his apparent desire to outrun that guy who set off before him. We've something in common there!

Reasons to run faster...

In my dreams!

Last week was reasonably good, weatherwise, some beautiful frosty mornings  developing into warm sunny days. I took advantage of four of them to clock up a fairly respectable 26 miles, my highest mileage for many a week. For the first couple of runs I discarded my old trail shoes in favour of road shoes to run a five mile circuit I haven't used for years. Living on the 645ft contour most of my town runs start off X-country onto Castle Hill, up to 900ft, before descending back home by devious routes. I couldn't face those uphill starts through muddy fields last week so opted for a road run that drops 250ft to Low Common in the first mile, giving me time to catch my second wind, before rising steeply for 490ft to the village of Farnley Tyas in the second mile. The next three miles are mainly level and downhill with some glorious views across the valley to distant hills and bleak moorland. But it can be quite frightening at times. Some lunatic drivers obviously imagine themselves to be Jenson Button or Lewis Hamilton practicing for their next Grand Prix. The roads are narrow, some of the bends are littered with debris from crashed cars and the fastest section has no footpath. I tend to run faster past these blackspots in order to be out of danger that little bit quicker.

Approaching Mossdale on Saturday with Great Whernside in sunshine

At the weekend I was looking forward to getting back to the sanctuary of hills above Hebden, but there were a couple of dicey moments there too. On Saturday morning my wonderful partner accompanied me for the first three miles of a ten mile run around Mossdale. Running up Hebden Ghyll we suddenly noticed a large shooting party spanning the whole of the horizon ahead of us, walking up game towards us and all of them with guns - and dogs.  We kept going, straight through the middle of them, all the while hoping no rabbit, grouse or pheasant would raise its head between us and them. Graciously they stayed low until we'd passed, though guns were blazing away behind us shortly afterwards.

Prime beef on the hoof. Wonder if I could outrun him?

Later, running on my own, I encountered the same great herd of cows and calves that normally graze wild across the wide open Kelber pasture. They never bother me, usually scampering away if I get too close. On this occasion they stood their ground, maybe, I thought, because they've got used to 'that mad runner' tootling past. I veered a little to avoid one munching its way towards me when it struck me this was no cow but a huge Aberdeen Angus bull I hadn't seen for a couple of years, or more. On the last occasion I met him he wouldn't let me pass, running to left and right 20 yards or so ahead of me to block the path.  Luckily I was near to a stile which I was able to climb over and circumnavigate his stomping ground. This time, he raised his head, studied me for half a minute as I sped by with increasing speed, then carried on grazing. Great relief! Although I've worked with farm animals, so don't fear them as much as some people do, it's still a bit of a shock to encounter a strange bull in the middle of a desolate moor a long way from the nearest wall and with nowhere to hide. Moreso when I was wearing my usual bright red running strip! You'll notice, in my picture of him, I didn't go back to the front of that menacing head.

A touch of frost on Sunday morning

On Sunday we awoke to a frosted landscape that had us scuttering around with our cameras to capture the beautiful sights before they melted away in strengthening sun. On a subsequent run to Appletreewick in the afternoon I passed our local artist, Rosemary Lodge, with a very evocative painting of Burnsall in all its Autumn glory nestling on her easel. Much as I admire Rosemary's work I didn't stop but continued my six mile tempo run to get home, shower and cool off before Church in the early evening. After all, I'd a lot to be thankful for, divine deliverance from kami-kazi drivers, slaughtering guns and beligerent bulls, amongst other things......  Such things give my Blog title - 'Run for your Life' - a whole new meaning.

Autumn of my life

Cotoneaster - lighting up the ghyll

With hindsight four races on the track, and all in the space of three hours, wasn't one of my better ideas, especially at my time of life. A week has passed and my resting heart rate still hasn't returned to it's normal 42bpm. It's dropping, slowly, but not sufficiently for me to resume an average weekly mileage. Two of my runs got drastically curtailed last week. A six mile recovery run on Wednesday just didn't feel right and I jogged home after only four. A planned ten miler on Saturday, in beautiful weather, got cut down to six as my old legs struggled to maintain any sort of decent pace or rhythm. Nothing niggles me more than failing to achieve what I set out to do.

The Scar, bright in Autumn sunshine....

Maybe tiredness or staleness has something to do with it. Yesterday evening I happened to mention to my wonderful partner that, except for one or two enforced lay-offs due to injury, I haven't had a real break from running or racing in all the 26 years I've been doing it. I pointed out that in his book, 'Running for Fitness', Seb Coe mentions that after his racing season finished in September he'd often spend October by the sea, preferably somewhere sunny and warm, for a complete break from running, when only walking and swimming interrupted his relaxation. In his words "Mental refreshment is more important than the physical relief from hard training". My wonderful partner had a very short answer to this idea. Over another sip of wine she replied "You're not Seb Coe".

