Weeks 10, 11, 12 - some time away from blogging

Despite my best efforts, the "All of the things" post did actually do me some damage - OR - it made such a big impact on me because I was already brewing for a cold at the time.

By Sunday evening I was sniffling and on my rest day at work on Monday, I had real, proper throat tickles.  On Tuesday I rang in sick and didn't go back to work until Thursday and even then, only at 60% capacity.  I did no training until the weekend when we went down to see the In-Laws in Guildford.

On Saturday morning I hauled myself down to the pool (doesn't open 'till 9!!!) and swam with the fast, mean people.  Never been so clobbered in my life.  What a bunch of arrogant cocks! And that was just the women!  I will try not to make that mistake again - though I will probably have to.

My swim was followed by lunch and a 65 mile ride.  Whilst I had plotted myself a great route with the hills at the begining and rolling countryside at the end, the logistics of getting out of Guildford evaded me and I ended up doing the route in reverse, with a 2 mile long climb which was sustainably above 20% for 1/3 mile.  I thought my lungs were going to explode!

I got home to instructions as to what was happening for dinner.  I surprised everyone by heading out on a brick run.  It was only 15 minutes but by the time I got back I had catching up to do.  "Showered and changed and ready to present to the family"... or, "sitting in the shower for 5 minutes wondering how the hell I am going to stay awake" - that's more like it.  It's a good job my Rodgers family are scintillating company and understanding.  That's all I'll say.  We were safely tucked up in bed by 10pm.

Everyone else went out for a birthday walk.  I took to the trails around Guildford.  Not sure what it is about this place but I ran around the course backwards before looking at my watch to find I was 4 miles short of the easy 10 mile route I had planned.  Clearly I planned a 10 k route instead.  Oh well.  Charting that one off to bad planning, I drove TSK back to Sheffield as he was picking up the cold I had passed onto him.

Thankfully in week 11, I managed to get back to it.  Swimming on Monday to make up for missing some training on Sunday with a delayed rest day again.  Swim ride on Wednesday, cramming everything into a more-than-comfortable-looking carradice camper saddle bag.

I managed 10 miles of beautiful running in Brisnworth on my lunch break to switch for that shortened run in Guildford then wobbled into Acellerate sports later in the afternoon for a beating by the physio.  I realise how much I've missed this and vowed to keep it up, booking myself another session in two weeks time.

On Friday I was booked in to go to Brighton - a perfect excuse for a rest day.  I arrived late, chatted, didn't calm down and then stayed awake until around 1 am getting my Garmin routes (so carefully planned) onto my phone as I'd completely forgotten to bring my Garmin with me.  Quite frankly I'm in such a place that it's a wonder that I remembered to bring my bike with me.

I was conscious of needing a swim but am so tired of watching tiles slide by that I jumped on the excuse of there being no decent swimming facilities in Brighton (except the sea of course) and decided to focus on cycling and running for the weekend.  It was pretty close to cold all weekend so the sea wasn't appealing and the cycling was, quite frankly cold enough.

It was beautiful though.  I cranked my way through 65 miles of country lanes and the occasional steep but nothing serious.  Not even Ditchling Beacon which I climbed in no time compared to the previous time I rode it on a touring bike.  I returned home, changed into running shoes and wobbled around a 20 minute brick run.  Unsatisfied with suburban jogging, I made my way onto the cliff tops before slithering down the chalk surface in my road shoes and falling into the house for a shower.  At least this time I wasn't on my knees and popped over to Vicki's for pre-race dinner, advice, encouragement and hugs before her bold attempt at the Brighton Marathon.

Marathon day was perfect for me.  I saw most people start, including Vicki and then headed over to cheer for her on my way back to the house I was staying in.  There, I got changed, had second breakfast, packed a rucsac and set off running to see the marathon at various points.  I was trying to see Laura Campbell but failed but did manage to catch Vicki at many points no thanks to the tracker which was struggling with my phone, or android, or something... Thankfully, Mr P was sending me regular text messages to tell me where they were and how long ago she had passed and I responded with rather inaccurate data on where I was so he could let her know where she would see me.

I jogged or ran between spectator spots.  Chatted to other cheerers, helped people track their athletes, talked to previous marathon runners and encouraged people - most memorably the blind runner who gave me an extreme grin and the rhino's who were all very appreciative of a cheer and Dave and his monkey. I helped people stretched and offered water or snacks to those who were struggling.  Most importantly I kicked their arses and got them moving again.

I waited patiently at mile 23 point something, my wares (Vicki's wares) spread out on the grass for her to choose her poison when she arrived.  She wanted food so tucked into a Torq bar and also salty energy drink as the race organisation had run out.  I had some concentrate stuff in my bag so I ran with her until we found a source of water then I mixed the stuff and we set off towards the finish with that.  We walked / run the next 2.6 miles together.  Me talking away randomly about how the day had been and who I had talked to and what I was going to do next.  She ran, and walked, and tried to make excuses about running but then naturally started leaning forwards to run again so we did for a bit until the cramp started so we walked for a bit and we ticked off a few people and a few people passed us but we didn't care.

I tried to dodge photographers as I wasn't racing.  Loads of people were cheering for Vicki in her named Altzheimers Society vest and cheering for Vicki's mate.  Eventually those people were too many as we neared the finish line so I smacked her on the bum to finish then ducked under the fence and left her to it to reign in the accolades and encouragement and finish the thing on her own.  Lucy saw her finish as did Mr P and sissy and her dad.

