Chi running - I think

Sandy path for running

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

Will it really do all this?

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

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

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

Easter in the Inner Hebrides

Running on Ulva

Walking a trail on Ulva, showing snow on Ben More

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

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

At Whale Bay - before the snow

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

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

Beasties sheltering from the wind at Fidden Farm

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

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

Iona Abbey before the arrival of the pilgrims

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

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

Sunset from our wee tent

Early birthday for 'Yours truly'

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

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

Almost like summer

Blackthorn blossom

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

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

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

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

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

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

More signs of Spring

Daffodil haven near Appletreewick

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

Spring lambs

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

Pair of goosander on the Wharfe

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

Troller's Trot

Ready for the off

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

Route map

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

Disappearing into the mist on Threshfield Moor

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

Running over Boss Moor

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

To Chi, or not to Chi

    One way or another, things didn't go well last week and I failed miserably to run my planned mileage. A persistent chesty cough has been sapping my strength resulting in stop/start runs and inability to maintain any sort of pace, no matter how slow, without regular breaks to regain my breath. I managed a grand total of just 14 miles - barely ticking over - but it's better than nothing, I suppose. At least, I tried, but it felt hard. 

    And because running has recently started to feel harder I've been poking my nose into Danny Dreyer's book on 'Chi Running' and trying to learn the technique he describes so well. According to the hype it enables one to run faster, farther and with much less effort at any age. Baron Baptiste says, "This programme will totally revolutionalize the wau you run". In theory I've got to admit it all sounds very feasible and those who practice it give glowing reports, but so far it's done nothing for me.  Maybe I haven't got it quite right though I seem to be doing things according to the book. I just wish there was a qualified teacher in the vicinity to check what I'm doing and make any necessary corrections. But as yet I certainly aint running faster or farther, quite the reverse, and the little that I am doing at the moment seems to require more effort. Of course, I refuse to accept it's anything to do with age!

    I may be slowing down but still enjoy running the hills and wide open spaces and hate to think there might come a time when I'm no longer able to do it. For the past 26 years life has revolved around it. No week has been complete without it. To the amusement of family and friends, annual holidays to places like Cornwall or the Canary Islands are regarded as warm weather training. Even in Scotland or the Alps running gear forms a large part of the luggage. It's kept me slim and trim, though not without a few aches, pains and injuries along the way - par for the course, I suppose. 

    Anyhow, regardless of current fitness, in a few days time I'll be running with a number pinned to my vest again. It's a very low key event but no doubt the adrenalin will start to flow and anyone in front of me will be regarded as fair competition. Hopefully it will kickstart this lethargic body back into racing mode. But whether it does, or not, I'll enjoy the day, the run and the company of like-minded people.

Spring has definitely sprung

Warm enough for shorts

   In spite of annoying snuffles, sneezes, persistent cough, snow, ice and gale force winds, I seemed to get quite a lot done during February. Mileage-wise I topped the 100 mark for the first time since last June, most of it at a very steady pace, but with some good bouts of speed-work thrown in to liven the old legs up a bit. 

Gorse in flower

    However, for reasons I don't fully understand I don't seem able to maintain a decent pace for any length of time now. I mentioned this to one of my running contemporaries who suggested I return to the track this year and attack some of the British MV80 records over 400m, 800m and perhaps 1500m - distances I know I could run comfortably, but not necessarily at speeds I'd like. We'll see. One thing's certain, I wont be running marathons any more, though with 7 category wins from 8 starts, plus two British Championships, I've nothing really to come back for.

Crocuses - loving the sun

     To say I'm a little rusty is a gross understatment. I haven't raced since the Arncliffe 4 miler way back in August. Hopefully, the Troller's Trot a week on Saturday will whet my appetite and get my decrepit brain back into racing mode. It's a 12 mile off-road event over wild moors, steep hills and slutchy bogs. Should be just up my street!

    Today, the 1st March, is what many consider the first day of Spring and it showed all the signs of it. From the moment I got out of bed and stepped out the door into glorious sunshine I was flowing with energy. After a great bowl of banana porridge, toast with marmalade and the odd cup of tea I set about vaccing all the rooms, sweeping the stairs and cleaning the kitchen floor before hanging out a line of washing.  

