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

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

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

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

      

This is a path....

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

      On Saturday we drove to the Dales in

Water, water, everywhere I run....

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

     

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chimney...from lead smelting days on Grassington Moor

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

      Blea Gill was my destination, across

Upon reflection.....

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

Old Runningfox on Grassington Moor

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

I hate having to walk......

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

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

      Within a three mile run next day I ran some short

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

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

Determined to keep running.....

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

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

Stone man on Grassington Moor

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

A good hill for training....

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

Happy New Year....

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

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

     

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

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

      I've stopped making New Year resolutions,

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

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

      

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

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

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

Shooting the rapids....

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

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

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

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

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

Gathering clouds before sleet and hail, Christmas Eve

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

     

Burnsall bridge on Christmas day.....

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

      

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

A favourite tree along the riverbank...

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

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

Late dinner, Christmas Day

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

      

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

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

...and the manicured ornament today

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We are in love with you....

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

my heart and I.....

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

A pleasant bit of road to the hidden village of Thorpe

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

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

    

across the bridge at Linton Falls...

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

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

into Mossdale...

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

   

..and over the Suspension Bridge back to Hebden

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

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

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

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

Christmas is coming.....

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

Brother Billy  1936 - 2013

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

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

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

Ugh...what I have to run through

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

Slowly, slowly catchee monkee.....

       I don't normally shop at LIDL but about ten years ago they happened to be selling items of running gear,

On trial   my new coach

so I had to poke my nose in. Even though I didn't really want one, I found temptation hard to resist at sight of a Runtec Heart Rate Monitor for only £15.95. It seemed like a bargain to me, and it might have been if ever I'd figured out how to use it. I wore it maybe half a dozen times before hanging it over the back of a chair and virtually forgetting about it - until a couple of weeks ago when Dr Maffetone's book inspired me to take another look at it. Not surprisingly, after a decade of inactivity, the watch required a new battery. I kid you not, two CR2032 batteries through Amazon cost 0.59p - postage paid!  The chest strap still functions OK, but even if it had died I now have a spare battery for it.
 

Saturday's slowly, slowly route....

     The only thing I ever learnt from this HRM in that dim distant past was that my maximum heart rate, taken after three back to back miles, flat out with 10 minutes jog recovery, was 161. I never did get around to figuring out how to set working or recovery heart rates. I seemed to be running quite well without such knowledge - listening to my body, as they say. After all, not many other M70's at that time were running sub 44 minute 10K's or winning National Fell race championships with or without HRM's, so why should I alter anything?  Now, climbing into my eighties, things are different. I'm sliding down the Rankings, currently No.12 on the Park Run 5K list, and that's no good to me. There are names above me that never used to be. The animal is not happy.
      So, for a short trial I've appointed Dr Maffetone as my coach - though he doesn't know it! Sometime this

Approaching the hidden village of Thorpe....

week I'll do a stress test to assess my current maximum heart rate. The popular calculation of 220 minus age seems way out for me given it was above 139 for the whole of an eight mile tempo run last week. It reached 152 in the first mile, probably par for the course every time I run that particular bit of route which is near enough every week. Once a working heart rate has been established I suspect the majority of my running is going to be a lot slower - initially at least - and with that in mind I've been practicing a bit over the weekend.
 

Yellow landscape by the river -  kingfisher country.

     Using neither watch nor HRM we loped easily along 2½ miles of riverbank to Linton Falls before climbing towards the picturesque little village of Thorpe. From there it was mainly downhill through sunlit fields into Burnsall and back along the river to Hebden. A few winter thrushes were chacking away in the treetops beneath which we ran through a yellow landscape of fallen leaves. There was a joyous shout as a kingfisher flashed past and alighted briefly on a bare branch above the water before disappearing up the shallow valley towards Seven Sisters. It proved a delightful seven miles on a beautiful frosty day, so enjoyable in fact that I repeated it after Church on Sunday while my wonderful partner was attending a neighbour's 80th birthday party.
      Whether doing the majority of running at a slower pace in training will eventually produce faster race times remains to be seen, but that's the theory. There'll still be speedwork to do, of course, but maybe I'll feel fresher and enjoy that all the more. I'll give it a try, anything to get some of those names currently above me in the rankings back into their proper places...

Call it play, or call it a day....

Fun and frolic......Munro-bagging in Glencoe

      I had to laugh on Sunday. After a week when I'd really felt the weight of my 81 years and struggled to maintain any momentum in my running, our Circuit Superintendent, Rev'd Richard Atkinson, based his message on an amusing text from Malachi that had me snorting an audible "Huh".  'You will go out and frolic like well-fed calves' he repeated several times, as preachers and public speakers do to emphasise a salient point. Oh yeah, me? At my time of life? And I bet I wasn't the only one thinking that. All but one of the congregation was over 60 and three of us are in our eighties. 
      Admittedly, when it comes to running, I've always tried to look upon it as fun and frolic, disregarding most of that serious scientific stuff that's become part and parcel of the modern movement, where every step is timed and every run fed into the computer for analysis. Regrettably, I've been drawn into much of that stuff too and quite a few running days end with me sat by a computer recording the bare bones of what I've done, then fleshing it up for a half decent blog posting.
      In early years I'd a simple Seiko stopwatch; no metronome, no apps to tell me when to walk and when

on this year's Eiger Trail run.....