I walked through to the meeting area - through all the people - and gave my friend my coat whilst I struggled into the PJ bottoms I had brought to wear if it got cold.  Once the family was together we ate Indian and Vietnamese food on the beach on wooden benches then headed into town to find, first beer, then a coffee shop and then to just get a taxi back to the house.  I left them to it and walked home.

I had a lovely meal with Lucy's family who are all delightful and had a damn good chat about anatomy and Lucy left me with some good advice for keeping my legs healthy and trying to get rid of a tightness in my hamstring that's been bothering me for some time.  Let's just say it's in the kind of place that physios don't really want to get too intimate with and that's difficult to treat on your own.  I walked away at 9pm with a free tennis ball and drove into week 12 in my car, starting with an appointment in Berkshire - convenient!

The meeting was an all-day affair so I'd booked to stay overnight.  However, a colleague needed a lift home and, as he's an OK person to spend time with, I used the excuse to cancel my hotel room and make it back to my home, husband and training a day early.  So only one rest day then.

On Tuesday I had to confront the horror of white tiles again and the prospect of catching up on that 3km swim... until I realised it was Tuesday and the summer and therefore, Open Water Swimming!  Woo hoo.  Super excited.

I brought all the layers - because I do.  This year I'm wearing a shorty wetsuit (thin, shorts, no sleeves) underneath my main wetsuit to add a layer.  I'm also still wearing a fleece surf vest and have invested in new gloves.

Fully kitted out for the cold, I enjoyed it.  The new gloves werent' to heavy as they kept the water out well and the bootees did their job.  The new under-suit seemed to improve things.  I was only expecting to do one big loop but managed a short loop too.  I also got out in a reasonable condition too so went for a run around the lake which turned into two loops.  All in all, it worked out very nicely.  In theory, if cold water swimming is worth twice the pool distance then I made it count.

Wednesday got me into work on my bike and it was so nice when I left the office that it quickly became a 20 mile detour home.  Some good distance training towards the ironman and I also had a bit of a blat to get some speed miles in for Lisbon.

Thursday turned into a rest day.  One of those where I packed the car in the morning for swimming and running and then just brought everything home again.  It wasn't that I didn't feel like it but work just wasn't going to let me get out.

On Friday I made my own time by running to work.  I think arriving at 10:30 is acceptable when you've been in until 7:30 the night before.  Unfortunately I forgot my insoles (I was trialling running without but meant to bring them to add when/if needed) and so it became a bit of a slow painful 8 mile run which made my knee horribly clicky in the evening.  No pain but I just had the impression I was walking upstairs with a bag of bolts in my trousers.  I've destroyed two pairs of shoes this year by running with my rather chunky orthotics in my shoes.  They lift my feet (good) and make my heel bone rub on the fabric at the heel causing it to rupture and give me blisters.  The shoes are ruined within 40 miles.  I need to see Colin again and get some new new feet because this path of destruction can not go on.

This morning the clicking carried on but I had a new Garmin to play with so I had to get out and do something.  I'm racing at Stockton tomorrow so I took my tt bike out for a potter in the Peak.  25 miles today & 25 miles tomorrow is on the cards (making up the 50 mile ride in my training plan).  The fact that this is supposed to be an easy week in the plan will be done-for by the racing malarkey tomorrow but so be it.  Maybe I can't have everything but I can try.  Cakey eaty.

I'm almost running my distance tomorrow (albeit with a bike ride in the middle) and the "almost", again will be negated by the racey part.

I've had a super-cold bike ride which is, at the moment, giving me all the excuses I need not to go swimming again.  I've chores to do including modifying the bike before tomorrow and fixing the brakes on my 'cross bike before I forget and kill myself.  The race tomorrow is a duathlon.  I have 5 weeks to fix a fast swim and 8 weeks to sort out the long swim - all of which is going to be helped by warmer water temperatures as the time goes on.  If it sounds like I'm justifying laziness to myself you're right - this is, after all, supposed to be a rest week... and I might just go and sit on a tennis ball again.

We went to the cinema on Friday evening - because this is the kind of thing you suddenly find that you're able to do on a Friday when you're on a rest week.  Since we went straight from work, we had 90 minutes to kill with a pint and some cake and some adult conversation in the bar before our film.

We went through the 8 weeks that are left of the ironman training plan.  I'd say that I can't believe I'm half way there but TBH I feel like it's taken forever already but at the same time I actually feel like I'm more than half way there so that is at least something.

All the short, fast races I have entered before Lisbon can be switched to fall onto "easy weeks" of the plan.  Whilst this isn't brilliant since racing isn't easy, it does mean that my volume is naturally reduced in line with the plan.  So that's a good start.  It also means I won't mind missing the occasional session to make it an easy week because that all contributes towards better race performance.  I also keep reminding myself that the speed sessions are almost as good at maintaining distance as the distance sessions - from what I learnt last year.

What's great is that after Lisbon is complete, I'm straight into taper for Ironman.  So as long as I'm still doing the high mileage (with little racey things as rests in between), I think it will come together reasonably well.  I'll be doing 4k swims and 10 mile runs in my sleep.