Up onto the moor - with its remnants of lead mining

Anyhow, after Church on Sunday I lowered my sites a little and set off on one of my favourite seven mile runs onto Grassington Moor. It was a glorious morning with a slight frost silvering the grass, limestone outcrops shining white under a cloudless sky, bright red berries lighting up the ghyll and leaves turning yellow and russet in the crisp Autumn air. My legs felt recharged as I sprinted up a steep and narrow cutting where a car had stopped at the top to let me by. I passed a  mixed bunch of 'Duke of Edinburgh' award scheme teenagers strung out ahead of me, toiling and sweating under their heavy loads. They must have felt envious of me jogging past with just a miniscule bumbag.

Scattering grouse on Bycliffe Hill

After a couple of miles civilization was left far behind as I climbed onto high open moorland with mainly wild red grouse and grazing sheep for company. A raven circled and cronked a greeting and I wondered whether it was the same bird that had shadowed me for almost a mile on one of my previous runs in that area. It was good to know it had so far been clever enough to escape being shot, trapped, or possibly poisoned by our over-zealous gamekeeper who aims to keep his grouse moor totally free of predators and vermin.

Back down by the river.....

An old sheep trod through whispering grass led me to the high point on Bycliffe Hill before descending to Howgill Nick and a wonderful fast run down the long wall on springy turf, back into Hebden Ghyll. A group of walkers were purposefully plying pairs of trekking poles up the Yarnbury zig-zags while others were picnicking in warm sunshine beside the beck. It's naughty of me, I know, but my old brain invariably feels a little superior at the sight of younger people with trekking poles who, to my mind, have succumbed to a brilliant marketing ploy that persuaded them they needed sticks long before such aids actually become necessary. Or have I just been lucky?

.....and early Autumn tints

Back in the busy village of Hebden I wasn't even panting which suggests either the old body is getting back to form or I hadn't run hard enough, or far enough. So, after a bite to eat and a couple of mugs of tea, I spent the afternoon walking by the river looking for big fish, feeling the sun on my face, feasting my eyes on early Autumn tints - and casting silent aspersions at people with trekking poles!

A duck out of water

As someone who loves running in wild and lonely places, hills and dales, rough moorland, remote islands or mountain ridges that thrust rocky peaks into the clouds, I had to ask myself today "What the heck am I doing here?" The 'here' in question was the manicured surrounds of the Princess Mary Athletics Track where I was attending the Yorkshire Veterans Track & Field Championships. Rarely have I felt so out of place. I was the proverbial duck out of water, square peg in a round hole and other cheeky things I could think of. For starters, I hardly knew anyone beyond three members of my own club - Longwood Harriers A.C. - so unable to do much socializing.  Worse still, there were none of my contemporaries to chat to or compare notes with. I was the only MV80 so it was rather pointless me being there at all. After all, I wasn't actually going to WIN anything.  Moreover, I hadn't raced or trained on a track since the British Masters T&F Championships over five years ago so I was a little rusty - to say the least. And lastly, my charming neighbours maybe thought they were rocking me to sleep with their wild music blasting through the wall into the wee small hours. I got up at 1.30am in search of ear plugs to stifle the cacophony, but I could still feel that awful hammering beat.

Three Gold medals, another to come after engraving

I was a little nervous going into the first race over 400m but I managed to complete it in a fairly respectable  86.63, a time that would easily have won me Gold in this year's British Master's Athletics Federation Track & Field Championships in Derby.

The second race, over 800m, took place only 15 minutes later so I'd hardly chance to catch my breath before I was lining up again. My fast beating heart was not at all happy, and neither was I!  Usain Bolt doesn't have to run two different races in quick succession, let alone four in one afternoon. But when the starter's pistol went off it was as if it had fired a great shot of adrenalin into my flagging muscles and from lane No.2 I tore off round the first bend in pursuit of my pace-makers in the outside lanes, like a terrier after half a dozen bolted rats. They pulled me along well and I crossed the line in 3.25.58 - again considerably faster than the Gold medalist in the BMAF T&F Champs this year.

I wasn't at all happy about my heart rate, which was going through the roof, but I'd 1¾ hours rest before the 1500m. I reckoned the best thing to do was to keep moving, albeit slowly, and also to keep warm and re-hydrate.  My brain told me to give the 1500m a miss - but it was over-ruled! I decided to run it, if only to pick up another Gold medal, given how it had cost Yorkshire Veterans Athletics Association £297.00 to supply and engrave all the medals. From the start I took it easy, very easy, cruising along at the rear of the field with no desire whatsoever to catch my Longwood Harriers clubmate a few metres ahead. This was her last race of the day, I still had another to run. I crossed the line fractionally inside 7 minutes, in 6.59.38, which I'm told is reasonable for an MV80.