And just look at that blue sky

   Then I went for a run, in shorts, through woods that filtered the sunlight, across wide open fields, then went swirling round the top of Castle Hill before dropping down home to complete a refreshing 5 miles. 

    As if that wasn't enough exercise for the day I set about tidying the garden, getting rid of all the dead wood, hoeing, raking, scarifying the  lawn and straightening the edges before sweeping all the rubbish from the path. I reckon it must be time for bed!

   

Spring watch

According to Ted Hughes:

Curlews in April

Hang their harps over the misty valleys

A wobbling water-call

A web-footed god of the horizons......

    Well, this wonderful harbinger of Spring was trailing his wobbling water-call across Grimwith reservoir a couple of months earlier than that this year along with whistling Teal, a raft of bugling black necked Canada geese and the happy piping of early Oystercatchers strutting by the shore in their best tuxedos. Frogs have already gathered in a reed-bound pond for their annual orgy. Lambing fields at Bolton Abbey are heaving with new life whilst lawns and garden are bright with Spring flowers - snowdrops, crocuses and yellow daffodils. Here's a very short poem of my own that sums up this exciting change:

Sandy track for fast repetitions on Castle Hill

FIRST KISS

Silently, the world sleeps

Deep in winter hills.

Stealthily, vernal youth

Folds back her blanket.

Suddenly, earth pants, and

Ah love, Spring has come.

    From depths of winter melancholy we're suddenly reborn into another glorious new year. We come alive again. Spring is easily my favourite season for running, when each foray into the great outdoors provides a new thrill. It's a season of 'firsts' to note in our diaries - first celandine, primrose, wheatear, ring ouzel, pewit, skylark, new-born lamb - but it's always the return of the Curlew that is most uplifting for me. From mid February onwards I'll visit their wild haunts day after day to catch that first thrilling sound. For me, it heralds Spring's awakening just like the first Swallow, for many, presages the arrival of summer. 

Curlew country - Grimwith reservoir

    In other respects it's been a wild and windy week, though there were benefits to be had from this, particularly during bouts of speedwork high on Castle Hill. On my horse-shoe shaped route the wind was behind me from whichever end I chose to do my repetitions. I was experimenting with a metronome to optimise my cadence at 96 (Rt foot plants) per minute. It's not easy when doing fast reps. Sometimes I'd swear the confounded implement was slowing down whereas it was actually me speeding up and getting ahead of the beeps.

    Conversely, on a ten mile jaunt around Mossdale on Saturday an almost gale force wind somehow managed to be head on both out and back along the trail. I'm not sure how it managed that but it sure slowed me down. I didn't care. It's my longest run since December, so all is going well for my 12 mile event in two weeks time. I just hope I can get rid of this lingering cough by then.

Metronome

    Just after the Curlew had called to us yesterday a miracle occurred. Last August while walking (note) through long grass high above Conistone I caught my foot in a rabbit hole, fell over sideways, and badly twisted my Rt knee. It's pained me ever since, so much so that long runs have been preceded by large doses of painkillers. On Saturday, for instance, I washed down 600mg of Ibuprofen an hour before running around Mossdale. A physiotherapist I'd visited said there was nothing he could do about it (though he still took my money) suggesting I see my doctor, get it X-rayed, and possibly be referred to our local hospital for an arthroscopy. X-rays were 'clear' so I was about to ask my doctor for an MRI scan. However, at the end of yesterday's run there was a fence to climb. As I swung my leg over I clumsily clouted the inside of that self-same Rt knee which resulted in a shot of pain that soon subsided. While preparing breakfast this morning it suddenly dawned on me I'd walked downstairs in a perfectly normal manner rather than the crab-like sideways shuffle, one step at a time, of the past six months. Jokingly, I suggested to my wonderful partner that Saturday's dose of Ibuprofen seemed to have taken a long time to work! But as I write this, nine hours later, my knee is still free of pain. Hallelujah!