So I walk away from week 12 with a strong confidence that I will finish this Iron distance, put in a reasonable show at Lisbon and survive the whole thing.  I hope I don't have to eat my words.

I had to pull out of the Slateman savage (given that it was the week before Lisbon) but have replaced it with entry to the Legend Half from Plas-y-Brenin.  Whether this is wise, or foolish is beyond me but it was better than letting an entry go to waste.  It's in July after all the A-list races are gone.  I'll enjoy it I hope but it's not too important to me.  If anything, it's a good excuse to keep training - if at a reduced volume.  I'm kind of looking forward to that race the most because there's no pressure.  Maybe I should take something from that.

For now though, my focus is on sitting on the sofa with my feet up, debating packing something for tomorrow's race and reshuffling the plan to fit.  All of this with a cat on my knee.  Get me and my multi-tasking.  It's good to know some things are eminently achievable.

Grizedale Race Report - actual race day 16th March 2014

The story of my race Starts on Friday when I arrive at the Camp site to discover that the cosy shed I have booked for the weekend is just a shed.

Chez moi

There is nothing cosy about it.

I rebel, cook indoors and shiver until I fall asleep in my down sleeping bag. Unfortunately this means I am awake at 2am, sweating and dehydrated.

I head out to meet up with mum and dad on Saturday.  This is my first pre-race rest-up mistake as there's a rather large 1/3 hill between me and them which I repeat in both directions - although it doesn't dent me too much as I'm on my mountain bike.

I stock up on a new tyre on the way back and eat my lunch before I head back out to the bike shop to get some more kit.  It's a 9 mile round-walk filled with elevations and excitement and beauty so beautiful but then again, not great pre-race resting.  Dad comes over for a chat then I settle down to another too cold / too hot night in the shed.

I head out on the race day early and enjoy the fun atmosphere of race registration, the line up.

Sheffield Tri Club colours might look out of place at a mountain bike event but they sure do stand out.

I still don't have my running watch so I settle for pacing by heart rate.  I soon get dropped on the first rise, a line I walked up yesterday, full of the joys.  Still, I'm saving it all for letting rip on the bike.  The second run in this duathlon has been scrapped for co-ordination restraints so it suits me, I don't have to worry about pacing on the bike to save myself for that last run.

Hurt locker

Not sure at which point I actually blacked out.  I didn't really black out, I just don't remember anything of the route except battling with a lady in pink shoes and the descent back to the transition area that I'd walked the day before and a man saying, "You've got two minutes to go".  Music to my ears.  Apparently I don't do too well at pacing myself.

I picked up the bike and headed off again like lightening I thought.

I hate hitting the bike course at the back.  I could see myself threading through the crowds, passing all the slow-coaches and those pushing their bikes.  Unfortunately the legs didn't deliver.  By the third hairpin bend heading up the hillside, the second lady I passed, I already had calf cramp and it wouldn't go away.  Finally I tired of trying to pass people then being passed back when I had to get off and walk to relieve the cramp.

I sat down and got out my food and started having a snack.  I called it my fish and chips.  As folk asked if I was all right I replied, yep, just need to eat, just need to start enjoying this.

Back on the bike, I kept hauling up the paths and finally out on to the stinking wet moors.  I was joined by another rider from November and we talked bikes as we picked our way along the land rover track.  As I watched him go over the handlebars he concurred that we could all use one o' them 29'ers.

A few minutes later I had left him behind.  I headed down the hill and passed four others, then a couple of guys fixing a puncture and a few more.  Hmm, not last.

The last third of the course did go up again but it was very entertaining indeed and all of my cramps had gone.  The final descent put my bike to the test and I was too tired to argue with it but I was on my Scott and it made me feel like I was Nick Craig, even if I wasn't riding like him.  I hurtled around the corner and there was the finish.

116th / 137 starters, 4h:05min:2secs.  Challenge accepted.

Whinlatter Extreme Duathlon - Actual date 6th April 2014

So,  the last one of these dates didn't go too well for me. My plan with much longer and rangier (hillier) Extreme Du was firstly survival followed by setting off at my own slow pace, enjoying the bike ride then finishing off with a slow jog.

With such a small field I was soon jogging along the path with only one other person to keep me company and I soon let him go at the first discernible slope in favour of a walk. I did run the rest of the route... at least until the steep bit which just demanded walking,  even from the front runners who I could see striding along the ridge.  Just before I joined the ridge I stopped to put my coat on to make sure I would have finishers legs by the end.  The change in route meant a great opportunity to wish everyone well travelling in the opposite direction  which was rather nice particularly as some would take it upon themselves to return the favour later.

A cow bell chiming was the first indication of the apex of the first run as there was 10m visibility in the fog. I let them know I was last & set about my descent. I fell on my ass the first time just after I decided consciously not to duplicate someone else's bum-slide... but I did and I laughed about it.  The second time I didn't see it coming.

I passed the man in front who was carefully walking then unceremoniously slid into a full-on wham! onto my ass, landing squarely with my toes bent under my foot and my foot jamming into my thigh.  The first thing that made me yelp was the cramp in my hamstring as I desperately tried to stop myself falling.  The second was the terrifying thought that I had broken something.  I sat for a good long while waiting for the pain to go and to be convinced by the first aider that I was OK. My friend passed by, checking I was all right. I got up and had a walk,  then a gentle run and went to find my bike in transition.