The last race, the 200m, was one in which I expected to do well - but I hadn't bargained for just how much the previous three races had depleted my energy levels. Nor did it help coming only 15 minutes after the 1500m. Given lane No.1 I'd a bird's eye view of the other runners, which is what I like, and I was off to a good start round the bend. Along the finishing straight I caught the MV65 in lane 2, Edward Wagner of Skyrac, but he was determined not to suffer the ignominy of being beaten by an MV80 and found another gear to finish a tenth of a second ahead of me. My time was 37.87 - which would only have given me Silver in the BMAF Champs. (Actually, I can run 200m faster than that - but not after three other races).

So, I came home with three Gold medals - with another to come after it's been suitably engraved. In truth, they mean absolutely nothing to me. I didn't win them because I'd no competition in my category, I merely acquired them. If I'd known there wasn't going to be any opposition in my category I wouldn't have bothered to enter. Anyhow, thank God it's all over. Now I can get back to my beloved hills - and some PROPER, more relaxed and enjoyable running. 

Back to my squidgy routes....

From the cloudless, 30º+ volcanic landscape of Tenerife....

The past week with its 11º temperatures, soaking rain and NE winds blasting from Siberia proved an awful shock to my old bones after the wonderful warmth of Tenerife. After arriving home I turned up the central heating and didn't stir out of the house for two days - except to feed the birds.  But come Wednesday, with a forthcoming race playing on my mind, I reluctantly donned shorts and vest and braved the elements to go through the motions of what could loosely be called 'training'. After a two mile warm-up I launched into a set of 16 x 200m reps with 200m recovery jog. Well, that was the plan, but I aborted after 12 and ran the mile back to my warm home as fast as my little legs would carry me. I'd had quite enough.

...to this dreary 11º waterlogged landscape outside my window today

Saturday dawned clear and fine with some warm sunshine so I set off on an easy ten mile run round Mossdale, one of my favourite routes. Usually! On this occasion I was reduced to a walk on the very first hill after only five minutes running. I don't like walking either in training or in racing; it's against my principals. But prior to this run I'd been reading an email from Joe Henderson extolling the virtues of the run/walk method of long distance or marathon running. For the first time ever I decided to give it a try and opted for 5 minutes running alternating with 1 minute walking. Goodness knows what was wrong with me but I found it extremely hard to keep it going. Five minutes walking and one minute running would have been a struggle.  I returned home in a state of collapse and promptly fell asleep in a chair for most of the afternoon! It's rained for most of the time since.

Saturday's track to Mossdale, one of my favourite routes - usually!

I donned my cagoule and huddled along, dodging the puddles, to our Harvest Festival service on Sunday evening. The Chapel had been beautifully decorated and many of our parishioners had brought along gifts of food and refreshments to distribute to the needy. Rev David Macha preached on the subject of 'coming to fruition' - which we're all in the process of doing, regardless of how old we are. We're all work in progress - which is a nice positive thought. Anyhow, it so happens that David is also a keen runner who can sometimes be seen hurtling through our village in the early morning prior to the commencement of his long day's work.  After the service I asked him "How did you get on in the Great North Run this year?".  It transpired he'd had a bad one, finishing in 1 hour 41 minutes, 7 minutes slower than a previous occasion. "I felt alright for the first ten miles but from there on I just got slower and slower. I finished absolutely knackered" he said. Ah, now there's a word that perfectly describes how I felt on Saturday, though I don't think you'll find it in the Bible.

Facing El Teide

The Gran Hotel El Tope, Puerto de la Cruz

After our Tenerife flight had been delayed due to late arrivals we arrived at our gradely hotel in Puerto de la Cruz long after darkness had fallen, only just in time for a late dinner.  The charming receptionist allocated us what she considered a very special room on the 6th floor with a view mainly out to sea, but for people from remoter parts of Yorkshire the traffic noises from a busy road below were pretty unbearable.  After a mainly sleepless night we asked if we might change rooms for one on the other side of the hotel and they readily obliged. Facing south west we could still see the sea but our main view across a barranca was dominated by the towering volcanic cone of El Teide, Spain's highest mountain.