Struggling

Up the ghyll

   I've been struggling this week. Snow that shrouded our hills last weekend quickly disappeared during a rapid thaw, but then it froze again and a biting NNE wind made running a chilly affair in the resultant wind-chill factor. For the past couple of weeks I've been running with a cold, hoping I'd sweat it out of my system. It hasn't quite worked and the freezing cold air streaming into my lungs as I ran an otherwise very pleasant 25 miles this week has left me with a barking cough. I've been advised by my wonderful partner to go to bed with a hot water bottle clutched to my chest - but I'm not very good at things like that! Anyway, it's forecast to get warmer in the next few days, up to 17ºC, so hopefully my chest will respond positively to that.

Flooded path by the river

    Melt-water pouring off the hills during the short thaw had raised the height of the river, flooding the path till water was lapping round my ankles on a run back from Howgill. But the sun was shining, birds were singing and all the high tops stood in bold relief in the clear air. The 8 mile route was the farthest I've run since the beginning of January and I'm pleased to say I ran it a little quicker - if only by a minute. It's a step in the right direction. By March 10th I've got to raise my game to 12 miles to take part in the Troller's Trot - an annual 25 mile event through some of Yorkshire's most beautiful countryside - though I'll only be running half of it.

Stile at Cupola Corner

    After soaking feet by the River Wharfe we decided to keep high on Sunday's run until the flood water had receded.  After morning service at St Peter's my wonderful partner ran with me for a couple of miles up the ghyll before going our separate ways, each of us on our own preferred route. I climbed the stile at Cupola Corner and ran north as far as the dam on the edge of Grassington Moor. At 1,300ft it offers spectaculer views across Wharfedale which I never tire of gazing at from this remote spot where I rarely meet another soul. Again, there was a bitterly cold wind but in sheltered hollows, or on leeward sides of rocky outcrops, sheep dozed in the sun's meagre warmth. There are places on earth we hold sacred, where God is in His heaven and all's well with the world. This is one of mine.

    I told myself I'll take things easy this coming week and cut out the running until remnants of my cold and irritating cough have totally subsided. But have I got enough will-power? Well, if it's any help, it's raining.

Ice is nice

.....to Threshfield Moor

    Last week an email arrived from a running friend I hadn't heard from for maybe a couple of years, a chap called Doug Tilly who lives in a beautiful part of the world on the edge of our English Lake Distict . "I hear you're shortly to become an old man" he said, referring to my upcoming 80th birthday in three months time at the beginning of May. People shouldn't say things like that in case I start thinking it myself and actually become an old man. So I ignored his comment.  Nevertheless, I'll shortly have to change a word in the sub-title of my Blog, from  'Septuagenarian' to 'Octogenarian'. Or maybe completely revamp it to something like 'Random jottings of a geriatric jogger'.  Or maybe not!

On a slippery slope

   It's been another productive week though mileage dropped to just 20 miles in the freezing conditions. Speedwork was out of the question for two reasons. Firstly I wasn't going to risk running fast with cold leg muscles - and in the sub-zero temperatures I just couldn't get them to what I considered warm enough: and secondly because the section of sandy path where I do my intervals had become so icy as to be bordering on dangerous at anything faster than normal cruising speed. So I chickened out and ran some easy enjoyable miles.

Some of the residents

    But we'd an exciting day on Saturday. On March 10th we've opted to run a 12 mile off-road event over some wild, boggy country so decided it might be a good idea to recce the route while the ground was frozen. Big mistake. The Yorkshire Dales were still plastered with frozen snow which, on upland trails, had been compacted to solid ice. Every wall, fence and signpost on Threshfield Moor was coated with shiny verglas and festooned with icicles. Glassy stiles had to be climbed with great care. We wore Yaktrax on our trail shoes to better negotiate the ribbon of ice that masqueraded as a path through the heather where a few sheep and grouse eked out a bare existence. My wonderful partner was not happy as she slid and twisted, struggling to maintain her balance but quite unable to run in her normal style. After a couple of miles or so the cry went up, "I want to go back", a sentiment I'd also been considering as I sensed my body temperature dropping as we ascended higher into the Arctic air.  

Try climbing over this....

    But rather than retrace our footsteps we studied the map and agreed on a shorter route that would cut out a couple of miles and get us back to our car a fair bit quicker, hopefully before we froze to death!  Strangely, from that point onwards I noticed she was running faster and more confidently although underfoot conditions were precisely the same. I must work on this!

