Splat!

Managing to stay upright on the ice around Grimwith Reservoir....

       I wish I could stay on my feet. Last Thursday, just when I was starting to feel good again, I'd another great splat. Running downhill on a gravelly path, picking up speed, I tripped and took a flying dive, tearing the skin on both knees, both elbows, cutting my Rt hand and cricking my neck - again. Taking a misty eyed look back, I couldn't see anything I could possibly have tripped over. Maybe I just stubbed my toe into the ground while my mind was elsewhere. I don't know. At least, I didn't break anything this time - unlike other occasions when I've returned home with a finger hanging off, or hardly daring to breathe because of a broken rib. Nor was there quite so much blood as the occasion I fell down rocks on the Isles of Scilly while 'enjoying' a final run before returning home.  Regardless of my countless catastrophes it never crosses my mind to stop running.  It's what I do, my raison d'etre....and I'm not done yet.

       

I'm not quite ready yet, thankyou.....

On this last occasion I hit the deck right next to where they're laying foundations and landscaping a new cemetery in a most beautiful location overlooking the Colne Valley. Good as it might seem to be its first permanent resident, I'm not quite ready yet. There are better ways of getting one's name or photograph in the paper and I came across quite a good one yesterday. Fauja Singh, the turbaned torpedo, has decided to retire from competitive racing after competing in a 10K road race in Hongkong - five weeks short of his 102nd birthday. He wont stop running, he says, and may turn out occasionally to raise money for charity. It's amazing how running can become so compulsive, regardless of age. I have friends well into their eighties who turn out regularly, regardless of the weather, to churn out the miles or match their racing skills against contemporaries. It seems there is no antidote for the running bug.

       

Snowdrops in my garden....

Mileage-wise, it promised to be quite a good week - until Thursday's splat. On Monday I'd devised a new circuit to break the monotony of regular routes, and repeated it on Tuesday. The weather was cool and dry, ideal for running. Before snow returned at the weekend there was even a hint of Spring in the air. Snowdrops were shaking their drooped heads in sheltered corners of my garden. What I first took to be a couple of sweet wrappers thrown in the grass were, on closer inspection, some early purple crocuses turning their faces towards the welcome sun. Then a lapwing swept by on its broad wings, hopefully a precursor of many more to come.  Best of all, the fields at Bolton Abbey were full of new born lambs on wobbly legs, most with blank expressions on their tiny faces as they gazed about not quite knowing what to make of their new surroundings - or the freezing temperature.

      

Cold enough for a Buffalo jacket on Sunday

By the time I'd loosened up enough to run again, on Sunday, the temperature was still in the minuses and though I was wearing lots of layers, plus a woolly hat and gloves, I still felt cold while crunching over snow and ice on a four mile run round Grimwith Reservoir.  My wonderful partner even went to the extremes of wearing a Buffalo jacket!  Notices proclaim Grimwith to be a 'Wildlife Area', advising folk to keep dogs on leads, but apart from a raft of mallard and a few pheasants we saw nothing. It's possible some of the well togged walkers circling the reservoir in the reverse direction thought we were part of the wildlife. A cocky little spaniel definitely thought we were fair game until it got shouted at and called to heel by a girl running faster than us.

       

My two lads, Alasdair and Callum
with one of my lurchers - 37 years ago

In a previous life, long before such practices were banned, I hunted with lurchers, dogs that would chase anything fast moving that caught their eye - from mice and rats, squirrels and rabbits to hares and young deer. One of them, a bitch called Fly, had tremendous stamina and would never stop running until her jaws had locked round her prey. Sometimes I'd difficulty finding her, calling her name with no response, until eventually I'd come across her collapsed on the ground, panting her heart out, but invariably with a hare lying in the grass beside her. She was the physical embodiment of the mantra - Never, ever, ever give up.  Animals can teach us a lot. A wildlife clip that never fails to fascinate me is of a cheetah coursing a gazelle. Whilst the legs and rippling body are twisting, turning and running at tremendous speed, the big cat's head and eyes are locked in one position, totally focused on that fleeing object. There's surely a lesson there for all of us who race seriously, to fine tune our bodies to the point they can perform with effortless independence while our minds concentrate fully upon the tactics of outrunning the opposition and never stopping until the prize is won.  However, before all that I've got to learn to stay on my feet. After all, I never once saw Fly, or that perishing cheetah, falling about all over the place!

Roughing it in La Palma.....

How it should be. A view from our balcony on the first day

A text from Alasdair, my eldest son, mentioned he was spending his 45th birthday walking in the Derbyshire Peak District and intimated he was looking forward to languishing in a hot tub at the end of a cold day in the hills. The thought struck me we could maybe have appreciated such a commodity at times in far off Santa Cruz de la Palma where the lazy old sun decided to go on strike for twelve of our fourteen days holiday. It shone bountifully on the first day, raising our hopes, allowing us to sunbathe and swim in the pool, but never another peep until the very last day when we were due to fly out at lunchtime anyway. It was all far different from the last occasion we visited when we'd wall to wall sunshine and temperatures in the mid 30's. But that was in May.

The sea was a bit rough for swimming....

This year the sea was a seething mass, wave after wave thundering onto black rocks flinging spray and spume rooftop high, drenching unwary walkers (and runners) along the promenade. It never let up for one moment around Cancajos, our holiday resort, for all of fourteen days. I'll admit, it was all very spectacular and we took more pictures of this hydrological maelstrom than anything else, but it would have been lovely to have a break. Red flags were flying on all three beaches warning swimmers to keep the hell out of it, though we did see one brave soul playing the macho man. Our swimming, if you could call it that, was confined to a swift dip in the hotel pool on that first sunny day before the weather turned cold - and wet. From then on the pool area was deserted, the sunbeds and brollies remaining unused in regimented straight lines.