One of the barranca inhabitants

We were happy with that, and the fact our balcony caught the sun in the afternoon and evening, making it possible to dry clothes and towels in the 30º heat. However, what may have been annoying to city dwelling clientelle was the constant crowing of cockerels and clocking of hens that scratched a bare existence in the barranca immediately below us. Their raucous morning matins began at 5am. Some of the cocks resembled Old English Game, a type of jungle fowl used for fighting in days gone by. I've a sneaking suspicion such sport is still practiced in the Canary Islands for on La Palma we once came across such cocks dubbed and groomed for action strutting around in locked cages.

Hey, who's doing the talking around here??

Our hotel, the El Tope, stands at the top of a very steep hill, or 126 steps, whichever is preferred, so not the place for people with mobility problems or those with children in pushchairs. Street vendors take advantage of people resting on their way up the endless flight of steps to ply their trade. Those who deign to stop may be offered sunglasses, always 'at a very good price', or have the once in a lifetime opportunity of being photographed with a psuedo Guancho complete with a few authentic looking artefacts and a friendly wee dog to tug the heartstrings. Those who pause momentarily to admire the wonderfully coloured parrots strutting on a sunny white wall soon find themselves accosted by an opportunist gentleman who swiftly materializes from the shadows offering to take pictures of the bemused innocent with a bird on each shoulder - for a price, of course.  One up on Long John Silver!

Running happy - along the seafront

We avoided such obstacles by taking the slightly longer route up the lung-bursting hill, usually running, at the end of our three or four mile morning jaunts before it got too hot. We ran on six of our ten days clocking up a mere 22 miles mainly connecting the popular beaches along the waterfront as far as Playa Jardin, then back along the wave-splashed sea wall at a slightly faster pace. We'd intended to do more but due to densely populated thoroughfares, and the LIDL thermometer reaching 31º on some mornings, our ambitious plans got somewhat curtailed. Lounging by the hotel pool and periodically plunging into its cooling depths was more preferable than pattering around the sun traps of Puerto dodging all the sauntering gods and goddesses with far more attractive tans than ours.

Sunbathing terrapin and lily pads at the Botanic Gardens

In search of shade we strolled up the road to the Botanic Gardens with its tall Palms, Banyan trees, exotic shrubs, Birds of Paradise and other rare flowers, lily pads with resident terrapins and Koi Carp circling around. Enough to keep us occupied for a couple of cool hours - at least - and all for the cost of 3.00 €. Similarly, we nipped around to the nearby Orchid garden, a hidden gem just across the barranca, to be once again mesmerized by the vast variety of exotic multi-coloured plants, cacti, dancing butterflies, fish pond, dragonflies, bonsai trees, fountain and bird house - all grouped together in the most tranquil of settings.  The artist, Marianne North, whose collection of botanic paintings are displayed at Kew Gardens, spent some time in the big yellow house - which I believe was once a convent. Agatha Christie also stayed there and wrote a story based on the place - or so it said in the blurb.

Sock it to 'em - some of the Spanish Army on parade - La Laguna

On another day (Friday) we caught the 102 bus to La Laguna, a World Heritage site since 1999 and cultural capital of the island.  We wandered the streets, photographing baroque architecture, carved wooden balconies, churches, convents and towers, but all the while wondering why it was so quiet. Then we learned it was an official Bank Holiday so most places other than bars and restaurants were closed. Just our rotten luck. We'd chosen the wrong day. It wasn't all doom and gloom. The sound of bugles and drums led us to a packed square where a military parade was taking place following an inspection by a high ranking Officer. They paraded down the street to much applause from mainly Spanish onlookers. We never did find out what it was all in aid of. Perhaps they'd just returned from Afghanistan, or somewhere. Or maybe it was just something they did on Bank Holidays. I'll say one thing, they were all exceedingly smart and well drilled, a credit to their regiment.

A view from our hotel balcony

But the most exciting day, one I'll remember most, was a cloudless Monday when we ascended 5,000ft up El Teide from El Portillo. We called at the Information Centre, thinking we might need a map to guide us over the eight miles of inhospitable terrain. Typically, all the English ones had gone so we'd a choice of German or Spanish. We chose the latter and were urged to be on our way by the slightly bemused gentleman who plainly thought we were attempting something quite beyond our means. He was very nearly right!  It was 10.45am when we set out along the narrow Sendero No 1 with the faraway top cone of El Teide beckoning us along through the arid, desert-like sandy terrain. The temperature was in the 30's, the sky cloudless, and there was little or no shelter along the whole of the route. Our schedule was to reach the base of that top cone, then descend by the Teleferique to catch the only bus back to Puerto at 16.05.