    Sunday morning saw me honing my ice running skills on a six mile jaunt along the riverbank where weekend walkers hung onto walls, trees and fences in an effort to stay upright on sheet ice as I breezed past them. The yard at Woodhouse Farm, which the right of way passes through, resembled a vast skating rink which walkers found most intimidating . After a few tentative steps most of them retreated to find an easier route. With Yaktrax I pranced across with ultimate ease, as gracefully as Robin Cousins performing his skills to strains of Ravel's Bolero, enjoying the experience and wishing the current freeze would last a little while longer.

Enjoying myself

     On leaving Church later that day our circuit Minister, Rev Richard Atkinson, said "I don't suppose you've been out running in these conditions". After assuring him I had, his reply was a syllable less than the Bible's shortest verse - "You're mad" he said.

   So there you are, I began the week with the inference I was rapidly turning into an old man, and ended it being pronounced mad! 

   However, when I got home, another email had arrived that partially restored the status quo. It was from a Dutch running friend who lives in some unpronouncable village/town outside Amsterdam (or is it Rotterdam? I forget which). His message began with the words  "Hello youngster, I hope this finds you in good spirits.........".  Now that's more like what I want to hear. That brought a smile back to my face. Thankyou Theo, I'll buy you a pint next time you're over this way.  

All white on the day

Galloping down Castle Hill to escape a nithering north-easterly

    Weather-wise, it's been a week of contrasts in the wilds of Yorkshire, from clear skies and bare landscapes to thick snow, misty horizons and biting winds.  I was out in all it's changing moods, savouring every minute as I romped over hills, by twisting trails, through rutted fields, silent woods and quiet riverbanks for a weekly total of 24 eventful miles. 

    Wednesday was intervals day on what is normally the leeward side of Castle Hill, but not so on this occasion. A nithering north-easterly had me donning my jacket before launching into eleven faster runs at an average 6.26 pace. They'd started off at a conservative 6.48 pace but got progressively faster as I hurried things along to sooner escape the biting headwind that was stinging my face on each run. At 900ft above sea level I call it altitude training, though that might be stretching it a bit! Eight miles away, across the valley, Holme Moss rose a thousand feet higher and was plastered with snow. In the clear air it appeared but a hop, skip and jump away.

Friday's fiery sunset - from my garden

    On Thursday and Friday the temperature hardly rose above freezing. I kept low for most of the time on gentle runs through sleepy Mollicar and Roydhouse woods, across clarty fields of winter wheat where mud built up on my trail shoes till I was almost running on stilts! Crossing tarmac lanes I was able to kick most of it off before final circuits of Castle Hill (again) to complete what were mainly pleasant, but sometimes laborious, five mile runs.

    Due to wind-chill the temperature on Saturday plummeted even lower. Getting out of the car at Keelham, a hilltop Farmer's market, to buy meat on our way back to the Dales, was like stepping into a wind blasted super-freezer. The lowering sky had turned an angry grey, presageing snow, so we drove home with all haste, fed the stove, donned our thermals and went for a swift six mile run around Appletreewick.  On the inky water of the River Wharfe a male Goosander was displaying his startling white plumage to doting crested wives while on a mid-stream stone a Dipper was in full song - each of them seemingly oblivious to the icy blasts that had us hurtling back along the riverbank as fast as our legs would carry us. The first flakes of snow came fluttering from the sky as we ran through Burnsall, a couple of miles from home, and continued throughout the day and all night. 

Sunday - running by a snowy riverbank - wearing Yaktrax

    We peered out the window on Sunday morning into a blinding winter wonderland. The snow plough and gritter had cleared main roads during the night but villages were pretty much snow-bound, including ours. I was sat by the fire, going over the lesson I'd been asked to read in Church that morning, when the phone rang. The service had been cancelled. Our Minister was reluctant to attempt the 2½ mile journey to our village in decidedly dodgy driving conditions. Just as well, for some of our congregation that live farther afield wouldn't be here either.

The Wharfe at Loup Scar

    So, for the first time this winter, we fitted Yaktrax to our trail shoes and ventured out into our other Church - that great outdoor world which, on this February morning, was dressed in all her shining white finery, like a bride ready for her groom, to borrow a biblical analogy. It was very much a stop/start affair as we ran from one vantage point to another, clicking away with our cameras, hoping for the perfect shot but, such is the contrast between black and white, modern cameras find snow scenes difficult to cope with, even on all the relevant settings.  