to run, no beeps to warn me if I was a fraction off pace, no virtual partner, no horrible music jangling in my lug 'oles, nor even a computer to store all the data. Each run was roughly recorded in one line of an A6 notebook - the first of which lasted for seven years. The majority of entries were simply logged as 'X-Country' because that's always where I preferred to run, communing with nature in wide open spaces, over moors and mountains - far from the madding crowd. 
      I wasn't exactly 'frolicking like a well-fed calf' in those early days, but running became the most exciting thing I'd ever done and dearly wished I'd discovered it long before my mid fifties. Ticking off Scottish Munros, jogging long, high level routes in the Cairngorms, testing our studs over the Great Lochaber Traverse, hurtling down the snow fields from Ben Nevis or running the heathery hills of home was never anything else but play. It was also excellent training for races of all lengths and types I chose to run. New PB's, course records, championship wins, creeping into national and world rankings were all complementary by-products of the wonderful game I was playing.  It really was all play. And I didn't need a Garmin to gauge how much I was enjoying it.

     

beach running from a wild camp in the Hebrides....

     Things have got more serious in my dotage, I've become more self critical and running times have suffered because of it. Hours before Rev Richard released us from his 20 minute diatribe and sent us out rejoicing, I'd been in Skipton squelching my way round Aireville Park in one of those nationwide 5k Park Runs. Far from frolicking like a well-fed calf I lumbered round like a knackered old bull put out to grass in a very squidgy field. For the life in me, I couldn't get out of 2nd gear. Each of four circuits began with an 85ft climb, three of them on a narrow, muddy woodland path that sapped so much strength from my old legs that I couldn't get going on the down bits. There weren't any flat bits. I reckon the soles of my shoes were an inch thicker when I crossed the Finish line due to all the mud caked on them. I finished 55th (of 83) in the lamentable time of 30.59. Even more sickening was my age grading of 69.55%, perhaps the lowest I've recorded over any distance in the last 20 years.
      So what to do now?  Maybe another visit to my favourite Isle of Iona to bathe

....to high tops in the Canary islands. It was all play.

in its wonderful 'Well of Eternal Youth' again? A Super Vitamin? Or the latest go-faster drug to add to all the other medication I swallow to keep me alive and kicking. One thing's for sure, I'm not done yet and Aireville Park will soon be receiving another visit from Old Runningfox to hopefully erase the nasty memories of that first one. Well-fed frolicking calves indeed. I'll do my best Richard. Honest. But if ever it comes to that story of Abraham getting his wife pregnant when he was 99 years old, just go and preach it somewhere else!

Running up that hill....

Intervals on top Thursday, Tempo run round it Sunday...

    Every now and again, though admittedly not as often nowadays, I feel the need for some speed. Sometimes it just feels good to be floating along in sun and wind at a faster than usual pace. Not flat out and not for very far, but at a speed one can comfortably maintain for 12 - 16 reps over 200m or so, and ideally maintaining the same pace throughout.  If you're struggling towards the end it means you've started off too fast. Better to start off a little conservatively and be accelerating slightly for the final few. And that's what I set out to do for an interval session last week. 

  16 x 200m @ 45 secs is what I'd planned (6

So true....

min/mile pace) but as I ascended 300ft or so to my normally sheltered training area on Castle Hill the wind got stronger and the air got colder - particularly so as the sun disappeared behind gathering clouds. I wouldn't normally complain about 40° but when it's blowing full frontal at 20mph, and me in shorts and Helly Hansen Lifa, I felt I hadn't really warmed up as I set off on the first test run into the wind. 49 seconds the watch said, so decided to run the rest in 48's and cut the reps down to 12. They felt comfortable enough except for a penultimate 50 when a playful dog decided to dodge between my legs, so finished with a 46 to compensate. Back down off the hill I turned into the local cricket field for a few shorter but faster reps before jogging home after a fairly satisfactory 7 miles.

Wonderful running country, in the Yorkshire Dales near Austwick....

   Tempo runs are my least favourite discipline, especially those that involve 660ft of climbing, but that's what I decided to do on Sunday. Don't ask why! It was a cold crisp morning with glorious sunshine and a cloudless sky as I locked the door and padded off down the road. Note that word 'down' - the one redeeming feature - but only for the first ¾ mile, then it rose relentlessly for the next 1¼ miles to the village of Farnley Tyas. With the exception of one brief stop to take a photograph (top) all went well and I completed the five miles in 48.58. I was happy with that. Then, as I stopped my watch, it came up with another of those funny messages saying 'New Record'. It seems to think that somewhere along the way a new 5K record of 30.14 was established which isn't bad, I suppose, for a decrepit old octogenarian.That run brought up 18 miles for the week, which is hardly enough if I want to start racing again. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I do...