On the way up the hill,  a vision in pink, the first of the retirees walking back to her car.  Not last.
The bike was a relief. My friend was still checking I was OK in transition. We left and I seemed to be able to pedal.  I opted for my Sheffield Tri fleecy jersey,  saving my rain coat for the final run.  I figured I wouldn't get too hot and dehydrate in wet fleece and it probably wouldn't wet out with all the heat I was generating.

I led out my friend into the woods but then let him pass whilst I checked my leg and foot could continue. When he passed I realised he was a dreamer too as he pointed out his favourite bit of the course. "We just go down here and the trees are massive and we just look so tiny". He was right. It was amazing and I watched his yellow coat snaking through the forest into the distance and I relaxed.  Last at last.

At the top of the mountain I started to worry. The rain was driving down and my arms were already wet through.  I swallowed my own virtual balls to descend again and as I did I thought that my tongue felt like it didn't fit in my mouth. Perhaps I was getting ill.  The top of the first mountain is really rocky and I walked a few obstacles just because I am only 2 months away from an Ironman. Other features I just damn well chickened out of. I was getting a bit annoyed at myself for being crap.

I checked the gps and to my disappointment had only done half the distance. Then my lanky figure of a father appeared with the race organiser cheering me into transition. Someone else to ask if I was ok... as if I wasn't doing it enough on my own.  I said,  "not really". Asked if I was going to carry on,  I voiced the plan that had been in my head since I fell, "I'll do the rest of the bike then think about the second run". I was actually thinking of quitting.

Off on the second loop despite a minor navigational fail and a lot of gestures from the marshals.  People were already coming into t2, 12.5km ahead of me and for a moment I mistook the cheers for other people to race against.   There were more members of the public around now but sure enough,  among them was a man sporting a number... even a number from my event. Holy shit! Not last!  For a while he rode with me.

I'd bought new pedals and forgot to ease them off so opted for trying to ride every thing instead of attempting to un-clip. It worked remarkably well and I rode things I never would have expected,  often in a wheelie. It only really fell apart as a plan when my back wheel fell off the edge of a particularly precipitous hairpins and I had to hooft it back on to the trail by the pedal... and still my foot remained engaged.

Boys threw themselves down boulders and crags around me and I just bimbled to the best of my ability, occasionally walking.  This time many climbs were on trails and the familiar switchbacks that I cursed so much in the ice last time were a positive joy to ride. Then it was time for the down bit.

I just about avoided putting my raincoat on.  For every switchback into the wind where I nearly fell off the edge, I got blown downhill in the opposite direction and re-entered the forest for the final descent.  I was shivering by the time I got into transition but I enjoyed the downhill so much I was in a better mood for finishing.  To top off the good feeding I helped myself to a dry woollen baselayer and popped that dry waterproof on over the top of it.

That all made me feel amazing so I set off into the rain.  The runners I'd cheered for earlier were all on their way back to the finish line and one vociferously demonstrated his respect for my tardy slow pace and determination to continue.  The organiser passed the other way on his mountain bike saying, "that's it, just keep that up".  Clearly he appreciated my pacing technique and he reinforced my plan.

I was quite proud of myself not to walk much.  The occasional walk up a steep hill, I was OK with but otherwise I managed a little jog throughout most of the course.  I kept expecting the marshalls on the hill to send me back down out of pity but they respected my ability (insanity?) and I popped out of the forest onto the open fells below Lord's Seat where the wind really picked up.  I walked hunched over to avoid being blown off my feet and grabbed something to eat.  Walkers were highly amused by my running across the hills but we were all in good spirits so I enjoyed my time on the hillside and commenced my descent with some regret to be honest.

I recognised the path down to the finish and the drop-off we'd cycled down back in November last year.  As I looked across the valley, I saw a man walking towards me and to my absolute glee, another runner... no, wait, walker, ahead of me.  I couldn't quite work out if he had a number on but the lanky figure walking towards me was my dad who enthusiastically said, "there's another bloke up there, and he's walking!"

The accelerator pedal went down as far as it could go (not far) and I set off in pursuit of my prey, determined to get to the end of the path before he realised we were nearly finished and sprinted off again.

There was no worry of that for when I reached him he was desperate and accepted the jelly beans I offered him with both hands out-stretched as though they were droplets of liquid gold, accepting "ANYTHING!!"

I hit the main trail and the familiar sight of the sawdust piles which indicate the closing 50m of the race.  I was over the moon not to be last.  The benefits of the experience of pacing and appropriate equipment.  Behind me on the course, my dad was talking the final place finisher off the hillside, getting him to the point where he could see that saw dust pile from where he also started his run in to the finish.

I climbed into the vanu fully clothed, sitting on a blanket to avoid getting the cushions wet and lay back whilst my mum pulled my sodden shoes off my feet.  Not bad pit crew really.

I really enjoyed the Whinlatter Extreme but it totally wiped me out.  I stopped only 30 miles from the race on my way home to have a sleep right next to the A61.  I slept like a baby and didn't want to get up when the alarm went off 25 minutes later.  I limped the vanu home and settled for poor performance from my body for the next two weeks.