The youthful Mike

Running was one way of keeping warm but, truth be known, we didn't do very much of that either, mainly because on the fourth day I went down with the daddy of all colds which I suspect I caught on the plane while sat in front of a lady who coughed and sneezed for England. Or maybe she was an International. It was a shame because on our second day we'd met up with a runner from Norwich, a few years younger than me, who really stretched me the following day when I ran with him. It would have done me a power of good to have had two or three more sessions with him. He'd pushed me enough to reduce the time for my hilly 3½ mile route from an average of 37 minutes to 31.25 - and that after he'd had several weeks off running recovering from pneumonia! Two days later my dreaded cold struck, with a vengeance, so I spent an awful lot of time filling and washing handkerchiefs - and feeling somewhat sorry for myself.

Setting the pace from El Pilar along the Volcano Route in wild weather...

Unfortunately, while doing that fast run with the youthful Mike, it seems I still had sufficient breath for talking and had suggested he might like to share a taxi with us to El Pilar, the starting point for the renowned Volcano Route that undulates for 19 Kms over seven of the islands umpteen volcanic heaps which the guidebook refers to as 'The big one'. It's officially given the highest grade  of 'Strenuous' though there's only 500m of ascent as against 1500m of descent which I'd regard as well within the capabilities of an average walker. Wind and mist can be a problem, the book says, and we certainly got our mega share of that, not to mention rain, but the route is well waymarked and sign-posted so it's almost impossible to lose the way. Mike, who'd never been to the island before, regarded the walk as a 'must' and was glad to join us.

By the Trig point on the cloud draped summit of Pico Deseada...

My wonderful partner set off at a cracking pace up the steep initial stages of the GR 131 with Mike in close pursuit and the old man sweating, struggling and snuffling along behind trying to keep them within sight through steamed up specs as thick, cold mist swirled around reducing visibility to 20 - 25 metres in places. Mike had full body cover and carried a sack with an apparently endless supply of food and water which he regularly availed himself of. We wore our usual shorts, trail shoes, thermal tops and lightweight running jackets, a lightweight approach that enabled us to move fast - when I eventually got my ancient legs into gear!  I carried 500ml of water and a minimum of food but, flaunting the usual recommendations, they remained untouched for the duration of our walk/jog/run.

Volcanic landscape approaching Fuencalliente...

Amazingly, 2,000 miles south of Yorkshire, much nearer the equator, we found chunks of ice littering the path on higher parts of the route. We were mostly traversing picon, dark volcanic grit that necessitated a controlled skid on steeper parts whilst allowing us something akin to fast scree running in other places where it was deep enough. I took full advantage of the latter, revelling in the comparative luxury compared with the horrendous conditions over Pico Deseada, the highest point of the route where it was almost impossible to stand up or walk straight in gale force wind, clag and rain. The mist cleared on the lower slopes, the wind dropped too and the sun came out as we strolled into Fuencalliente to wait for our bus. It had been something of an epic and I silently questioned whether Mike would ever join us again on any of our walks. He didn't!

My wonderful partner, out running the hills while I suffered in silence..

Not surprisingly, I spent the whole of the next day filling and washing handkerchiefs again. To add to my sorrows I'd woken up with a painful stiff neck and persistent cough which in turn produced a sore throat full of razor blades. Frequent double doses of Paracetamol became the order of the day while slouched on the settee absorbed in Zane Grey novels about gunmen, gallants and beautiful young ladies in the pioneering days of the wonderful wild west. It was far more preferable to conditions in the disgusting wild west of La Palma where we just happened to be. More rain, a constantly roaring sea, hills shrouded in thick cloud and wind moaning through every crack it could find in the building's architecture gave us no incentive to venture out. We didn't. Not until the next day when we forced ourselves up to the Mirador Concepcion, an incredible viewpoint overlooking the main town and harbour, for a sunless look around. After all, we were on holiday, for goodness sake. We had to do something!

Santa Cruz from the Mirador Concepcion....

We lounged around the beautiful, but locked, church before a steep enjoyable descent from the Mirador to Santa Cruz, down narrow alleyways that intersected the main road, where friendly women leaned from upper floor windows of brightly coloured houses to converse with passers by (don't ask me what they were on about); where not so friendly guard dogs, given the chance, would have torn us to shreds; where exotic flowers and tropical trees, butterflies, bees and Canary Island kestrels all enlightened and helped shorten our journey to the busy shopping centre of the island's capital. We found a wonderful patisserie full of mouth-watering delights where I could really have made myself ill, but we restricted ourselves to just one calorie filled carbohydrate confection that amazingly survived a bus ride all the way back to accompany our lunchtime coffee at the hotel.

Beautiful Church at Mirador Concepcion...

That very same night something went wrong with the plumbing. Mike had taken off into the hills to bivvy out under the stars leaving his cuddly partner, Liz, to dine with us in the evening. We talked into the night before going our separate ways, but we didn't sleep. A low hum gradually increased in volume until it became a louder vibration that culminated in a higher pitched whine. After an hour it stopped - for five minutes. Then it began again and the process was repeated. I got up, made a cup of tea and finished yet another Zane Grey novel (there are 18 of them on my iPad) before storming down to reception to report the matter after another high pitched crescendo at 3.45am. An armed security guard was on duty who didn't speak a word of English, but from his various words and gestures I figured his colleague would be along in 10 minutes. He was, and he spoke English. The source of the problem was quickly located in a box under our balcony that appeared to contain little more than a fire hose. After a bit of poking around the cover was slammed shut and the noise ceased - at 4.15am. I reckoned this must have happened before because the guy knew exactly where to look.

