Ups and downs.....

Stormy arrival at Los Cancajos....

     We didn't have the smoothest of starts to our La Palma holiday - though all ended well. After losing time with a slight navigational faux pas in darkness on our way to the airport parking lot, the automatic number plate recognition device was still asleep and incapable of lifting the barrier to allow us in.  Luckily, a lady's voice inside a metal box with buttons and flashing lights gave alternative means of gaining access so we were soon prowling round looking for an empty space among the thousands of occupied slots. We eventually found one and were soon aboard the shuttle bus bound for Terminal 2.  Our take-off was a bit behind schedule, then further delayed by 100mph headwinds on the flight south, so we arrived a little late.
      

      At Taburiente Playa in Los Cancajos we were allotted room number 438 which, we discovered, was

Hotel verandah awash with rain...

north facing and never got the faintest glimmer of sunlight. We were having none of that and were back down in Reception within minutes demanding a change. After a none too friendly exchange of words we were given room number 413 facing south and overlooking the swimming pools. Next morning we'd thunder and lightning with lashing rain and gale force wind that threatened to tear out surrounding trees by their roots. Our local Tourist Information Office, five minutes walk away, warned of severe weather with strong winds, snow on hills, and consequent closure of all high level footpaths.
      

Waves and white horses...

     Things improved a little next day with warm sunshine between showers, but still a raging wind that had an army of white horses galloping across the sea. Waves crashed against the rocks sending rainbow spray high into the air and flooding the promenade. High hills were indeed covered with snow but wild conditions made our morning run all the more spectacular and exhilerating. Our holiday had officially begun.....albeit a couple of days late.  So what were the highlights?
      

       PICO BEJENADO.  We set off to walk/jog

Mount Teide, miles away on Tenerife....

the classic Volcano Route, regarded by many as the finest day's walk in all the Canary Islands, but we alighted from the bus by the National Park Visitor Centre to see the whole of the Cumbrae Nueva ridge swathed in thick cloud. To the north Pico Bejenado's lofty tree-clad summit basked in glorious sunshine with nary a cloud to be seen. So, instead of making for El Pilar we climbed into a taxi and instructed the driver to head for El Barrial at the end of the tarmac road where a long trail begins its upward journey through a forest of Canary Pines to the 6,082ft summit. Out of the wind it was warm work but we made fast progress in lightweight gear - shorts, T-shirt and trail shoes - so we'd reached the summit cairn before noon.. Patches of snow still lingered on the rocky path whilst over on Tenerife Mount Teide, highest mountain in Spain, rose shining white above a sea of cloud.
      

Happy couple on summit of Pico Bejenado...note that sky.

      In spite of warm sunshine the local lizard population probably still regarded it as winter and were conspicuous by their absense. In summertime they're foraging for titbits around our feet and even probing into our rucksacks. Last year's friendly raven was missing too. It would perch at arms length and take food from our fingers. All we saw this time were two small brown birds we couldn't identify. We spent half an hour or so on the summit, enjoying the incredible views and breathing the clear air while eating lunch. There's a Visitors book in a metal box at the cairn but some thoughtless person had left the lid off and it had more or less disintegrated. A steady stream of walkers, mostly Germans, joined us at the cairn. Time to depart. It was a long walk back to the Visitor Centre where we'd catch a bus back.
      

       THE VOLCANO ROUTE.  Our alarm woke us at 06.30 so we'd breakfasted and quickly on our way

Standing by the Hoyo Negra, literally the black hole...

to catch the 08.00 Los Llanos bus as far as the National Park Visitor Centre. From there we climbed straight into a taxi bound for Refugio El Pilar, the start of our day's activities. The Sunflower Guide advises walkers to be well equipped with hiking boots, sun hat, sun glasses, sun cream, rain gear, warm cardigan, anorak, picnic and plenty of water. I was in my usual lightweight trail gear and never drank a drop of water throughout the 12 miles and 1,600ft of ascent, not until I got back to the hotel some six hours later.  I'll confess to sucking a couple of Polo mints en route but saved a muesli bar until the finish, before boarding the bus in Fuencaliente back to Cancajos. Having walked/jogged the Volcano Route four times previously it holds no fears for either of us. We've done much harder things on coast to coast jaunts over Scottish mountains.
      

Our begging friends, the ravens at Vulcan Deseada...

    We'd the trail pretty much to ourselves for the first three to four miles. A couple who got out of a taxi at the same time as us, and a couple of heavily laden girls who'd probably spent a night in the Refuge, were soon behind us as we strolled uphill through the pines. There'd been a slight frost overnight, there was a nip in the air and the trail was crunchy underfoot. We crossed a wooden bridge and climbed out of the pines into an almost bare, but colourful, volcanic landscape. An impressive black crater, the Hoyo Negra, was well named and maybe it was coincidence that two great black birds, ravens, landed on the path beside us to say hello and pose for photographs. In reality, I suppose they were begging for food!
      

      The steepest part of the route was a sandy, slippery climb onto Pico Deseada which seemed longer than

The lighter coloured dwarf pines...

on previous occasions. Maybe it's because I'm getting older. We paused at the trig point to take photographs of the crater where, lo and behold, the friendly ravens flew down again and strutted in front of our cameras, determined to get in the picture. Leaving Deseada we could jog down the sandy slope, to where a minor path crosses our main highway, the GR 131. A runner caught up with us and showed us a water tap in a rock wall about 25m to our right that ran icy cold for anyone needing refreshment. That was new to us. Soon we were back into the pines, a low growing wonderfully light green variety dotting the landscape towards brightly coloured Vulcan St Martin.
      