Our objective - that wee nipple on the huge breast of El Teide

Flowerless brushwood dotted the landscape of the initial stages, unidentified birds flitted hither and thither while scores of grass-hoppers leapt over our feet as we set a cracking pace along the boulder lined track.  Sendero No ! merged into Sendero No 6 the latter of which ended at a large notice board we couldn't understand a word of. From here on the track became wider as it snaked along for almost two miles with not a sign of bird, plant, lizard or beast. It ended abruptly at a circle of stones with a large flat one in the middle that could be used as a picnic table - by those who could spare the time. Beyond that point it became the realm of the mountaineer as the rocky, sometimes indiscernable path ascended steeply through lava flows sculpted into grotesque shapes, jagged pinnacles and huge blocks (Eggs of Teide) until a building came into view - the Refugio Alta Vista, an overnight stop for weary travellers at 10,825ft. 

Getting towards the rough bit

Beyond the Refuge the climb continued relentlessly, twisting and turning, taking the line of least resistance through jutting rocks and up exposed little steps. I don't mind admitting I felt absolutely knackered. I'd not climbed to that height before, ever, not even in the Swiss Alps, and I was really beginning to suffer from the altitude. I'd be moving along quite well when all at once I'd run out of breath, as if my lungs had suddenly stopped working, or collapsed, and I'd come to an involuntary halt panting like a dog - only a lot faster. Maybe that's what they call hyperventilating. After a short rest my breathing would stabilize and I'd be able to continue until it happened again. Trouble was, we were on a very tight schedule and it was imperative to keep going in order to catch that 16.05 bus at the bottom of the Teleferique. By the time we reached the end of Sendero 7 I felt to be on my very last legs. 

At 11,708ft, at the base of that 'wee nipple'.

But there was yet another path to negotiate, Sendero No 11 which, although short, seemed to take an eternity to traverse. I shuffled along on automatic pilot as if in a trance, sub-consciously using inate fell-running skills to negotiate the rocky path until the Teleferique station came into view.  It was 15.45 and we'd just missed a descending cable car. The chap who sold us tickets could scarcely believe we'd climbed to 11,708ft in those shimmering hot conditions wearing nothing but shorts, t-shirts and Trail shoes. In order to keep on schedule we'd had no lunch stop and drunk hardly any water. According to Tranter's walking tables a very fit person would cover 8 miles and 5,000ft of ascent in 5.5 hours. We'd done it in five! The cable car hurtled us down to the car park with a few minutes to spare, time to stagger to the loo and back before negotiating those ruddy great steps into the bus. It had been a long, hard day, and I can honestly say, without fear of contradiction, there will never be a repeat!

Hebden Village Sports

Hebden Crag on a better day - showing the white stone at centre
top which runners climb around before returning along the Rt skyline

The soaking wet weather we experienced at Burnsall Feast Sports on Saturday struck again at Hebden Village Sports a couple of days later on Bank Holiday Monday.  Fortunately, I'd been able to get out for a six mile run in the morning before the heavens opened. After lunch I was one of four stewards marshalling the U/12's, U/14's, U/17's and Senior fell races at three different points on Hebden Crag - in pouring rain.  For the two younger age group races, over shorter distances, we were able to shelter behind walls whilst the runners came and went, but for the latter two races we were fully exposed to horrendous conditions at the very top of the crag.

Start of U12's fell race

Not all went well. Last minute changes to plans by the Fell Race organiser resulted in some frayed tempers and flouting of the rules by senior fell runners. Adverse weather caused some of the listed events on the Sports field to be cancelled which resulted in races being brought forward. Rules stated that all entrants for fell races must be registered before the start of the first race, programmed to begin at 3.30pm. But they began earlier. Some senior fell runners turning up to register just before the deadline were told "Sorry, the first race started 20 minutes ago, you're too late, we're not taking any more entries".

Our Ted in full flight at Burnsall

Ted Mason, one of our local star runners, was one who'd been refused entry and was far from happy when he joined us at the top of the crag as a mere spectator. Had he been allowed to run he could well have won it and gained revenge on the Ilkley Harrier, Hector Haines, who'd beaten him into second place in Burnsall's Classic Fell Race two days before. Other senior fell runners who'd been refused entry stuck two fingers up at the race organiser and ran regardless. Officially, there were 39 starters but I counted 44 over the crag. There could have been more, I'm not very good at counting! 

Senior Fell Race winners Holly Page and Hector Haines with
Hebden's Golden boy, Andy Hodge, who presented the prizes

But whilst feeling sorry for refused runners who'd braved nasty conditions and travelled long distances to take part in our races, I was glad to scramble down early, taking away flags, removing barrier tape and dismantling routes as fast as my frozen legs and soddened feet would carry me. It wasn't much fun stuck 900ft in the air in a howling gale holding a king-size animated flag of St George! We breathed huge sighs of relief on getting home to strip off dripping waterproofs in welcome warmth and wrap our frozen hands round hot mugs of tea.