One of the many desirable residences....

In the eventuality of it happening again I took the precaution of visiting the local Pharmacy and purchasing ear plugs. While there I discovered I could buy Ibuprofen in 400mg tablets which I don't think are available over the counter in Britain, only 200mg tablets. My wonderful partner had informed me, on the basis of something she'd heard on the radio, that taking a combined dose of Ibuprofen and Paracetamol was far more effective than taking just one or the other on its own. I spent the rest of the day, and all next day, testing out this theory until, after around 4,000mg of one and 5,000mg of the other, my various aches and pains seemed vastly diminished so I was able to leave my virtual sick bed and go for short walks again.

The stricken cruise ship, Thomson Majesty, minus one lifeboat..

Meanwhile, down in the harbour a major catastrophe had occurred. A Thomson cruise liner, the Thomson Majesty, had docked there for its 1,500 passengers to witness the Los Indianos carnival in Santa Cruz before setting sail for Madeira. At each port of call compulsory lifeboat drills are carried out to determine all is in working order in case of emergency. On this occasion a rope snapped as the lifeboat was being lowered. The boat hung vertical until the other rope snapped under the strain plunging the vessel 65ft intro the sea where it landed upside down. Miraculously, three crewmen leapt clear as they fell but five others were trapped under the boat and died. The ship remained in dock for some days afterwards, presumably whilst an inquiry was carried out and repairs were made. Thomsons sent out seven of their planes to fly the marooned passengers back home.

All dressed up for the Los Indianos carnival...

In spite of this tragedy in the island's capital the Los Indianos carnival went ahead as planned. I never did find out exactly what they were celebrating though I'm led to believe it began after Palmerian exiles returned from Cuba. Some paint their faces black, representing slavery, but all of them, men and women, dress in their best white finery and straw hats of Cuban tradition. Thousands upon thousands gathered in the streets from all over the Canary Islands, the main focus point being the large square in front of the Church with its impressive bell tower. There were musicians, street vendors and a lady rolling cigars that are said to rival top rated Havanas. Whole families turned out together, sometimes with elderly patriarchs marching ahead of the group. I recall a gentleman with his two very attractive daughters receiving particular attention from itinerant photographers - including me!

Throwing the talcum powder

Maybe it has some religious significance for I saw men with hands together and eyes closed as if in prayer. Or maybe it's a time of final indulgences before the period of self denial in Lent. Eat, drink and be merry was certainly the order of the day, everyone being noisily good humoured and jolly while cute smartly dressed children were having a whale of a time. But their strangest habit was the throwing of talcum powder over all and sundry until the whole street was enveloped in a white haze. Anyone (particularly tourists) dressed in dark colours got extra dustings of talc to make them white. Our friend Mike, who'd dressed in black, was almost unrecognizable in his transformed state! We left as the party was getting into full swing, leaving it to the Palmerians, and walked the couple of miles back to our hotel. As we passed the harbour the cruise ship's stricken lifeboat had just been hauled from the water and police were much in evidence. Not everyone was celebrating.

Flower decked walls en route to the Caldera...

After a few thousand more mgms of painkiller and anti-inflammatory I was able to start some more serious walking - and running - again. After all the cold sunless days on our side of the island we ventured over to the east, through what I refer to as the magic tunnel. The road cuts under the volcanic spine of the island, the Cumbre Nueva, and invariably emerges into glorious sunshine at the other side. And so it happened again - twice. The warmth on my body was a real tonic as we strolled past flower decked gardens and crowing cockerels up the long hill from Los Llanos towards the Caldera Taburiente, the vast crater for which the island is famous.

Dun walkin'....

We turned near a roadside shrine where the road dropped 1,600ft to the floor of the Caldera and returned by a circuitous route to Los Llanos where dragonflies danced across the green waters, a classy restaurant balanced precariously on stilts above the Caldera and a pair of discarded walking boots dangled from a power line. We lunched in the sun and took a short walk down the Camino Real - an old donkey route linking Tazacorte in the east to Santa Cruz in the west - before catching the bus back into the gloom.

Pico Bejenado

The Volcano Route may be 'the big one' for most walkers, but the ascent of Pico Bejenado is more appealing to us and we'd noticed its tree lined slopes towering into glorious blue sky on our way to Los Llanos. We returned the following day for an enjoyable ascent. It was raining when we set off with wind gusting through the trees. A German gentleman sat by the roadside was waiting for more tranquil weather before risking going higher. Fortuitously, both rain and wind ceased in the next ½ mile so there was absolutely no danger involved at more exposed parts of the route. My various pills had done their job and I was moving easily again at a fairly fast pace, up the rough trail to El Rodeo, then up endless zig-zags to the sign posted summit at 1,854m. The ascent took 2¼ hours - five minutes longer than the guide book said, so I must be getting old! A raven greeted us and perched in a nearby tree to have its photograph taken. The umpteen lizards of yester year were conspicuous by their absence. Maybe the raven had devoured them, or the kestrels. Whatever, we missed them sharing our lunch and scuttering around our feet. We left our names in the Visitor's Book before a rapid descent, passing hoards of people toiling upwards in big boots, wielding their trekking poles. We felt rather smug in our lightweight gear. In a couple of hours we were back onto a tarmac road where a German couple gave us a lift in their hire car for the last 4½ km to our bus stop. Then, again, it was back through the magic tunnel to the wild west weather and the raging sea.

Happy to be aloft again. Note raven in tree on right...