      We detoured off the main trail onto the rim of the volcano to peer into its depths and photograph the striking colours before continuing on our way. We were well ahead of schedule for our 2 o'clock bus so had time to linger, revellimg in all the magic and mystery of that incredible ancient landscape. More runners past us, a group of three

Runners emerging from the misty forest...

who moved sure footedly across the rocky, uneven terrain. Most likely they were familiarising themselves with parts of the 53 mile long Transvulcania race that takes place every May and attracts top sky runners from all over the world. If only I'd my time to come over again! In younger years I'd never heard of such things. The Three Peaks of Yorkshire (24 miles/4,500ft ascent) was the only long distance event I knew of - and I couldn't wait to take part in it when I started running at the tender age of 54. It was an easy jog/walk through mist enshrouded forest to the tarmac streets of Fuencaliente and the end of another little adventure.
      

      ROQUE DE LOS MUCHACHOS TO MIRADOR EL TIME.  There was some slight indecision

Excited in the clear air at 8,000ft, but had to don a fleece.....

before embarking on this route. After an early breakfast we stuck our noses out to sniff the air and gauge the weather. It didn't look good. Thick clag, poor visibility and a stiff wind didn't bode well for a walk starting at almost 8,000ft with the prospect of snow on all high level trails. I disappeared into the loo telling my wonderful partner "I'll meditate on it". Five minutes later I re-appeared and said "Let's go" before shouldering our tiny rucksacks and ordering a taxi for 8am. It arrived, spot on time, though the driver could hardly believe that the couple stood outside dressed in shorts and carrying a minimum of gear were actually going to attempt such a high level route that wasn't even in our guide book.
     

Snow, cloud and telescopes....

     "Where are your trekking poles?" he inquired. "We don't use poles, we're runners" I explained, though in actual fact we hardly broke into a trot all day. We got stuck in a traffic jam at road works approaching Santa Cruz as the meter ticked over at a seemingly great rate of knots, racking up the Euros. We escaped and zoomed uphill rapidly round the myriad hairpin bends following four carloads of workers who reputedly make this nightmare journey every day to operate and service the huge telescopes at the Observatories. It rained, windscreen wipers were turned on and as we rose higher into the cold air our windows steamed up.  Then, all at once, we experienced a magical cloud inversion that even got our taxi driver excited and animated. We cringed as he turned to us with one hand on the wheel and pointed out different things of interest - mainly Mount Teide which he pronounced tay ee day. Snow was piled by the roadside and icicles hung from the rocks. The air was crystal clear (which is why all those telescopes are mounted up there) with not the faintest trace of mist or haze under a deep blue sky.
     

      The driver got out of his car with us to gaze for a wee while at the incredible sights - seeming as

Setting off down the snowy trail to Mirador El Time....

gobsmacked as we were. At 9.10am it was freezing cold and my wonderful partner feared we might suffer discomfort all the way down - a drop of over 6,000ft to the fleshpots of El Time - so was anxious to get under way pretty smartish. Snow lingered on the trail, making it understandable why our driver had questioned us about trekking poles, but there was nothing we ever considered dangerous or difficult to cope with. And as we dropped down the ridge the wind eased and warm sunshine made walking very pleasurable indeed as never ending exciting panoramas unfolded before us.
      

Pico Bejenado in a sea of cloud across the Caldera Taburiente....

     For me, this route far outshines the more popular Volcano route, though after walking the latter five times it's probably getting a wee bit boring... This one maintains interest all the way down, even on the steep and uneven rocky path over the latter stages where some astute balancing is required to remain upright. It didn't always work (!) but we finished unscathed. There are fantastic views into the cloudy depths of the Caldera while Pico Bejenado towers across the mile deep crater enticing photographers to take endless pictures. On a steeper, gravelly part of the path a German lady strode easily upwards in bare feet, carrying her boots. "It's good" she said, "It's nice". I couldn't have agreed less!
      

      After terraced vineyards and trees ladened with almond blossom we arrived somewhat wearily at

Down the rocky path where balance is required...

Mirador El Time after nearly six hours on the trail and deposited ourselves on the kerb to flag down the 4 o'clock bus. It connected with the 4.30 bus in Los Llanos for the journey back to our hotel. For me, this had been the walk that made all else seem anti-climax. It was time to relax by the pool, to swim, soak up the sun and hopefully acquire a semblance of a tan to ward off the winter blues before returning home in search of Spring.  Oh, I almost forgot. this being a running blog, we did in fact get out running on nine of our fourteen days over a regular four mile circuit round 'the ridge' with 380ft of ascent to strengthen the old legs. And after eating like kings (and queens) with an abundance of mouth watering dishes, we both managed to lose weight. I reckon we should go to La Palma more often.......

Croaky and creaky.....

      The temperature was well below zero when I left the Yorkshire Dales yesterday and I couldn't help feeling I should have stayed and gone for a run through those beautiful riverbank fields - though I'm not sure my wonderful partner would have agreed with me. For over a week now I've been coughing and aching and talking with a funny, croaky voice, as have quite a few others in the village including the majority of our Church congregation. Three runs in the past seven days, amounting to a mere twelve miles, resulted in me collapsing through the door drenched in sweat and my heart rate up in the 150's.

Togged up for a cold winter run....down Postman's Steps..