Bye-bye for now, see you soon

 I reckon that was the final straw after the worst summer since records began. No surprise then that over dinner that evening my wonderful partner and I unanimously agreed that a holiday in the sun was urgently needed to restore our flagging spirits. After much searching of the internet we finally booked a ten day package to Tenerife where we'll soon be running new routes around the precincts of  Puerto de la Cruz before stretching out in the sun, cooling off in the pool, sipping the odd glass of wine while 'Running with the Kenyans' on my iPad - and very little else!  Who knows when this poor old Blog will be updated again.  Watch this space!

Burnsall 10 mile road race - and other things

   At times last weekend one could be forgiven for thinking Hurricane Isaac had lost its way to America's Gulf Coast and come rampaging through the Yorkshire Dales. In the hour prior to the start of the Burnsall 10 mile race on Saturday we sat in the car unable to see out of the windows for the amount of rain sluicing from the sky. Nearing the appointed hour we trundled our way through puddles, huddled under umbrellas, to the sanctuary of a gazebo conveniently placed by the Start/Finish line. Then miraculously, as we were called to the start, the rain gods mercifully relented and reduced the deluge to a mere trickle. At 2.30pm prompt we were on our way.

The Burnsall 10 mile race route

   Many consider Burnsall a hard race with its undulating roads and 1,028ft of ascent spread out over its 10 miles of challenging Dales landscape. Local and unattached runners seem somewhat daunted by it whilst many club runners tend to avoid it because there's little or no chance of posting a PB (Personal Best) time. A note on the entry form says an approximate time for the race is 50 to 75 minutes - which is a joke. Nowadays, only about half of entries are capable of achieving this.  Sadly, I'm no longer one of them.

   As in the Arncliffe race two weeks ago I was one of the last to set off. I've an aversion to being passed. If anyone is going to do any passing, it's me!  Besides, it's uphill from the start so I wanted to control the pace until such a time when the going got easier. In my visualization of the race I'd planned to run within my limits to the top of the second last big hill at 5½ miles, then step on the gas. In the absense of a suitable female pacemaker I latched onto Ged Peacock of Otley A.C. to pull me along from the 2 mile marker in Hebden for the next 3¼ miles to the steep pull out of Threshfield where he seemed to fade a little. I was on my own after that. After a few seconds walk to take on water at Linton I set off to tackle the steepest bit of the course, a nasty hill rising to the highest point at the picturesque village of Thorpe which is hidden from the world in a fold of grassy hills.

   Here I got a bit annoyed. A girl in front, who shall remain nameless, was running bang in the middle of the narrow road, earplugs jammed in her luggoles and totally unaware of a car cruising just behind her, wanting to pass but unable to do so until reaching a wider bit of road ¼ mile farther along. I'd let the car pass me OK and she could have done too. The driver was very patient, I think I'd have blasted her to the side, out of the way!  Whatever runners do in training they shouldn't use mp3 players, or whatever, while taking part in races, and with total disregard of things going on around them. I'd disqualify them!

Easing into gear (No 17) at the wet start of the race

   Leaving Thorpe the route is all downhill or flat, the fastest bit of the race, and my legs still felt strong as I stormed in my geriatric fashion towards the Finish line which, to my amazement, was still there!  I say this because usually, 90 minutes after the start of the road race, the finishing funnel is reversed for the use of fell runners who complete their races from the opposite direction - if that makes sense! My finishing time was 92.04, a couple of minutes outside the changeover mark, so I was lucky. Some runners finishing behind me (aye, there were one or two) didn't have their times recorded correctly. Full results here:  Amazingly, I was once again awarded a prize for 1st local finisher, the only other being Peter Hodge, another 'mature' runner and father of Andy Hodge who recently put our village on the map again when winning Olympic Gold for a second time in the men's coxless fours. 

.....and cruising to the Finish  92 minutes later

   I don't think I'll run Burnsall again, but you never know.  I just wanted to post a fairly good M80 time for future octogenarians to have a go at. According to Jim Maxfield, the Entries secretary, I'm the oldest person ever to have run it, but I reckon they'd attract more Super Vets if they extended the prize list which currently only extends to M60 and L40. Problem is, they'd maybe have to start the road race ½ hour earlier, at 2pm, so as to finish before the start of fell races at 4pm. They'd be most reluctant to do this as rules for these village events were set in stone many generations ago.

   Thankfully, rain cleared away overnight and Sunday dawned bright and clear. Which was fortunate because as fell race stewards my wonderful partner and I, along with Jacqui Todd, had to spend the day marking and flagging various fell race routes in preparation for Hebden's Village Sports on Bank Holiday Monday. After a ten mile run the previous day the old legs were a bit stiff for clambering over high walls, flagging the route on Hebden Crag and wading the swollen beck. But all went well and by late afternoon everything was in place and ready for action.