The ascent of Pico Bejenado had been the highlight of our holiday, not least because the air was fresh and clear, we'd enjoyed panoramic views, blue sky and warm sunshine on this most remarkable of miradors. If you threw a stone from its breath-taking height it would travel more than a mile before it hit the bottom. So deep is the Caldera. When you look down from such heights you feel you've really achieved something. The rest, for me, was anti-climax.  I managed a couple more runs, struggled with the first but enjoyed the second on our very last morning when the sun deigned to show its face again. We love La Palma, it's mountains and trails to run or walk, it's colourful flora and fauna, it's Guancho history and curious traditions, but on this occasion we were glad to climb onto that plane and head for home. I've no doubt we'll be back again next year - God willing - but maybe not in February.

Closing down.......

From last weeks snowy paths......

 ......for a few weeks while we go chasing the sun. Cases are packed, travelling clothes are washed and set out ready to put on at the appropriate hour, Euros, passport and e-ticket are tucked away safely in my wallet, car parking has been arranged at the Airport, I've had an hour long Mag Sulph soak, done a huge amount of exfoliating so my skin can breathe and hopefully soak in lots of semi-tropical sunshine and, last but not least, due attention has been given to the safe stowing of every essential item of running gear. If all goes according to plan, by Friday lunchtime we'll be stepping off the plane onto the warm, volcanic island of La Palma in the far away Canary Islands off the coast of Africa.
     

.....to next weeks volcanic trails.....

       After breakfast on most mornings we'll be donning our shorts, vests and trainers (and sun glasses) to run 'the route', a four mile circuit that climbs to a stunning viewpoint before the luxury of a long downhill section where sun-bathing lizards dart for cover among the bushes as we thunder past. Also, high on the agenda again is a long section of the island's Volcano Route that follows a high level path past seven inactive volcanos from El Pilar down to Fuencalliente. Running that route was one of the highlights of our holiday two years ago.
      

....and lizards round my feet.

      Out of interest today I climbed onto my magic body composition scales for some before and after readings, and was pleasantly surprised at what they told me. Whether it's the daily core exercises I've been doing, or whether it's due to advice given in Matt Fitzgerald's 'Racing Weight' book, I dunno, but in just three weeks my percentage of body fat has dropped from 18.4% to 13.4% which is a fantastic achievement. Weight is down from 145.8 lbs to 144 lbs and my BMI down to a more acceptable 22.5. I got to thinking, with results like this it's time I set myself up as a Personal Trainer in order to cash in on these secrets!. Or maybe I should just keep quiet in case I pile it all back on again during the course of our extravagent holiday.

      This Blog is now closing down until we return from the sunny Canaries. Au Revoir!

Running in the snow...

My snowy path through Roydhouse Wood

On Castle Hill

      I've been a bit frustrated this past week, basically because I haven't been able to run as much as I'd have liked. Once I've got my Yaktrax strapped to my trail shoes I love running in the snow, I love that virgin whiteness under the lazuline blue, I love all the intricate black and white tracery of snowy branches, I love following the tracks of hares, foxes or resident Roe deer through their wild haunts. But it's been hard work these past few days, trying to run in such a manner that doesn't affect my dodgy hamstring too much.
      Yesterday I tried to nurse it as I tripped lightly over hazardous tree roots, through frozen, ankle twisting rutted fields and up stony lanes - only to come aeroplaning down Castle Hill, kamikaze style, like some demented child revelling in the winter conditions. In her inspirational book, 'Mud, Sweat and Tears' Moire O'Sullivan says "We're all mad in our own little ways, everyone has their own passion or madness for which they are willing to go that extra mile or two". It's true. Even in our dotage there is still something of an uninhibited child wanting to be let loose to play.

Winter flowering gorse on Castle Hill

       A well dressed gentleman in his seventies, and wearing a deerstalker, stopped me the other day as I jogged up the icy lane towards Castle Hill. "Do you know that every 20 minutes of running equates to six hours wear and tear on your joints?" he asked. Apparently this information was based on something his daughter had told him, and she just happens to be a physiotherapist. Well no, I didn't know that, but informed him my 80 year old joints didn't seem to be giving me much trouble, apart from feeling a bit stiff at times, and I was still running up to 24 miles a week. Perhaps my daily dose of Cod Liver Oil has something to do with it. "Ah well, you could go four times further if you stopped running and just walked" he replied. Actually, I'm not sure I'd want to walk 96 miles a week, and I certainly wont be visiting his daughter if that's the sort of advice she gives to runners.
      I've been interviewed again, this time by a lady with the charming name of Satu Hattula who hosts a website called 'bodycapable.com' and hails from Finland. She refers to me, somewhat embarrassingly, as an exercise hero (who? me?) and, even more embarrassingly, seems fascinated by the shape of my thighs in the picture I emailed her. It's a good job I'd kept my vest on!  Click on the link and have a read.

An enjoyable week.....

Shooters in the ghyll

We'd a guard of honour as we trotted up the ghyll on Saturday, or so you'd have thought. The shooters were out again, a score or so of them stationed at various points up the beck and only yards away from the track. We were totally ignored as they blasted over our heads at pheasants driven from cover thick and fast. I dared hardly look up in case I got an eye full of lead shot, but on the few occasions I did it struck me that these were indeed wise birds as they flew high and fast, mostly out of range of gunshot. I never saw one fall. Not that I'm saying 'hurrah' to this, nobody enjoys pheasant more than I do (not to mention the nice red wine that accompanies it), but just occasionally I'm on the side of the birds.