What I have to thank the Whinlatter Extreme Duathlon for is excellent stress training.  With the ensuing rest periods I was able to recover and build to strength levels I haven't seen in a while.  I also scared myself regarding my climbing and descending abilities which has led me to do much more hill training over the last few weeks (both off the bike and on the bike) in advance of Celtman.

I like to think this race broke me and re-made me and of all the races I've done this year & previously, this is one I can seriously imagine myself returning to in persuit of those PB thingies everyone seems so keen on.

See you again Whinlatter.

Day 1. No Excuses or... Using the Best Weather.

A carefree attitude to training. When you're stuck, just free your mind, be 11 again and just play at it. decided it is going to be Day 1 of Ironman training today. It's still week -6 of my 20 week plan but with it being such a biggie, I figured I should start adaptation early. Actually I have been at it for a while but when better to say 'no more excuses than New Years week.

Of course the whole idea of Ironman training is to fit it in with every day life and holidays are not made of such things. I would have felt fraudulent going swimming without getting up at 5am. As the morning ploughed on and I occupied myself with the tech phone I just bought to make running, photography and staying in touch easier, I experienced a combination of guilt and justification that Mondays are supposed to be rest days anyway.

I couldn't face cleaning bikes in the torrential rain and howling wind so I satisfied myself with sorting out the tunes for training on the phone. Before I knew what had happened, TSK was back from his walk and I had done nothing. I felt bad.

A day on the sofa is not for active people. I did so little last week I decided to pan the rest day. First hurdle, hunger. I did toast and read my new swim smooth book to get motivated. Whilst I knew toast wasn't a great idea, I wouldn't have made it through the lengthy process that is packing and dressing for a mid winter night time run, never mind finish the run.

Second step was to convince myself that this run has a purpose. After doing a 'cross race yesterday, I didn't think it would be a long run so I resigned myself to training on a stomach full of toast and testing out the breathability of my new coat when it had actually stopped raining. As it is, I left the house at 7pm in the best weather of the day. I took the coat off because I was so warm. The toast was an issue. I had to adjust the heart rate monitor alarm as my body was trying to do too many things at once.

Otherwise I spent the entire evening watching the glistening rocks in the light of my head torch and listening to the Rivelin River churning by in the periphery of the beam. I could not have been happier. I got home at 8.20 pm. Now that's what I call making the most of a bad day.

2012 Hell on th'Ills Duathlon

Or... Remembering what it is Like to be a Winner

My goal for this race was nothing more than to still be running after 15km. a) to get my distance up to 15km after last week’s 12k fiasco and b) to still be running after a 40km bike ride in the middle.

On Friday I slept like a log which is a relief because on Saturday night I had the usual collection of pre-race anxiety dreams. From what I remember, I dreamed I was treating Sunday's race like an Audax so at the top of Castle Hill I stopped for tea and cake. Only I got into the wrong queue for tea and ended up waiting an hour to be served. By the time I got to the bike all the marshals had gone and I got lost and when I finished the bike no-one was waiting for me at transition.

When I finally woke up enough to do something about my half-sleeping condition it was that deadly hour of 3:25am again. I went downstairs for a snack to stop the hunger and finally got myself 2.5 hours sleep before the alarm went off at 6.

Daunting view of the hills adjacent to the course.

The race officials were very helpful and went through transition with me as I racked my bike. They had time to be helpful with a field of only 62 starters - some of which were Holme Firth Harriers only doing the 10k run.

I bumped into my friend Rachel Mellor from cyclo-cross who wasn't competing but helping Holme Valley Wheelers and her hubby contribute to the race shop. She was rushing off at 9:30 to go to the velodrome to collect her daughter from the Olympic Programme. I have some amazing friends.

The pre-race briefing included our reports of substantial ice on the descents into New Mill and at the Crossroads in the village. All the competitors hoped it would be gone after 2 hours of racing but judging by the ice on the footy field, we all knew we'd be taking care. I grinned at TSK as the organiser suggested excellent sight-lines on the descent from Holme Moss.

The pre-race chat on the walk / jog over to the school-based start line revolved around, "have you done this before" and "I'm daunted by the small field - obviously there's a lot of people know something we don't".

I eyed the competition. Two ladies from Holmfirth Harriers who were more lanky and muscular than I could imagine for someone alive, huddled together in the cold in their vests as I toyed with the idea of running in my fleece jersey but resigned myself to my STC vest with a woollen tee underneath. My only other competition seemed to be Hillary Booth in a "wiggle" jersey. She looked reasonably slight and fit so I assumed she would also wipe the floor with me. Someone in a red teeshirt, chatted to me before the start and I thought I might be able to stick with him.

Away

The whistle sounded and we started the immediate climb up the hill at a gradient of 10%

Most people ran past me from the start line. I hazarded a glance over my shoulder once as we rounded a bend just to make sure I wasn't the absolute last. I could dimly see two people in black behind me.

Even the sheep were chilled out

With the ankle injury I sustained last week, I didn't want to test the ankle too early in the day.  I had been warned about going too fast in this event so I decided to treat the first run like a pleasant training run and do my own race. The Garmin was buried in a back pocket and I wasn't going to take my gloves off to dig the thing out so I wasn't even pacing myself.







More lovely marshals shouted out encouragement as I rounded the top of the hill onto a flat section of road which circles around the bottom of Castle Hill, offering a superb view - first of the castle atop the hill and then of the runners ahead of me streaming up the flanks of the hill to reach the first summit of the run.