    After four miles we returned home, stoked up the stove, made cups of strong coffee and downloaded our pictures onto the computer. Totally disappointing!  Ah well, our digital images might turn out a bit blue and fuzzy but at least they remain sharp in our minds. Problem is, I haven't yet discovered a way to transfer pictures directly from my mind into my Blog, though an artist friend of mine with a photographic memory can recall scenes and draw them just as he saw them 20/30/40 years ago. Some people are really gifted. All I can do is run!

An excellent week

The Clarendon sign in a snowy Hebden - last winter

    For everyone involved with the organization of Hebden's annual Sports Day that takes place on August Bank Holiday Monday, a sumptuous dinner was held at the Clarendon Hotel last Wednesday night, courtesy of our genial hosts, Ashley and Hayley Crampton. This popular Yorkshire Dales hostelry has an excellent reputation for the quality and perfection of its fine menus and traditional well kept ales.  I'm afraid to say, I availed myself somewhat greedily of both and retired to bed rather late in the evening feeling considerably heavier than when I set out!

Dam on Grassington Moor with snow clouds in the distance

    I'd like to say I went for a 'run' round Grassington Moor the following morning, but that would be gross exaggeration. Floundering would be a better word. I'd made sure I took my camera to have lots of excuses for numerous stops - when I seemed to take longer than usual to focus and arrange my shots. Most of them turned out to be a load of rubbish! My six mile jaunt lasted nearly one and a half hours but I really enjoyed the laid back pace, the solitude under a dramatic sky with snow clouds in the distance, the company of ubiquitous grouse, whistling teal and the wind whispering through the rushes by the dam.

Time to stand and stare - waterfall in Hebden Ghyll

    All in all, I ran a respectable 27 miles last week, by snowy hills and slushy lanes, along sunny riverbanks and past glittering waterfalls - all at a comfortable pace with lots of time to stand and stare. After all, running is supposed to be enjoyable. The other day I came across a wonderful quote by Lucy Smith. She said:
'To be a lifelong athlete you have to, at some point, get over the need to win every race and learn to accept that the journey is the goal'. I'm beginning to understand the logic of that as I grow older.

Linton Church and sunny riverbank - Saturday's run

    Inevitably, since the introduction of a deep fat frier (or chip machine, as I prefer to call it) and breadmaker to my list of kitchen utensils, my weight has risen by nearly 4 lbs to 143.6.  Even as I type, my breadmaker is switched on and churning out another delectable wholemeal loaf. I can hardly wait to cut off its warm crust and smother it with butter and honey. At this time of year I'm not worried about being a few pounds heavier. My old bones need a little extra lagging. I feel stronger for it. And so long as my body fat percentage stays within normal limits (it's currently 17.3) I reckon there's nothing to worry about. I'm not fanatical about being as lean as possible to be able to run faster. I'm not training for the Olympics - though I wish I was.

    This coming week, chip machine, breadmaker and weather permitting, I'll drop the mileage and concentrate on a couple of quality speed sessions with a view to easing back into racing in the not too distant future. Bring it on.

January gales

In days gone by - out in any conditions

    Due to lashing rain, gale force winds and hardly any proper daylight in the the Pennines, where I live at a height of 650ft, mileage got somewhat reduced this last week. Gone are the days when I'd sally forth in all weathers, bagging Munros, stomping coast to coast across Scotland, camping in snow or front-pointing up near vertical ice in a blizzard on the Ben. It's not just advancing years that's made me soft, mainly I blame it on our local Council for installing gas fired central heating in my exposed north facing home. In wintertime the contrast in temperature on the inside and outside of my front door has to be experienced to be believed. Being on top of a hill my gable end takes the full brunt of westerly gales that do their darndest to lift the roof, roar down the chimney space and sap my energy by keeping me awake for nights on end. That's why I haven't run very much this week.

Angry sky over Castle Hill on Sunday

   Actually, I got out three times for a total of 18 miles and though lacking in quantity I tried to introduce a wee bit of quality, by way of a change! I even wore my Garmin 205 so I could load data onto my computer to find out just what I'd been up to. The results were both surprising and pleasing. I ran the same six mile route on each of three days, Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday. 