Approaching the start of our measured mile

We continued on our way, albeit a little faster, in temperatures bordering on freezing but feeling more like 3º below in the nithering wind-chill. We'd set off to do a repeat of the measured mile down Moor Lane and after last week's poor performances we were determined to 'give it some welly'. The rough ground was frosted and a bit more conducive to running as I set off from our little cairn at what I considered optimum pace. I got it a tiny bit wrong and was slowing towards the finish, but that couldn't cloud my delight when I glanced at the watch and discovered I'd run the mile in 7.09 - some 43 seconds faster than last week. My wonderful partner's 8.34 was also a wee bit faster, so we jogged home happily and relaxed for the rest of the day.

On my way to a 7.09 mile down Moor Lane

Sunday dawned sunny and frosty with lots of blue sky, so whilst my wonderful partner roamed around Barden Moor on National Park duty I set off on a gentle run to Thorpe and Burnsall, returning along the river. I say 'gentle' because I was nursing a tight hamstring that was pulling a bit towards the back of my left knee, so I'd taken 75mgm of Voltarol (anti-inflammatory) before I set off. I'd noticed a slight pain three days previously while doing a a set of 200m reps on Castle Hill, but it didn't get any worse so I'd chosen to ignore it. There was little discomfort as I crossed the river and jogged uphill through frozen fields to the sleepy little hamlet of Thorpe. Of all the times I've run through here I've only once met an inhabitant, a friendly farmer who poked his head from the byre and asked if I'd like a drink of water as I sweated past. He obviously thought I needed one!

Leaving Thorpe - the lane towards Burnsall

Leaving Thorpe I'd a wonderful run past woods and mossy limestone walls, through open fields, across a stream and over a dozen stiles to the popular Dales village of Burnsall where I joined the river path towards Hebden. A young girl caught me up and I managed to stay with her just long enough to learn she'd run all the way from Silsden and heading into Grassington, a distance of around 18 miles. She was still maintaining a fast pace that I could only match for a couple of hundred metres or so before letting her go. Or maybe she was purposely showing me a clean pair of heels, not wishing to be shown up running with a decrepit octogenarian!

All in all it was a good week, 21 miles of reasonable running made all the more enjoyable by the appearance of the sun and some better underfoot conditions. But even as I write this, snow is falling quite heavily and the world outside my window has turned a deathly shade of white. Now then, where did I put my Yaktrax?

PS. I got a wee mention in Northern Runner's Guide last week - but you'll have to read quite a way down before you come to me!

Testing times.....

     After Christmas and New Year indulgences I find myself in a strange situation. Instead of getting fit BY racing, I'm now trying to get fit FOR racing. I ran a couple of times last week to open my 2013 account, six easy miles on New Years day when I felt to be moving reasonably well and another six hilly miles on Saturday that had me almost on my knees. That second run was a sort of fartlek session based on something I read a few years ago in one of Joe Henderson's books - Better Runs. Joe calls it his 1-1-1 work-out, i.e. once a week run one mile one minute faster than normal training pace. When I was younger, back in my M75 category racing days, I wasn't happy just doing one fast mile. Over an 8 mile route I'd slot in three of these fast miles, most of them at sub 7 min/mile pace and odd ones at sub 6.30.      

Down the long wall .... one of my fast mile sections

      Three of my M75 PB's were 45.32 for 10K, 76.20 for 10 miles and 5.39.83 for 1500m, so I reckon those modified 1-1-1 sessions must have been doing some good. I'll admit, all three of those measured miles were predominantly downhill, one of them down the 'long wall' being completely off-road and the other two also having off-road sections. But they were most enjoyable, giving this old man a nice feeling of speed, and it became one of my favourite sessions. For a while, until I got bored!  A glance through my racing diary reveals I haven't done it any time during the last two years. Until last Saturday.

     In need of moral support I set off with my wonderful partner over a shorter course of six miles to include just two fast ones - the last two of previous years' work-outs. It was reasonably dry as we plodded steadily up Hebden Ghyll which seemed devoid of all life except a solitary red grouse that scuttled away for cover as we approached Cupola Corner. We almost crawled up Moor Lane towards the little cairn I'd erected to mark the start of our measured mile. Passing the cairn I clicked my watch and put my foot on the gas down the stony track leading to a ¼ mile of flat road before descending slightly downhill towards Grassington. As I puffed past the mile marker at Edge Lane I stopped my watch, hardly daring to look at it.  7.52 is what it said. A full minute, and more, slower than past times.

Matt's excellent book.....recommended

     After jogging another mile I half heartedly attempted a second fast one back into the village, but I lost interest when sliding all over the place down the initial muddy section, and then having difficulty opening and shutting an awkward farm gate which I'd have vaulted over not so many moons ago. At the end of that mile I stopped my watch at a lamentable 8.25 before jogging the last 200m back home to collapse on the step with hardly strength to untie my laces. Unlike yesteryear, it had not been enjoyable, Far from returning home refreshed and rejuvenated I was absolutely knackered and would have gone to bed - except I never have and never will if I can possibly help it. Not during the day. Old men and poorly people do that!

     At least I now have a bench mark to work from but will have to draw on all my 27 years of running and racing experience to get anywhere near former levels of fitness - and then some. I've already made a start, first by enlisting the help of Matt Fitzgerald's excellent book - Racing Weight - dealing with nutrition in relation to racing performance, and secondly by investing in my own set of body monitoring scales to regularly tell me how well this new regime is working, or isn't, as the case may be. Watch this space!

Here's to a wonderful 2013....