      On Saturday, after a six mile jaunt round Appletreewick on leaden legs at a sick snail's pace, I decided enough was enough. It's time to rest and allow the old body to recuperate and regain a modicum of strength before jetting off to La Palma on St Valentine's Day. I'm saying 'I decided' enough was enough, but a certain other person had some persuasive words too, remembering the terrible state I was in last year, confined to our hotel room with the daddy of all colds and unable to move my head from side to side after my neck locked solid. Ibuprofen and paracetamol formed the main part of my diet.

      So, I was ever so good on Sunday, never

And never make the excuse you're too old....

stirring from the house, except for filling the coal bucket to keep the stove well stoked. I'll admit to getting a bit restless in the afternoon but forced myself to stay put, diverting attention from physical exercise by indulging in more mental pursuits of solving crosswords and codewords. I'm not sure which is the more exhausting! I slept well after it, though it could have been more to do with the rather large dram of malt whisky that rounded off our wonderful evening meal. However, when the sun rose on a sparkling white landscape. the old legs started to get a bit twitchy and restless again.  As they do.
      After stocking up on meat, yogurt, fruit and vegetables I returned home  to find a quarterly fuel bill lying on the mat that gave me a bit of a shock - to say the least! There was another irritating letter too stating that having turned seventy (by almost twelve years), it was time to renew my driving licence and questioned whether I was still fit to drive. The cheek of it.  I needed no further incentive to slip into running gear and tootle off for a recuperative three mile run to prove, if only to myself, that I'm still fit for most things - albeit some take a wee bit longer nowadays!  Well OK, a lot longer, and especially when it comes to signing cheques or answering impertinent questions from vehicle licencing authorities!

I ache, therefore I am.......

      A mild dose of man flu curtailed my activities a bit last week (any excuse will do!) so didn't get out as

River Wharfe in spate at Linton....

often as I'd have liked. The weather was pretty grotty too, as no doubt everyone will have read about in the National news, so I've had to rethink my running programme to escape the gales and general nastiness. I'm going soft in my dotage. I considered going back to the dreaded treadmill but the lady I rang at our local Sports Centre informed me it currently costs £3:60 per session to use the fitness suite.  Being a Yorkshireman, with a few drops of Scottish blood, that sounded a bit much, so the idea got put on a back burner until the weather turns really bad!

The amazing Ed Whitlock in flight....

      So what did I do? Well, I've been reading about old  Ed Whitlock, one of my racing contemporaries who holds about twenty world age group records over all sorts of distances, his latest being an incredible 3:41:58 in the Toronto marathon after just turning 82. Not bad that, eh! Does he do his long runs on scenic country routes? No.  Does he visit his local track for speed sessions? No. All he does is walk a couple of blocks to his local cemetery to run 600m circuits round the tombstones for an hour or two, or until he's feeling thirsty. He's done that for years and seems to prefer it to wide open spaces.

      

      Coincidentally, one of my speedier running acquaintances, 43 year old Dave Watson of

Dave Watson, another speed merchant..

Holmfirth Harriers, has also taken to training around the dead centre of our village, sometimes in the wee small hours with a headtorch, or by moonlight. Like everywhere else in the Pennines the graveyard sits on a slope so it's possible to do uphill reps for leg strength or downhill reps for leg speed. Dave sometimes does these twice a day - before his longer run over Castle Hill!  He's no slouch and boasts an impressive set of PB's most folk would be proud of - like 5,000m in 14:41 and 10,000m in a respectable 31:46.

      Last week I set off on a short trial run to suss things out. It's only three minutes across the fields to the gates of the cemetery, less when it's blowing a westerly gale, so I was soon teetering round the tombstones exploring the ups and downs and ins and outs of the many intersecting paths. On the second circuit I met a lovely old lady dabbing her eyes beside the well kept double grave of her husband and son.  "It draws me like a magnet" she said, and I understood why. She was grief stricken when her only son collapsed and died while running over Castle Hill. He was 60 years old and she firmly believes he'd still be alive today if he hadn't taken up running. I've tried but can't convince her otherwise. His father was only 64 when he died.

  

Snowdrops at Linton....

    Today I had the misfortune (!) to be leaving the house just as Dave Watson was passing - on his way to the cemetery. "I'll run with you" he said. Needless to say, it was impossible to match his strides, especially while talking at the same time, so it wasn't long before I was reduced to a short walk, come the first incline. Dave carried on his ceaseless chatter and I was mighty relieved when he departed after a couple of circuits and left me to my own devices! I was curious to know what my heart rate had rocketed up to while running with Dave, but on getting back home I discovered I'd forgotten to start my watch at the shock of having to run with him! I don't even know how long the run took, but pretty sure it was a lot quicker than last time!  My aching legs thought so too. Next time I'll make sure the coast is clear before I venture out for a run.....

......and days when I'd rather be home

      It's been a lean week as far as running is concerned. Leaden skies and bitterly cold gale force winds

From my window - the first snows arriving....

brought the first snows of winter sweeping across the valley. From the warmth of my study I watched the wuthering whiteness hurtling towards me, obliterating everything in its path, and decided it was time to turn up the central heating, make myself a bowl of warm soup, then go into semi-hibernation until this perishing cold front passes over and drowns itself in the North Sea.  It could be a long snooze....       

      

This is a path....

   My running diary contains just two entries for last week. The other five days are all zeros. Of those two runs, one was rubbish as I sloshed through waterlogged fields unable to find any purchase or momentum in the oozing quagmire. By the time I got onto Castle Hill, where there are reasonably good paths to run on, I felt too knackered and exhausted to raise enthusiasm for anything quicker. I jogged home after a miserable four miles, made a large mug of strong coffee, sat down and questioned my sanity.
       