With Andy and that precious Gold medal

   Evening found us all gathered at the village pub, the Clarendon, to greet and congratulate our local hero, Andy Hodge, for his incredible Olympic rowing success at Eton Dornay.  Along with his charming wife, and mum and dad, a meal had been planned for 6.45pm, but he was still signing autographs and posing for photographs with all and sundry when I arrived from Church at 7.30.  Of course, I had to grab hold of that shiny Gold medal with its purple ribbon, perhaps hoping some of its power would suffuse into me and boost future performances!  But in holding it I tried to imagine what Andy must have felt like when it was hung around his neck for the very first time on that Olympic podium. Words failed me, as they must have done with him. On such esoteric occasions, only tears can adequately express the fullest meaning of that sublime experience.

   Such times have passed me by. I don't believe there's such a thing as re-incarnation but if there was it would be wonderful to come back to Hebden as yet another victorious Olympic medallist to be greeted and applauded by highly appreciative villagers, amongst them, perhaps, an active octogenarian Andy Hodge still flushed with pride after being crowned first local in the Burnsall 10!  Dream on!

"My strength is made perfect in weakness"

Running up Mastiles Lane on the way to Malham Moor

One of my  'secret paths' through the wheat field

A slight obstacle while we were running down Conistone Dib

  A comment posted by a Facebook Friend on the occasion of my birthday keeps popping into my mind.  She said "Happy Birthday young man, God must have been in a great mood the day you were born!"  Isn't that wonderful?  I love such positive thoughts, and the more I think about that particular one, the more I'm inclined to agree.  Admittedly, the old body has acquired a few irritating imperfections over the years, particularly in the eyesight and waterworks departments, but nothing that has so far prevented me from getting on with the manifold things a human body is designed to do.  I can still run, though occasionally suffering the inconvenience of cuts, bruises - or the odd broken bone - when I trip and hit the deck.  And not to mention the ignominy of running partners streaking away into the distance whilst I whistle in the bushes or behind some convenient wall.
   Yet I'm sure these wee problems of mine are as nothing compared to the vast variety of physical and mental disabilities in the hundreds of brave paralympians currently gathering for their own version of the Games in London next week, athletes who will indomitably rise  above their disabilities to give Gold medal performances. We're not told what the apostle Paul's particular 'thorn in the flesh' was, but it sure didn't stop him from fulfilling the work he was destined to do. As the saying goes...where there's a will there's a way.
    My Friend's comment came to mind again today when I was almost run down in the Supermarket by a smiling gentleman on a mobility scooter. There were elderly ladies too, nipping around with their zimmer frames, so I reached the conclusion Tuesday must be a day designated to disabled or arthritic shoppers. And I couldn't help thinking, I'm either exceedingly lucky or God was indeed in a very good mood when I came slithering into this wonderful world over eighty years ago. Similar thoughts spring to mind on bright mornings when, after a hearty breakfast, I can still lace up my trail shoes, step out the door and run 10 miles at a respectable pace through some of the most gorgeous countryside in the world. Which is what I did this last week, amongst other things.

Taken during a refreshing run past these two weirs on the Wharfe

     In the run-up to a local 10 mile race next Saturday I've been taking it comparatively easy, not that Britain's humid conditions allowed me to do much else. Bumbling is a word that best describes it, through waving woods, fields of golden corn, by badger setts and fox coverts, Dales pastures, rocky ravines and wild, sweeping moorland. I call some of my routes 'secret' insomuch as they're not legally accessible to the general public, only to local farmers, gamekeepers and landowners. I feel extremely privileged to be able to run freely in such a beautiful environment where I rarely meet another soul. Those who only churn out their miles on a conveyor belt in the sweaty, unhealthy confines of noisy gymnasiums don't know what they're missing. But please stay there!

   Steak and wine will be high on the menu this week, but very little running, in order to be in tip-top condition for the weekend race. Just hope it works!

Arncliffe Fete 4 mile race

    Over the past month I've reduced my number of training runs to three per week, or just two if racing at the weekend.  The two main sessions have been a set of 200m repetitions, with jog recovery, incorporated into a six mile run, and a long (for me) off-road run up to 10 miles at the weekend. The third is usually an enjoyable six miles through local woods, fields, fells or riverbank - taking my camera along as an excuse to occasionally stop and stare while taking pictures for my Blog. My old knees have thanked me for this change of regime, I've felt less tired and been better able to cope with the next session. Repetition runs have increased from 12 to 16 without any loss of speed. I might even be slightly faster. So the animal is happy.