I was relieved not to hear the marshal's voice again, meaning that I had put some substantial ground between me and the couple behind.


At the bottom of the climb to the Castle an elderly gentlemen walked the other way and when I called out a "good morning" to him, he said, "118 steps to the top". Fortunately by then I'd already climbed a few steps so I wasn't condemned to counting my way through the remainder.

I ran up about 60 of them until I was out of breath then resorted to walking up two-at-a-time. Finally, having crossed a flat section (the path around the hill) I summonsed another little jog before bursting onto the summit in the blue sky and gentle breeze spreading my arms wide in a feeling of being alive. I wish I'd had a camera.

As I approached the water station, I reflected on my anxiety dreams from the day before and asked, "is there tea and cake here?


Much to my dismay there was not so I gulped down some water and made do.

The boys at the water station chatted to me as I supped, saying, "that was 'ard". I managed to stutter "No that was beautiful", trying not to cough up a lung or the water I'd just consumed which was being stubborn about settling down. “Wow! Would you like another” he asked. “Nah, you numpty, I meant the view was beautiful, not the water”.

The descent from the castle was more terrifying than the way up. In excess of 1 in 8, the road plummeted in a series of hairpin bends. I attacked it with my usual level of fell running frivolity, letting the legs go, just hoping that there would be a foot there to land on with each careering stride down the hillside. The speed bumps gave sudden unexpected relief to the gradient - making it scarier in its unpredictability. It was only eased by the sight of John Whitworth walking back up the hill complaining of cramp. I smugly thought to myself, "I might not be the fastest competitor on the course but at least I can pace myself."

Finally the gradient eased to a lovely rolling country lane along the bottom of the valley, passing through the village of Almondbury.

It would soon come to an end as the road veered back upwards at 1 in 13 for a few more sharp chicanes. Finally I reached a marshal who directed me along the main road for much more climbing at an easier gradient before two smiling marshals delivered the great news that it was all downhill to transition and I was not allowed to go into the very-tempting Golden Pheasant pub.

The final descent is a retreat along the road that we so cruelly ran up from the start followed, by the ginnel between there and the clubhouse. As I came through the path, I was sure I heard the marshal talking to someone else and had to check with the girl at the other end to make sure there was no-one behind me. I didn't want to have to rush through transition now, after the lovely pleasant run I’d just had.

The hardest part of this race for me was the 4 large and uneven steps over the wall at the end of the lane - coming into each of the run transitions. Cruel.

The race officials stood by as I transitioned, with a little banter about it being “all to play for” with five minutes between me and the person in front with three in front of him. 5 minutes sounded like a lot but then, “this is my thing!” I said, “this is my bit”.

I set out onto the bike course with one shoe undone and still trying to get my Garmin out of my pocket to get it on my bike. I needed to pace this bit better than any to ensure I was meeting my average target over the massive hills. I was 400m down the road when I realised I'd stopped the Garmin and had to restart it for lap 2.

At the end of the only flat 400m on the course, I nearly lost it on the bike as I realised I haven't test-ridden my race-bike since I set it up in its summer configuration. The bars were incredibly weird compared to my commuter bike and although the brakes work, I squeezed them and realised I didn’t have enough purchase on them. Nearly ploughing straight into the curb coming round the corner, I squealed a little before actually finding the back brake and seating myself properly on the hoods. I must've looked a right amateur.

After that corner, the ride continues in the same vain as the rest of the course - a series of sharp, unforgiving climbs. When you discover that your elbow pads smash into your knees within 500m of the start of the ride, it can be a bit dispiriting but as I didn't have my Allen keys with me there was nothing I could do about it anyway except for sit down as much as possible in the climbs. I mashed up the back-roads and finally turned out onto the main climb up Holme Moss, "the hard way". The legs were not feeling good and the opportunities to catch up Richard Farrell, 5 minutes ahead of me felt very dwindled.

Then, there he was, at the first hairpin on the Moss climb – a little red jersey in the distance. The cyclist in me thought I could catch him but that cyclist had also just knackered their legs on a stupidly hilly 10km run.

By the first switchback I'd put around half a straight into him and I dug for a bit more energy - still trying to stay in the saddle as much as possible so I wasn't climbing with my knees sticking out to each side risking injury.

Holme Moss Climb

The next thing I saw, at the top of the hill, was someone in red summiting and setting off on the descent. I couldn't fathom how he'd got back at me but then convinced myself it was a different man as Richard had punctured. Not only that, he'd lost the nut off his quick-release (not sure why he'd removed it) and was scrabbling around in the grass “having a bad day".

A momentary procession of people above us gave me the brief hope that there may be someone else I could catch but sadly no, they were all ripping down the hill. Lucky, lucky people.

Looking slick

I summited alone, drawing food from my pocket for a refuel and "trying" over the top to get that extra competitive advantage. I really thought I'd catch someone on the descent as I'm a ripping descender but as it was, there was no-one there again. Early season competency I suppose… and the very specialist nature of this event (local nut-jobs who know the roads). No wonder it’s organised by Tough-Nut Events.

In all my years in Sheffield / Manchester, I'm not sure I've ever driven Holme Moss and I've certainly never ridden it. The descent down the "easy" side is beautiful. The organiser recalled that his “bottle breaks” at 47mph. I managed the same before twitching on the brakes.