      On Saturday we drove to the Dales in

Water, water, everywhere I run....

glorious sunshine with the thermometer registering 5ºC.  Good running weather, we thought. Unfortunately, by the time we'd lit the stove to warm the cottage, had a coffee and got changed, it had clouded over just as the forecast said it would, and by the time we'd jogged down to the riverbank it was spitting with rain. Undaunted we launched into our planned interval session which actually exceeded expectations. Quite by accident, of course. My 4 sets of (6 x 100m) somehow worked out at 31 x 100m - but I wasn't complaining. It doubled my mileage for the week and with a bit of quality there too.

     

My mind is fine, it's my body that says 'sod off'....

    Sunday teemed with rain and sleet from the word 'go'. The lane turned into a fast running torrent and little

lakes of water flooded the main road through the village. People trying to reach Hebden from Wensleydale were turned back at roads blocked with snow. A 150m journey as far as Chapel for our annual Methodist Covenant service was epic enough, sleet soaking my trouser bottoms, wind blowing my brolly inside out and water intent on leaking into my shoes. Even my Bible got wet and it seemed appropriate I should be reading from Jeremiah - the prophet of doom! But the Word failed to get watered down, our minister made sure of that, and I left Chapel refreshed in mind and spirit - though the bread and wine did little for my old body which refused to be spurred into any form of action but remained within spitting distance of the fire for the rest of the day. Come to think of it, I did twiddle my toes and stretch my legs occasionally, but that's hardly enough to cancel the zero in my diary.  Ah well, there's always next week....

Days when I'm glad I'm a runner.....

Hoping to be here next month - at around 8,000ft on La Palma

      In less than a month's time we'll be jetting off to La Palma, our favourite island in the Canaries group. In preparation for this I wasn't sure whether I should be winding down, so as to be rested and ready for anything - or ratcheting up to increase fitness for tackling those high and formidable volcanic peaks?  I decided the former would be most sensible because one thing's for sure, there'll be little rest when we get there. There never is!  So that's been my excuse for taking things easy this last week. Well, fairly easy.....
     

       I'll admit to getting a little carried away on a

Castle Hill - where I get carried away....

supposedly relaxed run over Castle Hill when the atmospheric views inspired me to stay aloft and do a few 100m reps. Six or eight was what I'd had in mind but after jogging home and plugging my all singing and dancing watch into the computer it told me I'd rather overshot the mark and finished up doing twenty three (19 of them @ 23secs, 3 @ 22 and 1 @ 24). It told me something else I didn't know - that my maximum heart rate is 160 bpm. Well, what it actually said is that 143 bpm is 89% of max, and 138 bpm is 86% of max - and I was clever enough to work out that 100% must equate to 160. Using a calculator, of course!
      

Village of Feizor - pretty, even without the sun...

      Inspired by a favourable forecast on Sunday we drove to Austwick, firstly to repeat a wonderful 5 mile run we'd done on Boxing Day, and secondly to visit my old friend Herbert who's recently out of hospital and test driving his new hips. "I've been for a walk" he said, "just round the supermarket". Booth's supermarket trolleys apparently make good zimmer frames but could be a bit awkward when it comes to climbing over stiles around Austwick.  In some ways I suspect he rather enjoyed his stay in hospital with all the Christmas time cameraderie in a mixed ward, though little chance of getting up to any mischief with new clickety hips. Not at coming up 89.....There was a slight lull to the joviality when a chap in the next bed stopped breathing and failed to get started again. But then, one must expect things like that in such places....
     

       We left him in good spirits and set off across soggy pastures to the hideaway hamlet of Feizor, hoping

After we left.....glorious sunshine towards High Bark House

on this occasion to get some decent clear photographs of the place as opposed to the foggy ones we took on Boxing Day. Guess what?  It clouded over again, the sun said goodbye and it began to drizzle as we approached, once again thwarting our intentions. Then, as we closed the gate behind us and headed away uphill towards High Bark, out popped the sun, laughing I suspect, to flood the landscape with an intense yellow light. Spit! - or something like that - how does it know?  In spite of the sun's contrariness, we really enjoyed our run, and a lazy drive home through glorious countryside.
      

Chimney...from lead smelting days on Grassington Moor

     I wasn't feeling too well yesterday, my back was playing up, again, and I was walking around bent like a banana. But the sun was shining and I just had to get out. After 600mg of Ibuprofen and 1,000mg of Paracetamol, washed down with my morning coffee, my wonderful partner went down to the riverbank for an interval session and I set off in the opposite direction to 'do my own thing'. "Depending on how I feel I may turn back before I get out of the village" I told her. "or, on the other hand, I could be gone a long time". It turned out to be the latter, and I was glad I did for days don't come much better.
      

      Blea Gill was my destination, across

Upon reflection.....

Grassington Moor, past the dams and all the newly planted trees on the slopes overlooking Grimwith reservoir. There wasn't a breath of wind to ripple the water, overhead the sky was a deep blue with just a few fluffy clouds riding low on distant horizons. Valleys were wreathed in mist, exceedingly atmospheric. so my camera was clicking away before I'd even run half a mile, and in such a gorgeous landscape I'm afraid my stops became more frequent than usual. 
'What is this life, if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare'
So wrote W.H.Davies and I share his sentiments entirely - even when I'm supposed to be running!
    

Old Runningfox on Grassington Moor

     After eight miles, with a camera full of new pictures, I returned home a very happy man - luckily before my wonderful partner sent out a search party. I'd warned her I might be a long time but an hour and forty seven minutes was apparently stretching it a bit!  Anyway, never mind the time, what the heck did I do with those pain-killers?

I hate having to walk......