The Arncliffe 4 mile race route

    Highlight of the past week was the Arncliffe Fete 4 mile road race, a low key event that annually attracts around a hundred runners. This year we were down to 80 which is a shame because the number of prizes diminishes with the drop in entries. It's all about budgetting.
   The race is suitable for all grades of runners, many unattached locals lining up with top class club runners. The route is an undulating out and back circuit through beautiful Dales scenery following the right bank of the River Skirfare down to Hawkswick where it crosses the bridge and returns to Arncliffe by the opposite bank. Overall ascent is about 140ft - which is negligible spread out over 4 miles. This year's winner, Alan Buckley of Leeds City, kept just inside 5 minute mile pace to clock 19.59. The race takes place on the second Saturday of August, and there's a campsite nearby if any of my Blog readers should wish to take part in future years.

Starting near the back (313) so I can't be passed!
Photo courtesy of Dave Woodhead

    I'd spent a lot of Friday night visualizing just how I was going to run this race, which probably robbed me of a few hours sleep! My tactics were to start from near the back and gradually wind up to optimum pace over the first mile. That way I reasoned no-one was going to overtake me, but I'd have a succession of pace-makers to pull me to the Finish. It worked to a T, as they say. Glenis Speak of Northern Vets pulled me along for the first ¾ mile until I set my sites on an unknown runner who stopped to stretch against a wall when he heard my footsteps behind him. After the drinks station at two miles I caught Caren Crabtree of Wharfedale Harriers who said she was also entered for the Fell race later in the afternoon, so was keeping a bit in hand! In the last ½ mile I managed to catch the unattached Paul Stephenson and race him to the finish. I was happy with my time of 33.40, over 7 minutes inside the previous MV80 course record, and surprised to discover I'd beaten everyone over 65!   Full results here:

A smiling LV65 winner

     My wonderful partner considered she'd had a bad race and was anything but happy with her time of 40.49, but cheered up immensely on being presented with a £12.00 voucher as winner of the LV65 category. She later learned she'd also won a raffle prize valued £25.00 for a meal at a trendy local restaurant.   So a good time was had by all.  Roll on next year!
    Finally, I'm indebted to Karien, a South African runner who's been kind enough to feature my geriatric exploits in her very readable Blog entitled Running the Race. Whilst feeling slightly embarrassed I do hope her band of readers may draw inspiration from it and encourage them to run for longer and maybe rise to greater things. Thanks Karien.

All about Andy

A few anxious faces watching the race in the village pub
(photo courtesy of Viv Dawson)

Most other happenings related to our North Yorkshire village paled to insignificance in the light of what happened last Saturday morning at the Olympic rowing venue of Eton Dorney. Our local hero, the blonde haired Andy Triggs Hodge, brought home the bacon when he and his team mates in the men's coxless 4's once again beat the Aussies to strike Gold - just as they did in Beijing 4 years ago. However, there were some tense moments for the crowd of spectators gathered in the local pub to watch proceedings on the large television screen. 

Our Andy (right) and the victorious crew

Towards the end of the race the camera angle made it appear that the Aussies had inched ahead, and looks of concern spread over anxious faces glued to the screen.  But screams of joy broke out as the camera levelled on the Finish line to record our crew winning by half a boat length. Four years ago Andy fell back in the boat totally exhausted after his epic row but this time he punched the air in triumph. We've never seen him look so ecstatic but, judging by the raucous reactions of everyone back in Hebden, filmed by a local TV station, his joy was well matched by us all. 

That Gold letter-box

Less than 24 hours after his great victory the village letter-box had changed colour - from red to gold - and on Monday morning postage stamps were on sale with a picture of the four winning crew members in their boat.  I've no doubt there'll shortly be a big celebratory gathering and a meal to welcome Andy and his Gold medal back to Hebden - just as there was four years ago. Bring it on!

Out of the bloomin' way, and let somebody run that can run.....

My own puny efforts this week are hardly worth mentioning; nothing quite so exciting has happened to this old codger but I keep myself reasonably fit in hopes that it might.  Obviously the Olympic selectors haven't heard of me yet but I'm sure they'd have been pencilling in my name if they'd seen me racing a herd of cows and their calves around Mossdale last Monday - and beating them - midway through a ten mile training run!  Cows can become mighty frisky when running loose on open moorland in all weathers, besides being naturally protective of their calves, but they seem to know when they've met their match.

And where was Seb Coe, or any of his scouts, to witness my blinding speed while streaking past a young lady cyclist (with a Jack Russell in a basket) up a steep hill back into the village at the end of yet another ten mile run?  They're never there when it matters. Ah well, I can live in hopes!