   On the lee side of Castle Hill there is a smooth sandy path that measures around 193m between two wooden posts. On Tuesday I ran 10 intervals between the posts @ an average of 47.4secs, on Thursday 10 @ 47.2secs, and on Sunday 10 @ 45.3secs. Jogging home I always open up between two 'Watch your Speed' signs c.402m apart. On Tuesday my time between the two was 1.42, on Thursday 1.40 and on Sunday 1.32. If my maths are correct (and they usually aren't) my speed sections amounting to 1.42 miles per day tumbled from 6mins 37secs per mile pace on Tueday to 6mins 14secs on Sunday. I'm happy with that, even if it's wrong!

For 'Diane' - R.I.P

   There was a spray of white flowers on Castle Hill in a sheltered recess among the gorse bushes overlooking Hall Bower and the vast sprawl of Huddersfield Town. Being of a curious nature, I Googled our local rag, the 'Examiner', and learnt there'd been a fatal accident on the road below. Two cars driving through sleet and snow had been involved in a nasty head on collision that resulted in the death of one woman, named only as Diane, and severe facial injuries to the lady driver of the other car. Rest in Peace Diane, and a speedy recovery to the other unfortunate lady.

   There are more cheerful flowers. Purple crocuses, trembling white snowdrops and mauve-coloured pom-pom primulas are brightening up odd corners of my garden. Best of all, every time I walk into my kitchen my nostrils are assailed by the intense fragrance of three purple hyacinths that totally over-ride other wonderful smells of freshly baked bread, Italian coffee and herby casseroles. At the moment, between runs, my kitchen is certainly a very nice place to be, and a jolly sight warmer than the weather outside. Maybe I should install a treadmill there!

Frost

Track to the hamlet of Yarnbury

      For some days now the temperature hasn't risen above freezing in the Dales. Skies have been blue and cloudless with hardly a breath of wind. Days have been sandwiched between spectacular morning sunrises and gorgeous sunsets. Up on the moor bankings are festooned with icicles, the ground iron hard and pock-marked with frozen puddles.  On lower ground, in icy fields and frost-bound gardens, bushes and shrubs are stooped under grey rime, like hoary old men. But not this old man! 

Earth was hard as iron.....

     Thankfully, energy levels have risen slightly since my last posting, partly I suspect on account of all the delicious culinary delights my wonderful partner and I have been treated to by kind friends who must have thought our winter bodies looked a bit under nourished!  In fact, I'd been thinking along similar lines too, so much so that after a mounting urge for some proper chips, as opposed to those horrid oven thingies, I purchased a deep fat frier to give my old body some occasional treats. Next on the list could well be a bread-making machine to further boost the carbohydrate intake. I've yet to find a decent unsliced loaf of bread in Sainsbury's, where I do most of my shopping, so rarely eat more than one slice a day of the essential 'staff of life'. This deficit is about to be remedied.

......water like a stone

     Over the past week I've run another 21 miles, split into four runs, at a slightly faster speed and without the ignominy of having to walk the last hill back into the village. Most enjoyable was a relaxed run on Saturday afternoon with my wonderful partner who was sussing out an eleven mile route along which she's scheduled to take a party of Skipton & District U3A walkers this Thursday. We only ran a seven mile section of it to re-acquaint ourselves with the lie of the land in the remoter parts and to note any possible hazards.

Frosty landscape near Bare House

     The weather was crisp and clear with hardly a breeze as we set off from Yarnbury to run by the long wall and up onto Grassington Moor where only an occasional startled grouse exploding from the heather broke the ice-bound silence with it's 'Go-bak' cries. The only unpleasant bit occurred when once again my left foot was caught in one of our local gamekeeper's numerous fox snares, almost bringing me to earth. Fortunately, it was in an area around a stink pit where I expected snares to be, so was deliberately treading carefully. We hope none of the ageing U3A members will be so unlucky on their forthcoming walk. 

     We arrived back in Yarnbury as the sun was setting behind distant hills, colouring the evening sky with raging fire on the horizon and deepening pastel pinks extending overhead. A perfect end to a perfect day.