Old Runningfox - feeling OK after a shaky start to the week....

      Something wasn't quite right last week, but nothing I could really put my finger on.  Maybe it was some sort of bug, though I wasn't coughing, sneezing, running to the loo or showing any other symptoms of being unwell except my energy levels had plummeted to zero. (Mind you, I'd been stretched on an operating table two days before with a surgeon poking around inside me, so that could have had something to do with it). Whatever, at the very beginning of a four mile route, on the slightest of hills, I found myself having to walk. I carried on jogging and walking through squidgy fields and sodden lanes, to eventually arrive home soaked in sweat and totally drained after fifty minutes of dire unpleasantness. I hate having to walk....that's what hurt most.
      

      Within a three mile run next day I ran some short

Wonderful winter running weather, if you're wearing a buffalo jacket..

intervals by way of sharpening up, 4 x (6 x 100m @ 24secs) with two minutes rest between sets - this being a slight modification of a plan my wonderful partner started using after borrowing Julian Goater's 'The Art of Running Faster'. All went well, pacing them exactly right, though I'd to walk part way back up the hill into the village, much to my annoyance. I hate having to walk....or have I said that already?
      

Determined to keep running.....

      On Saturday I set off in a more positive frame of mind, determined to keep on running come what may. And I did - with the exception of two brief interludes, one to take a photograph for my blog and the other when a neighbour's wee dog wanted to say hello. I'd forgotten to take my HRM chest strap on commuting back to the Dales so I was concentrating on breathing as I set off through fields for an undulating 7 miles by Linton Falls, Thorpe, Burnsall and back home along the river. It was a beautiful sunny day, 37º with a cool breeze, perfect for running. Birds were singing as though it was Spring, and serenading me as I ran past their wooded haunts. They could be in for a shock as winter tightens its grip. My Garmin registered 6.90 miles/543ft ascent as I returned home after 86 minutes - which isn't too bad considering there are well over 30 stiles and gates to negotiate along the way.
      

      A white frost followed overnight rain and there was ice on the roads by Sunday morning.  After Church

Stone man on Grassington Moor

we set off together for a steady six miles round Appletreewick.  My wonderful partner wore a hat and Buffalo jacket to protect her from a 22º wind chill. Again, the birds thought it was wonderful - or maybe singing is their way of keeping warm in such conditions!  I envied the farmer sat in his warm tractor spreading muck across the meadow. In a big pasture by the river a car drove erratically back and forth, presumably someone learning to drive. Weekend walkers were out in force, courteously making way for us runners and holding gates open so we could pass through without stopping. Good weather breeds good manners.  After 71 invigorating minutes we were home to a warm stove and wrapping cold fingers round hot cups of tea.
      

A good hill for training....

      Yesterday (Monday) I really gave my old legs something to shout about, setting out on an ascent of 900ft to the top of Grassington Moor in 3¾ miles - non-stop. The sun disappeared behind a misty haze as I set off at a pace I was determined to maintain right up to the 'Stone Man' - a cairn at the very top of the climb - where I'd rest a couple of minutes to take pictures before returning down the long wall back into the ghyll.  I'd the whole moor to myself, I never saw another living soul, there was just me, a few startled grouse and the odd sheep as I plodded upwards on automatic pilot. The cairn was just below cloud level.  Mossy Mere shimmered in the distance but all other features faded into the mist. Miles away from all visible habitation it was incredibly lonely but exquisitely beautiful. I stood savouring the situation until a freezing wind told me I'd better start moving.  It was a pleasant run down the long wall, sheltered from that icy blast, back into the warmer confines of Hebden Ghyll, to return home a very happy runner having achieved what I set out to do - which was to run - all the way.
      I hate having to walk!

Happy New Year....

Tatties, haggis, neeps, wine, malt whisky - and an expanding girth

  Christmas and New Year festivities have taken their toll, as they do every year as a result of all the excess food, treats and booze I ram down my throat and fail to exercise away. I've kept on running but obviously not enough. And as pounds piled on, huffing and puffing increased until even moderate exercise felt more than a bit uncomfortabe. Before Christmas I weighed exactly 140 lbs with a body fat reading of 14.7%, visceral fat 7% and a BMI of 22.2.  By January 2nd those figures had inflated to 145 lbs, 18.3%, 8% and 23.2.  So I've got work to do in the next few weeks. 

     

Believe it or not, a footpath goes through here...

Another problem is that my decrepit old bones hate our increasingly bad weather, rain, gale force winds - and saturated countryside as in the field shown here. Bill Bowerman, co-founder of Nike, once famously said "There is no such thing as bad weather, only soft people" - but I'll wager he'd change his mind on becoming an 81 year old spectacle wearer. Or maybe he has..   In Munro-bagging days I've climbed through hell and high water, thick snow and raging blizzards that made companions physically sick with the required effort. Now, in my dotage, I'm a mainly fair weather stravaiger though I can still enjoy an exhilerating run in frost and snow.

      I've stopped making New Year resolutions,

New Great Grandson Elijah - and his running dog friend...

mainly because I've rarely managed to keep them. In fact, I can't ever remember keeping one. One thing I'm exceptionally good at is procrastinating and I've excelled myself lately. For the first time since I began running in 1986 I failed to reach 1,000 miles last year, clocking a measly 863. I did no track racing and failed to reach top spot in the British Rankings over any distance I ran. Best I could manage was 5th over 10K (with a slow 57.29 at Bentham) and a pathetic 13th at 5K which is best forgotten. The pity of it is, I've previously beaten most of those above me in the Rankings, so I clearly haven't been firing on all cylinders, mentally or physically. Maybe, with a total of 36,290 miles on the clock, I'm in need of a de-coke! Another significant happening in 2013 is that I acquired yet another Great Grandchild, Elijah, this one over in the States. I feel older with each one and I've lost count of the little beggars. Actually, come to think, some are quite big!