Holme Moss Descent

Several radio cars positioned at the top, middle and bottom of the descent ensure that each rider is clocked (figuratively, not technically) on their way down the hill and hasn't come to a sticky end. At the bottom, the marshal helps spot traffic on the very hairy turn onto the main Woodhead road, leaving the rider free to concentrate on braking and keeping the back wheel on the road as they turn the steep, grubby hairpin corner.

Traffic was reasonably considerate and I saw TSK on the main road, riding the other way - unfortunately a pretty rubbish spot for a photo. I was gutted that, on his fixed gear, he'd managed to do 21km to my 19km. Then he was kind enough to point out that I'd done the difficult bit of the ride and been for a run too.

I whiz by TSK on the Woodhead Road.

From close to the summit of Woodhead, the road back to transition passes across the edge of Windelden reservoir before ambling up and downhill for 8km through the beautiful villages of Dunford Bridge and Carlecotes. I was blessed with a tail-wind up Holme Moss which meant I got the head wind at the point where it was actually possible for me to use the tri bars without fear and when the descents got steeper, to crouch out of the wind on the bars with all the skill of a Tour de France rider (even if only half the confidence).

I suddenly discovered that if I kept my hands on the dropped position of the handlebars on the steeper climbs, it put my body in a position where my knees wouldn't smash into my elbow pads and normal climbing capability was resumed. Combined with my legs suddenly finding some warmth from somewhere (the sun?), I started to eat up kms and before I knew it was turning onto the familiar descent into the valley. I roared past Kevin Page who I'd seen summiting Holme Moss ahead of me and continued into transition with nothing more than a close-call with a land-rover to contend with. Actually, my rage made me faster and I nearly caught the fucker up!

Transition was a mess as I overshot the tape around the entry and completely missed the timing pad, having to retrace my steps. By the time I'd actually got to my running shoes, Kevin Page had also reached transition with me and had got his shoes on a damn-sight easier than I had. I knew he'd pass me on the run as that would be the only reason he was ahead of me in the first place.

One of the finishers, already back in transition said, "Eh up, it's our first lady". "Ha! I don't think so" I said. “There's only two people behind me and I don't think any of them are female".

We got out on the course and sure-enough Kevin led out on the main street and I never saw him again after we set off up Brockholes Lane. A fellow competitor's words rang in my ear as I jogged under the railway tunnel. "If you're still running by the time you get to Brockholes Lane, you're a truly amazing athlete". I was still running - what was going on?

Finally, by the time I reached the farm on Brockholes lane, my lungs were starting to burn so I gave in to “being amazing” and slowed to a walk. As soon as I did, everything in my legs hurt so I soon started to jog again, simply to keep the blood moving around my body and keep the pain at bay.

This little bit of driving forward contributed hugely to me ripping shreds off my expected 5km time.

"All downhill now" said the marshal at the top of the climb. I wept a little. Going downhill makes my stomach come out of my ears.

I unleashed the fell-runners legs on the downhill. I had nothing left to save myself for now so pounded away. Each step flapping against the tarmac as I had nothing left with which to control my running style and besides, the cold meant I couldn’t feel my feet. They were like frozen steaks on the ends of my legs.

Oh god, those bloody steps again. I leapt over with style - blow it if I injure myself. A lap of the boggy field and adulation - still running after 15km. I squealed and shouted, "still running after 15km".

Winning smile

"And first lady" said the race official. "REALLY?" I said. "Confused. What happened to the ladies from Holmfirth Harriers?" They were just doing the 10k run.

Squealing. Squealing some more. Lots of squealing.

Kit collected. Chat to the race officials. Beaming. Shaking hands. A trophy. First multisport win. Smiling. Massage.

I'm happy enough with still running after 15km. Whilst I may not be the fastest person on the tri circuit by a long shot, you have to be in it to win it and if I am the fastest nutter able to get out of bed early on a cold day in April then I take my trophy and I shout from the roofs about it because I am remembering how it feels to win things.


Whilst it may never happen again, I am going to try harder to do it again.

Winning is addictive and it’s been way too long since I’ve had it in my athletic life. So whilst this post is all about my day and this race. It’s also about remembering that winning feeling.

Next time I'm unmotivated to train or travel to an event or enter something, I can think back to the winning feeling and believe that one day, just one day, it might happen again.

The day after the day after

Tuesday, yesterday, I was like a tiger the day after the day after my sunday race... which was the day after my Saturday run.  I sprinted home, riding into the wind regardless, chewing up the hill in my middle ring despite the paniers on my bike snatching into the wind.

I got home a hero.  I changed, cooked dinner and sat down to watch tele.

Today, I was pooped.  I bimbled into to work in the little ring on all the hills and hauled my way home the quickest way. 

A rest is upon me as I embark on moving house on Thursday.  I am working late tonight to earn myself Thursday afternoon off. 

Roll on domestic bliss.

Recovery

It's been ages since I've written in here and there's two reasons for that: the three peaks cyclo-cross finished me off for the season and life has gone super-critical with a change in jobs and (since I live in a work colleague's house) the inevitable change in house.  This house has never achieved home status and I can only hope that the new one will.