2012 ....a lot of water under the bridge

      I don't do New Year Resolutions but, reluctantly, I feel one or two will have to be implemented if I'm to continue racing through the coming year. I'm feeling a bit ashamed of myself. After a 6 mile run on New Year's Day I decided it was time to step onto the scales to assess how much damage all the recent indulgences and scaled down exercise have wrought upon this ancient body. The answer, in a word, is considerable. I'd wondered why I wasn't running too well, why I'd been reduced to walking one of the hills in a recent road race, and why my average training pace was becoming embarrassingly slow. The magic scales gave me the answer. To my ideal racing weight of 138 lbs I've added an extra 8.60 lbs - most of which is anchored firmly round my waist. It's not nice when I look in the mirror, especially when I turn sideways. Fat percentage has risen to 19.5% (from 16.6), visceral fat to 9% (from 7.0) and BMI to 23.3 (from 22.1) - figures which might be 'normal' for the average man in the street. For an athlete they're well into the region of 'fat'.

    

Making haggis more palatable on New Year's Eve.....

     So what’s to be done about it? I hate the word ‘diet’. To my mind dieting, along with calorie counting and food journaling, is something women do – so I’ll not go down that road – but I’ve obviously got to make some adjustments if ever I’m to get back to my optimum racing weight. In the past I could eat or drink as much as I jolly well wanted so long as I was exercising sufficiently to burn it off, but that no longer seems to be the case. As I’ve slowed down with age, and not training as intensely, the balance has got a little upset and the calories appear to be winning.  Maybe I’m succumbing to too many ‘treats’.  I don’t buy sweets, buns, cake or biscuits but my wonderful partner invariably has jars and tins full of these calorie loaded goodies which, because she’s made or baked them, I feel obliged to eat – before they go stale.  The rest of my diet is fairly sensible, no fast food or junk food and all my meat, fish, fruit and vegetables etc. bought and eaten as fresh as possible. Never once have I darkened the doors of MacDonalds, or any other such place. So New Year resolution No. 1 is to start exercising a bit more self-control over my eating habits, though I must admit I’ll miss all those little treats if they aren’t there.

....and pouring the bubbly

     And mention of the word 'exercising', I used to have a regular short routine I practiced on most days, and always on non-running days. That was way back in the days when running and racing was serious, not just for fun. It included lunges and press-ups, crunches, plank and tricep dips – not to mention bicep curls, upward rowing and squats using mainly light weights. All that has gone by the board so I can’t remember when the weights were last rolled out from their hiding place, or when I got down to just a bare minimum of core exercises. Common sense tells me I must get back into the habit of regular exercising, stretching and lifting if I’m to carry on racing. I want no more of those embarrassing walks up poxy little hills – as in my last 10K road race. So New Year resolution No. 2 is to stop procrastinating, get out that sheet of paper with its list of exercises that take no more than half an hour to perform, and do what it says. If I fail in these two resolutions, if my body composition remains all out of proportion and I find myself moving humiliatingly even further towards the back of the field, I’ll call it a day and stop racing.  After all, I’ve had a good innings and amassed a fair number of racing trophies in various age categories. When that trend declines it will be time to move over and allow some other dog to have his day.

     Another factor I found discouraging, that frequently kept me indoors, was the appalling weather we had last year, reputedly the wettest in Yorkshire since records began.  During the day on New Year’s Eve we couldn’t run, or even walk, alongside the River Wharfe, such was the amount of water spewing across adjacent fields and paths. Trees, drowned sheep and goodness knows what else went hurtling down its swollen current. Linton Falls was a veritable maelstrom. The noise was deafening. We felt concerned for those living on flood plains farther down river, but the barriers must have held for we heard no bad reports.

Worse still, you might not even wake up...

     Later, our radio said that over 100,000 people were gathered in London (with a measly twenty portaloos between them causing hour long queues) waiting for the midnight chimes of Big Ben to herald the New Year. In Edinburgh another 75,000 were packed into Princes Street for the increasingly popular Hogmanay folk music and celebrations. Back in our cosy cottage there was just the two of us to share a traditional meal of haggis, tatties and neeps with a well chosen bottle of bubbly to help things on their way.  On the chimes of Big Ben we toasted the New Year with a delectable glass of Jura malt whisky and a warm hug, wishing each other the best of everything as fireworks exploded and lit the night sky over the village. 2013 came in with a bang. Several bangs!  Efforts to text our good wishes to friends and relations were largely unsuccessful, presumably due to lines being somewhat overloaded at that popular hour.

     So to each and everyone of those who failed to get the message – Have a Very Happy New Year and may it bring you all that your hearts desire, whether you’re a runner, or not!

A Very Merry Christmas.......

There's more to life than running.....

    The weather did it's level best to dampen our spirits over the Christmas period with lashings of rain, high winds, flooded fields, muddy paths and mist enshrouded hills. Our Christmas Eve carol singing around the village was cancelled on account of us not having enough hands to hold a lantern, an umbrella and turn the pages of flapping hymn sheets all at the same time! So in lieu of the usual mince pies and mulled wine to conclude the evening we retired to our own warm stove, had a wee dram and went early to bed.
    

    We'd intended having a short run on Christmas morning but the day dawned dark and diabolical. The farthest we ventured out was precisely one metre, as far as our elderly neighbour's front door - conveniently next to ours. She'd a wonderful antidote to the climatic conditions in the form of a fine selection of festive elevenses - on condition that yours truly used his considerable strength to dislodge the cork from a very fine bottle of champagne. We returned home at lunchtime leaving her in a rather convivial mood - and with an almost empty bottle!
    

Aladdin's Cave - the larger prezzies are in the annexe......