      

First run of 2014 - to Howgill and back...

      After late night Hogmanay indulgences January 1st was pretty much a none-day. The weather was vile anyway, giving a us good excuse to lounge around near a warm stove, and recover. On Jan 2nd we opened our 2014 account with a very pleasant eight mile/415ft run to Howgill and back along the river.  It was a gorgeous sunny day with hardly any breeze. The river was full and rattled noisily over the stones, conditions much enjoyed by a dozen or so kayakers shooting the rapids by Loup Scar.  I'm still running with a Heart Rate Monitor, trying to keep to an average of 130 bpm or below, so our pace was gentle and conversational.

      Today was different. While my wonderful partner was patrolling Barden Moor in her capacity as a National Park

Shooting the rapids....

Volunteer Ranger, I tootled up Castle Hill for an interval session - and found out just how unfit I've become. The plan was to run 16 x 200m @ 48secs but I was forever being harrassed by loose dogs necessitating a lot of waiting around until they'd moved on. It was 36ºF but in a cold SE wind it felt sub zero. And I'd forgotten my gloves. After 14 reps, when even more dogs arrived, I abandoned Castle Hill and did the last two reps on the way home - guesstimating the distance. Now then, before Christmas after a similar session, my HR reached 143bpm after each rep, then I'd walk until it got below 130, jog until it was below 120, then start my next rep. 

Low HR's indicate where I waited for dogs to vamoose...

    All very easy and controlled - but not so today.  Maximum HR after each rep was nearer 150 and on eight occasions I failed to get below 130 before starting the next rep. Waiting for dogs to clear out of the way enabled me to get as low as 112 on one or two occasions, so I suppose they really did me a favour. My average was 134 bpm which is too high for an old codger. Anyhow, it proved to me that carrying excess weight requires a lot more effort from the poor old heart and can't really be good for one. But I suppose everybody knows that, some just learn faster than others!
      Happy New Year !!!!!

Christmas comes but once a year.....thank goodness!

Here's a brief synopsis of our geriatric activities over Christmas'13 when, in spite of all the extra ballast, we managed to run a total of 24½ miles with 1,529 ft of ascent over five good days..

Gathering clouds before sleet and hail, Christmas Eve

      24th. We were up and breakfasting by 06.15 in order to pick up our Christmas meat order before a queue outside the butcher's stretched half way down the street. A few early risers had beaten us to it but we'd paid up, exchanged greetings and on our way to Hebden by 07.30 with enough beef, pork, poultry, bacon and pigs in blankets to last us until the haggis flies in on New Years Eve.  The temperature had dropped to 0ºC under a cloudless sky and with no wind conditions were ideal for a six mile run round the sleepy little village of Appletreewick. But we dawdled too long over cups of reviving coffee and by the time we set off some clouds were gathering, the sky darkening and a band of rain mischievously turned to sleet, then hail. Dunno whether I'm a masochist or just becoming more senile, but strangely enough I rather enjoyed it - though I didn't envy Father Christmas having to work through that lot, especially in the dark!

     

Burnsall bridge on Christmas day.....

25th. Each Christmas morning some wonderful aromas pervade the Hebden household - from things like bacon, egg, tomato, mushrooms, black pudding, toast, coffee and the like. Not that I'm complaining about muesli for the rest of the year, but it might entice me out of bed a bit quicker if it smelt more like bacon frying.  After our early morning fry-up we just had to go for a run to get things moving through the system before another salvo, scheduled for lunchtime, was forced upon us by our generous neighbour. And there's another thing, I wouldn't normally touch alcohol before the sun drops below the yard-arm, but there are a couple of exceptions to this rule, Christmas is one of them, the other is funerals.  I've never been invited to a wedding......

      

      We limited our run, or bloated jog, to just 4 miles around Burnsall where, along the riverbank, we met

A favourite tree along the riverbank...

local artist Rosemary Lodge, out gathering holly and ivy to decorate her studio. It was so nice to see her back on her feet after a nasty accident when she was trampled on by a horse. It was her right cheek she offered me as I gave her a warm Christmas hug. The left side of her face, she said, was held together with nuts and bolts and still felt very tender. Most of Rosie's evocative paintings are of Romany scenes and one of them is hanging not five feet away from my head as I type. I love her work.

      After a table-load of our neighbour's hospitality, helped on it's way by the obligatory bottle of bubbly, all I wanted to do was sleep - and I probably did - while my wonderful partner tripped off down the road to yet

Late dinner, Christmas Day

another festive gathering, leaving me to guard the house!  I can't quite remember what time we started to open our own presents, but it was coming dark and instead of our customary bubbly to accompany this ritual we both opted for strong coffee!  After puzzling over some of the many presents, what they actually were and how they worked, you'll not be surprised to hear that Christmas dinner came rather late, but it was cooked to perfection and you can't really improve on that. The wine was rather good too, courtesy of our retiring postmistress.  Cheers Linda!  I don't really remember going to bed but I suppose I must have done because that's where I woke up.

      

Daughter Sue, at Feizor village pump 57 years ago, or thereabouts...