This house is middle aged.  It is an 80's build, it has a conservatory and chaise-longue.  It has polished oak furniture, feather filled sofa and mediocre flooring.  There are attempts at modernity with a state of the art TV balanced on a glass table but the dressing table with its leaf mouldings and mirrored back which is gradually de-silvering gives away the fact that this is a middle-aged house.  There are no pictures in this house save the ones that we mounted on the walls.  There are no mirrors, should we be tempted to look in them and see our wrinkles (or worse, for fear that they should damage the new plaster-work).

Our new home is called Laureate.  He is terraced, brick and victorian.  Outside it says "affordable for funky young couples".  Inside it says, "fresh, new, cosy, independant".  There are alcoves and disused fire places, new carpets, built-in wardrobes that are tidy.  It has a simple, white, practical bathroom with a glass shower door and nice big mirror.  Most importantly, there is a garage-sized cellar with a work bench where bikes will live and be worked on in the winter and where gear will be stored.  It has a porch which says,

"Oh, did you get wet?  Here, come inside, pop your bike here and take of your soggy boots".

If I took a can of spray paint and scrawled "TREP" across the front door, it would not have my name more written all over it.

The three peaks this year will need to be the subject of another post another time though suffice to say, this year passed by without a hitch, without any outstanding performances from me but was remarkably enjoyable.

I have been riding my bike since - both to work and in cyclo-cross races on the weekend.  It has been an odd adaptation period.  I have had an overwhelming desire to start planning next Triathlon season and yet no impetus to actually do so.  Every day I feel like I've already been infront of a computer screen for too long that day.  Almost the fact that I don't have a plan has stopped me from doing any sport whatsoever although I think that is partly because I've had no inclination to do any.  Sure, I have commuted, I have done house viewings on my bike (it's an hour into Sheffield from work) and I have done 'cross but none of it has felt like it counts and I've certainly had no inclination to run. 

I did try to run two weeks ago when I met up with TSK after a house-viewing and took him to his bicycle polo match.  I thought of going out with the tri club but decided that on a nice evening I should run somewhere nice in Sheffield.  I dropped TSK off, got changed into running gear and went to park the van.  Suddenly it seemed like a good idea to go back to the track with the club and on my way there it became a good idea to go home and let the cat in before going for a run in Todwick.  By the time I got home it was dark and Holby City was on the TV.  At least I looked like a runner.

Yesterday as I rode up the very long steep hill to Crookes in my granny gear (with full paniers) I was passed by a chunky student on a mountain bike wearing baggy shorts and teeshirt.  It hurt, it really did and only the big, full paniers on my bike stopped me from crying.  I dropped off some forms at the estate agents then headed off to the doctors' for a 3pm appointment.

I sprinted up all of the hills on the way there (they are steepish, longish and threefold) and arrived at the docs 10 minutes late, sweaty and flustered.  On the last hill I really felt like my legs had nothing left to give me and crawled painfully slowly over the top, trying so desperately to overcome the head-wind pushing me back the other way.  I went to book in at the electronic screens which said they couldn't register me so I stood in line whilst old biddies requested drugs they can only get from the hospital and booked in for flu jabs.  I knew she was going to say it, I knew she was and yet some how I didn't actually think she would. I really didn't.

"I'm 10 minutes late for my appointment" I said.

She looked at her screen, "Actually, you're 15 minutes late", she said.

I am so proud of myself for remaining calm and not shouting, "Ten minutes!! Ten minutes!! I was ten minutes late... and five standing in a fucking queue!".

I got home at 4:30 and cooked dinner then did little for the rest of the evening.  I went to bed on time and slept (mostly) through until 10:05. Boy! Did I need that?

So this morning, in the bright sunshine of early autumn, I got out for a run - finally.  I say morning, it was 11:45 by the time I left.  I don't particularly enjoy the run through the village but when I hit the lovely lush green fields and open path I settled down quite nicely.  I didn't even mind the feeling of being sprayed by pesticide as a tractor passed me in the cross-wind.

The return trip across the field was even more lush as the sun shone on my face and I felt open and free.  I had a stretch, right there and then in the middle of the field - probably much to the satisfaction of the fishermen at the pond - then jogged back to the village road.  Enjoyable as it was, all I could think was how much more enjoyable it would've been if I'd set off from the new house, into the Rivelin Valley and beyond to Strines Moor.  I vowed to come home and get the OS maps out and figure out those traffic free routes.  Roll on next week.

7.75km 56 minutes

First cyclo-cross of 2011-12

I wasn't sure about racing today.  I still feel tired from Helvellyn on a daily basis and the palava with work didn't help my recovery.  Still, I decided to give it a go thanks to TSK's persuasion.

I was rushing around like a mad thing before the start at Tong.  Thank goodness for a hint of disorganisation.  I managed to get a lap in.

The entire course was fun. Difficult twists and turns, some short run ups, some gnarly wooded descents and a very steep long climb which I really struggled.  Deffinately too much Helvellyn left in my legs.

Although it was hard, the race was like a wake-up call for my body.  I feel tired now but only standard tired.  I also feel more confident about the 3 Peaks next week, like I know just how fast to go away at the start (not very) and how much I will have left at the end - enough. 

I'm coming into it this year knowing that I've already done something harder.

I'll spend the rest of this week resting up now, perhaps treat myself to running track training one evening to get the running legs firing again.

The rest of my time will be spent planning and knitting.