    Santa Claus had been rather generous. We suspect his sack felt rather heavy as he staggered around after all the sherry and mince pies, so had dumped most of it's contents under our tree. By the time we'd unwrapped everything the house was beginning to look like Aladdin's cave. So a huge thankyou to the legion of friends and relatives who gave Santa all those wonderful ideas! We're not sure where we'll put everything - apart from the Laphroaig and Damson Gin. I've already thought of a good place for those!  As darkness fell we drew the curtains, shut out the weather and celebrated in style, a full Christmas dinner with all the trimmings and a nice Chardonnay to put us in mellow mood. It was a Very Happy Christmas.
   

A damp run by the river on Boxing Day

    The sun shone for almost an hour on Boxing Day morning, chance for a longish run if we hadn't had to drive to Austwick to visit an old friend and deliver prezzies. By the time we got home in the early afternoon the weather had deteriorated, but we managed a short four miles around Burnsall, returning along the riverbank as it started raining again. A dipper in best bib and tucker curtseyed to the Queen on a mossy stone before plunging into the watery depths in search of his own ideas of turkey and mince pies - or even Brussel sprouts!
     

    There was more socializing, more eating, more drinking, more laughter and conviviality in the company of some running and mountaineering friends before a line was finally drawn under the protracted Christmas festivities on Thursday night. I'm ashamed to admit that running over the festive period amounted to a  mere ten miles, not nearly enough to burn off the thousands of excess calories consumed in that short space of time. And there'll be more to come when we've shot the haggis and marinated it according to a delightful Scottish recipe to celebrate Hogmanay.  Bring on the New Year - not least of all for me to enjoy a well deserved rest!

Traveller's 6

   Talk about winding down for the festive season, I did so little in the early part of last week that I may as well have stayed in bed! Apathy (which I'm neither for nor against!) plus some diabolical weather resulted in just two entries in my running diary amounting to a pathetic nine miles, the lowest since an enforced rest with a broken rib fourteen months ago. Tuesday's planned 5 mile tempo got shortened to a bumbly 3 miles of scary running over frosted pavements and trails. It was one of those days when there was insufficient ice to wear Yaktrax but a little too slippy in places for safety. As I'm very prone to falling  (I can even fall off my own doorstep) I erred on the side of caution, what with Christmas coming up and a booked holiday early in the New Year. 

Route and course profile

   By the time I'd got round to thinking about running on Thursday the day had deteriorated from sunny and cold when I walked to the village in the morning to thick freezing fog an hour later. I decided that keeping warm and reading a book was the better option. Friday was diabolical. Overnight drizzle had frozen into treacherous black ice causing chaos on the roads and an abundance of extra work for Accident and Emergency Units. I didn't even venture across the garden path to put bread on the wall for the birds but flung it onto the lawn from the safety of the porch. Since acquiring a bread maker the birds have benefited greatly. My loaves rise so much that full slices wont fit into the toaster so friendly blackbirds, robins and dunnocks thank me for the excess. If greedy magpies haven't got there first!

L65 category winner, at the prize-giving.......

   It wasn't until Sunday that the weather relented and gave us a decent day for running, which was just as well because we'd entered a local race - the Traveller's 6 - that started and finished at the Denby Dale Pie Hall. The hall was built using funds from the sale of a giant meat pie back in 1964. Altogether, eleven of these giant pies have been baked, the first one in 1788 to celebrate George 111's recovery from mental illness! One baked in the year 2000 to celebrate the millennium reputedly weighed an incredible 12 tonnes. The latest, baked earlier this year, weighed a mere 3 tonnes and supposedly copied the exotic recipe of the original one. I'd have loved a plateful of that. There were no such delicacies on offer for Sunday's race but there were masses of other culinary delights piled on a hall full of tables to feed ravenous runners as they staggered back from the hills. It was a gradely do, all for a nominal race entry fee of £6.00, but blimey, we'd to work hard for it.

....and an 80 year old fun runner.

   The route is officially described as 'challenging' which for us decrepit old wrinklies can better be interpreted as bl...y hard! A local runner was mortifying a visitor by telling him it had eleven climbs along its 6 mile length. Thankfully my little brain translated that as eleven enjoyable downhills. I positioned myself at the back of the start line-up and set off at a comfortable pace, undulating uphill for about 1½ miles before I could take a short breather. It seemed an awful long way to the 2 mile marker which I passed in 20.03. The third mile went by in 8.52 but a steep climb to the fourth mile, and beyond, actually reduced me to a walk for a short distance resulting in a slow 9.48. An unattached runner, Karen Thrippleton, had unknowingly become my pace maker for most of the race. We'd been side by side in the early stages but she'd opened a slight gap towards the end and crossed the line 6 secs ahead of me.  And unbeknown to me a 76 year old orienteering acquaintance, galloping Guy Goodair, was tracking me down and closing the gap behind, but I managed to hold him off by 9 secs to finish in 58.08 - 173rd of 202 finishers. Full results here:

   

   I was happy to finish in under an hour considering my Garmins 552ft of ascent and 6.10 miles (878ft and 6.23 miles according to Anquet) but a little puzzled regarding the strange distribution of Vets prizes. My wonderful partner was lucky enough to be awarded a rather nice New Zealand white wine (though we've no idea why) whilst male veterans pre-entered in the upper age categories apparently just ran for fun and don't qualify for prizes at Denby Dale.
   

   Ah well, Father Christmas will soon be here!

Dancing on ice.....

Ice all down the lane on my run to Grassington......