      26th. At some point, don't ask me which, of the Christmas activities I'd phoned an old friend (88) to ask if it was convenient to visit him and exchange presents on Boxing Day. It was. Herbert has been virtually housebound for quite some time, hardly able to walk without crutches or by hanging on to furniture. The next day he was booked into Airedale Hospital for a hip operation and was a bit worried in case the surgeons and nursing staff were still a bit tipsy. And after recent stories of a surgeon alleged to have branded his initials on patient's livers, who could blame him? However, we found him quite cheerful and chatty, resigned to his fate, and reassuringly shouted "See you...." as we left.
      

...and the manicured ornament today

      Herbert lives in a Dales village called Austwick where I used to live and work in the late 40's, and where I  first met him, so decided it would be a good idea to have a run round some of my old stomping grounds. It was bordering on freezing and quite misty as we jogged through fields and over stiles towards the tiny village of Feizor.  Years ago these fields, known as Feizor bottoms, teamed with rabbits and a local character known as 'Rabbity Dick' used to set dozens of snares at night-time, then pick up his catch the following morning. Occasionally another local character got there first.....   Feizor has since been spoilt with monstrous stock sheds and silos that totally ruin its previous olde worlde character. It used to be one of my favourite places on earth. Now I'm not so sure. We looked for the village pump, once so very functional, and eventually located it, painted and reduced to a mere ornament.

Flascoe clapper bridge, near the end of our run at Austwick

     We left and ran slowly up the hill between Feizor Wood and limestone outcrops to Higher Bark, then Lower Bark before turning downhill and crossing the ford to Jop Ridding, another old farmstead tucked away in the hills. In a field just beyond it is an ancient hollow tree where I used to hide a 12 bore shotgun because the chap I worked for (a farmer called William Hird) wouldn't allow firearms on his property. In those dim distant days rabbits would sell for four shillings and sixpence each (22½p) which contributed nicely towards my almost nightly consumption of Yates & Jackson's nut brown ale at the Game Cock Inn. As we continued our run to Austwick a host of memories came flooding back, all of them good. I cannot recall one bad one. Back at the car Mr Garmin told us we'd run exactly 5 miles with 477ft of ascent. That should have blasted a good few calories off.

Another favourite tree, I call it the bunny tree...

    28th. The 27th was pretty much a non-day as storms and torrential rain battered the house. We battened down the hatches and stayed where it was warm - until the sun peeped out again and invited us for another run on 28th. Some years ago my wonderful partner and a chap called Alan Dawson, now deceased, used to race each other round a little switchback circuit to Burnsall and back which, according to Anquet, is 2.65 miles with 308ft of ascent. Alan always won and prided himself on once getting round in under 20 minutes. After 20 odd years my wonderful partner still runs this circuit, as part of a longer route, and is delighted if she gets below 30 minutes. So she was all smiles on Saturday when, with me acting as pacemaker, she cut it down to 28 minutes. I'm not sure I shared her joy, bearing in mind I once tore round in a little under sixteen minutes and had ambitions to break fifteen. I never did and it's far too late now.

A beautiful day - running round Fewston reservoir.....

      29th. Another beautiful day so, for something a little different we motored over to Timble for a run round Swinsty and Fewston reservoirs, a delightful 6½ miles with a mere 300ft of ascent. That's flat, compared to most of our other routes, and a runner's paradise. It was gloriously sunny and we needed sunglasses to absorb the reflections from the water. The track around Fewston was fairly quiet, mostly runners, but the smaller Swinsty reservoir was heaving with weekend walkers - and their dogs - taking short strolls from their cars. We were round in a moving time of 77 minutes which isn't bad for a pair of old codgers bloated with Christmas fodder. We enjoyed it so much that there's talk of going again...
      Now, I'd like a few hours rest before the haggis, tatties and neeps is wheeled in for Hogmanay, then..... oh heck, we've Linda's retirement party to attend on 2nd January. There's no rest for the wicked! Good job I'm a runner.......
        A Very Happy New Year to all my fellow bloggers and readers....

We are in love with you....

Where I run...the weirs on the Wharfe at Grassington

my heart and I.....

     Recently, for a number of reasons, slow motion has set in. I'd started to get a bit stale,

A pleasant bit of road to the hidden village of Thorpe

running at my usual pace resulted in breathlessness so, for the next couple of months or so, I'm concentrating on rebuilding an aerobic base with the least amount of effort; i.e. doing most runs within my working heart rate. The main problem has been trying to establish exactly what is my 'working heart rate'? Or what is my maximum heart rate?  Of all the books I've read, none of their authors ever deal with runners at my end of the age scale. The popular method of calculating a mans maximum heart rate is 220 minus chronological age which, in my case, equates to 139.  85% of that, to determine working heart rate, is a mere 118 which I'll usually exceed in the first 100 metres of a run. By the time I reach the top of the hill it can be in the 150's.

     There is absolutely no way I can keep within 118bpm without taking frequent walks, not even on the flat, let alone during the hundreds of feet of ascent I usually encounter.   So stuff that!  Likewise Dr Maffetone's formula of 180 minus one's age for maximum aerobic heart rate results in no more than walking pace for me. The formula that best suits me is the Karvonen calculator based on a person's age and resting heart rate. It still gives me a maximum HR of 139 but the training zones are worked out a little differently by what he calls the heart rate reserve method.  85% allows me 124bpm whilst 95% allows me 134bpm. That upper limit sounds nearer the mark for me. 

    

across the bridge at Linton Falls...

After experimenting with different formulas over various routes, and failing miserably to complete any run without having to walk parts of it, I decided it was high time I got back to self-coaching which hasn't done too badly for me in the past.  Those formulas may work on flat routes, or on the track, but are totally useless in hilly terrain with umpteen gates and stiles to negotiate. According to Garmin my last five runs included 457, 683, 1084, 338 and 980 feet of ascent, resulting in almost as much walking as running - which is not my style! Walking destroys any semblance of rhythm. After a walk the start of each run is back to square one sending heart rate back up to maximum in no time at all. There's no way I can keep a steady HR by including walks.

     Today I closed all the books, stuck them back on the shelf and did it my way. I called it a slow tempo run,

into Mossdale...

keeping the same cadence over an undulating 4.29 mile route with 398ft of ascent while staying within my comfort zone. After pressing 'Start' on the Garmin I hid it under the sleeve of my running top so I couldn't see or consult it for the duration of the run. "This should make interesting reading when I feed it into the computer" I thought. And it did. By keeping a steady running pace with no walks the HR graph was far less erratic than on occasions when I'd tried to keep within Maffetone and Karvonen parameters.

   

..and over the Suspension Bridge back to Hebden

The little dip at the 3 mile mark was where I stopped for a call of nature!  Naturally, the line rose and fell a wee bit on ascents and descents, but never was I struggling, or out of breath, although the average (133) and maximum (142) heart rates were above the recommended aerobic training limits for my age.  But most importantly, I finished the run feeling good. Towards the end of it, turning into our narrow lane, a car drove up behind, prompting me to sprint for home with an effortless turn of foot I hadn't experienced for some time. I really enjoyed that and can't wait for it to happen again. Which is how it should be....
                               PS. Click on the photographs for full screen images.

Graph with ascent, descent and corresponding heart rate...and that tell-tale dip at 3 miles

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly....

The Good, or as good as I can make it... Since childhood days, after finding out I actually was Father

Christmas is coming.....

Christmas, the festive season has always been a stressful occasion. For most of the year I go shopping knowing exactly what I want and where to get it, then back home on the very next bus. Come Christmas I spend hours wandering around town looking hither and thither, not knowing what presents to buy for who, always hoping the right ones will magically jump out and choose themselves. I'm useless at matching the right gift with the right recipient. This year I haven't done too badly, though most presents are still in a hidey-hole waiting to be taken out, wrapped and labelled ready for dispatch. In addition, all cards have been written, calendars designed and printed, overseas items sent merrily on their way, my wonderful partner's Christmas tree installed and decorated, secondary glazing screwed to windows and doors to keep out Jack Frost - so Father Christmas can come just as soon as he jolly well likes. Though I should warn him, the chimney needs sweeping....Ho ho ho.

Brother Billy  1936 - 2013

The Bad news... A voice on the phone last Saturday was my sister whose faltering two words said it all, "He's gone" - then a poignant pause before elaborating. Another of our siblings, the third one now, had just passed away. It wasn't unexpected, Billy had been suffering the last twelve months from a virulent bowel cancer that reduced him to a skeleton. I thought my urgent prayers for remission had been answered when Avastin, a very expensive so-called wonder drug, was added to his treatment. Wrong. All it did was prolong his pain and suffering for a few more months. Billy dismissed all our prayers as 'a load of mumbo jumbo' and maybe he proved himself right?  I'll admit, it's shaken my faith and made me a little angry. I so much wanted to prove him wrong.
Of seven siblings, Billy was the one I was closest to, spent most time with, had most in common with. Many were the times we'd be out poaching together at break of dawn with guns and dogs, and returning home with 'one for the pot' before most local farmers or gamekeepers had stirred from their beds. People jokingly ask "Is that when you learned to run?" and I jokingly tell them "Yes". But I never saw Billy run for any distance in all his life, though he was built for it. He would stand his ground. He was Mr Fight while I was Mr Flight.
In those days Sunday morning bells summoned us not to Church but to dog racing. Maybe dogs could read

My type of dog, a lurcher for hunting and racing...

our minds for mine always knew when it was Sunday morning and trembled with anticipation. Like a lot of us humans, as I later discovered, they were born to run. And they loved it. Billy never had a running dog, though he had others, but always came to our meetings to socialize and share the excitement. And it was strange how the final race always seemed to coincide with opening time at the Spangled Bull just up the road where, over the years, Billy and I surely sank enough beer to float the Queen Mary. In later years, unlike me, he became strictly teetotal. I don't think it was a casual suggestion by his wife - "Darling, I think you ought to stop that silly drinking" - there was a bit more to it than that!
But what moves me most is remembrance of him finding me in an emaciated state, lying with the dogs and barely able to walk, having lost 1½ stones in a very short space of time when diverticulitis flared up, and rushing me to hospital where I was put on drips in a side ward and fed all the right things until I recovered. In that respect I maybe owe my longevity to Billy. It's ironic therefore, and doesn't seem fair, that the elder sibling survives whilst the younger one has passed away. So Rest in Peace Billy, and thanks for enriching our lives and leaving us with so many wonderful memories.

Ugh...what I have to run through

The Ugly... Well, it isn't much really, and I shouldn't complain under the circumstances, but the photograph will show you what I mean. I'm heartily sick of returning home from runs plastered with mud and having to dump everything into the washing machine, including shoes. I cannot understand why local farmers still have their beasties churning up fields and gateways when their barns and silos are bursting with fodder after one of the best haytime harvests on record. It's enough to stop me from running - though I'm sure I'd suffer painful withdrawal symptoms if I did. People might say "Think yourself lucky you're still able to do it" - and I do - but at this time of year, between summer sunshine and winter snow, such slushiness only adds to the misery of raw winds and driving rain. It's almost enough to drive me back to the treadmill. Now there's an idea, why didn't I think of that before?