Over the past week Christmas drastically interfered with running. What with writing and sending zillions of cards, shopping for all the right presents, not to mention an inordinate amount of time spent 'chatting' with Dell reps about computers and being blinded with science. Hence my brain, rather than my feet, has been almost stretched to the limit. I had to laugh, every time I surfed the Dell website a little box came floating down with a picture of a rather attractive white lady asking "How can we help you today? Chat now". But each time I clicked on it I was connected to gentlemen sounding of Indian or Bangladeshi origin with mainly unpronounceable names. They did help, and I went through the motions of placing an order but wont know for sure whether I succeeded until my 'basket' (as they call it) actually arrives - hopefully before Christmas.

and everywhere by the river on my way back....

I did get out running, I had to, if only to clear my befuddled brain. And boy, did I enjoy it. On Saturday conditions were similar to the previous week - wall to wall ice in the lanes and fields like skating rinks. For the first time this year I donned my Yaktrax Pros and went dancing across the ice with all the confidence of a latter day Robin Cousins. So if anyone is out walking in the frozen Yorkshire Dales and sees an ancient bearded figure racing gleefully towards them performing triple axels to the strains of Ravel's Bolero on his mp3 player, give him a big round of applause. It might be me!

...and what I wore to cope with it.

Sunday was going to be a more leisurely day but my wonderful partner decided otherwise. "I'm going to do some of those things you showed me, ten seconds fast, then twenty, then thirty....up to a hundred, then back down again". All done with a jog recovery - a sort of pyramid fartlek session. It had very much been a case of 'do as I say, not as I do' for I hadn't personally done that routine for goodness knows how long, but as I'd promised to run with her I felt obliged to give it a go. In spite of the hilly route around Burnsall it went rather well and I was pleasantly surprised how easily I concluded with the final 30, 20 and 10 sec sprints back up the steep slope into the village.  My mileage last week amounted to a mere 12 miles but it all felt so easy and enjoyable. Perhaps I should keep it at that for a wee while before gradually building up again for the Spring.

Winter fun and frolics....

Winter arrived with a vengeance last week, nipping all the remaining leaves from the trees and leaving but a tracery of bare branches etched against the sky. The previously sodden landscape developed a thick, hard, slippery shell of vicious ice - which made running a little more interesting. In fact, I went sledging last Thursday, quite unintentionally, and without the actual use of a sledge.
     

Bare trees and a winter sky around Castle Hill

Having awoken to a glorious sunrise I couldn't resist a run up Castle Hill for a bit of 'altitude training'. Near the top I'd to cross the road on a steep bend which overnight had been transformed into a ribbon of treacherous ice. I knew I was going to go down so prepared myself to land as gently as possible. Bang, straight onto my backside and sliding merrily downhill as I simultaneously crabbed my way towards the side where I wanted to be. Fortunately, I got away with no more than a wet bum and freezing wet gloves. Shortly afterwards a local Ranger, who's become familiar with my antics over the years, arrived on the scene to sand and salt the offending stretch of road. I could tell by his face he was plainly of the opinion that geriatric joggers shouldn't be frollicking around in such conditions.

   
Undaunted, I continued my training (if you can call it that) with 16 x 200m reps at a comfortable pace, clicking my watch at the beginning and end of each run without actually reading what it said. Rather than give myself a set time for each rep, I ran within my comfort zone, listening to my body. I'd guessed I was clocking around 48 seconds for each rep - with the exception of one much faster effort when I was spurred on by a yapping dog that decided to join in the fun - and got shouted at! Both the dog and its owner must have sensed my annoyance and disappeared smartish before my next rep! On downloading the information from my watch onto the computer I was pleasantly surprised to find I'd been averaging fairly consistent 45's.  I was happy with that. On Friday, the last day of the month, I ran a gentle three miles to bring my total for November to a straight 100 miles.
   

 

Ice all the way on Saturday's run

Saturday's run turned out to be a bit of an epic. I'd set off up Hebden Ghyll for a measured 8 miles to bring my total for the year to exactly 1000 miles.  My intention was to cross Grassington Moor before taking the narrow, almost invisible sheep trod over Bycliffe Hill, then a nice downhill run back to the village - one of my favourite runs where I can guarantee to be absolutely alone. But I was well and truly stymied in the arctic conditions and reached a point when I wished I wasn't alone.  Before I'd even left the village I was struggling to avoid widespread ice. It continued all the way up the ghyll and onto the moor where I ran into an additional hazard - a biting northerly blast that had the temperature plummeting way, way below zero. Picking my way across the moor towards Bycliffe, dodging the ice, I sensed my body temperature was dropping rapidly towards danger levels. I'd climbed to around 1,350ft and Bycliffe was still another 150ft higher. And probably a lot colder. 

 

The village of Hebden - nestling under the hills

All of a sudden I felt very vulnerable, not to mention quite frightened, as the freezing mass gripped my chest and penetrated my ears. I pulled on a jacket, turned around and descended as quickly as glassy underfoot conditions would allow. Fairly soon I'd started to get warm again so I detoured into Yarnbury, ran down Moor Lane towards Grassington and back along Edge Lane (which had wall to wall ice) before dropping into the village to complete an exciting 8 miles. The thermometer outside the back door was recording 26ºF (-4ºC) so I shudder to think what it must have been 700ft higher up on the open moor with that numbing wind-chill factor. I stoked up the stove, moved my chair a bit closer and, apart from attending Church on Sunday morning, stayed within spitting distance for the next two days. Maybe that Ranger on Castle Hill was right!    

 

Anyway, after achieving both targets over the weekend, 100 miles for November and 1000 miles for the year, I reckon it's time to take it easy for a few weeks now, rest on my laurels, relax and enjoy the festive season, recuperate and regenerate before coming back with all guns blazing again in 2013. Well, that's the plan!