Bivi A Month - to be different October

I could claim BearBones 200 as my October BAM but, given the opportunity to legitimately bike camp under the Derwent Water dam as part of my Fell Running club, I could not resist this weekend's beer and volunteer deal.

Dark Peak Fell Runners hosted the annual Fell Relays this weekend, with 1800+ competitors and supporters to move between a carpark in Bamford and Fairholmes car park at Derwent reservoir, all hands were required on-deck.  As a gift, the organisers put on a little do in a marquee at Fairholmes with camping options. 

On Friday afternoon I packed quite a lot of comfort gear into 2 paniers on my hardy but silly Tripster ATR and Lauff forks and wobbled my way over the A57 in rush hour traffic.

By the time I left Sheffield, I reckon 50% of people passing were fell runners (who are closely related to long distance bike packers more than they'd care to admit) who gave me lots of room. 

It started raining as I hit the bottom of the valley outside my house and continued.  I added the waterproof and sweated up / chilled on the way down.  It got properly enjoyable when I turned onto the Kings Road to Fairholmes, relatively traffic free as all fell runners were suitably fed and inebriated by then.

I hadn't booked so had brought pasta and sauce to brew but then there were enough burgers to go round so I "helped".  The tin mug got used for beer from a keg. 

The tent had a brilliant layout with most of the party camped at one end and a few (including myself) grumpy old gits pitched at the other end behind a van to drown out the noise of the party and generator and get out of the lights.  Not necessary though as the loud waterfall of water pouring over the dam from the last few weeks rain was sufficient white noise to cancel out most din.  I went for a short walk in the dark and drizzle before bedding down at 10:30.  I'm told the party ended about midnight but I was already sound asleep - with the tent, thickest sleep bag, extra blanket, fleece trousers and down booties on hand - luxury indeed.

Tent within a tent

In the morning I burned some porridge - on the basis a gas stove is much stronger than a meths one.  Fortunately it was still palatable if a little brown and crispy in places.  The stove was too large for the little mug so I balanced it on the lid of the big mug which will forever now have a discolouration ring to remind me of this day.

I probably disturbed most people but I had to be down at the Bus stop in Bamford for an 8am briefing.  I packed up and spent 15 minutes trying to get one of the sponsors' vans into the race field before heading off on my own path down to Bamford.

There I was equipped with an attractive plastic hi-vis vest and spent the morning dancing in a pair of gardening gloves to direct motorists to park in the car park in stead of attempting to pull into our bus stop.  We dispatched 1800 runners plus their packs / gazebos / cakes over a few hours without causing any traffic disruption or delaying local buses (except for a minute here or there).

Fetching

I spent my lunch brewing soup and coffee whilst standing by on the radio to start dispatching the busses back to Fairholmes to bring people home.  Had a walk by the river and realised it's a long time since I've just SAT in the countryside and enjoyed it... though the bus view was a little off-putting.

Unloading the buses was hectic, matching teams to gear and trying not to get buses and cars picking up kit crossed over. 

Still, we did it.  Happy to report that a bunch of people walked back and there were 140 bikes on the racking provided for the sustainable option.  A good warm up for a fell race.

After all the excitement I forgot I had to ride home.  My bags were heavy, having not eaten my food from the night before and picked up a discarded sandwich box.  I also had the burden of three jerseys that I failed to pass on to other people. 

Faced with needing to walk up the A57 because I didn't have the gears, I instead opted to ride up to Stanage and back over the Moors.  Much walking ensued but at least I wasn't getting close-passed by HGVs.  I cursed as I realised I'd added a lot more climbing to my route.  Still, I texted TSK and he had the oven on and the timer pinged as I walked through the door, cold and starving. 

56km, 1000m.

Sneaky Running Training

Awareness of time and space and one's own place in it

The test of seafarers.  I left the house today without any navigation tools for I know this valley like my own hands and yet I had forgotten I do not run downhill in daylight - not in general - I just don't go downhill from my house during daylight hours on a nice day.  Every pathway was filled from edge to edge with identical people.  Bald and hatted short fat men with matching wives and daughters with bleached blonde long hair and parka anoraks with furred hoods.  The 2010s shabby chique - every one of them looking like they're waiting to catch the school bus to 1982 but that bus has sailed so now they're starting their new years resolution to lose some weight by coming for a walk in MY valley on MY paths.

I have to say, this is in preference to them going to a sweaty gym with other sweaty germy people but I forget how much I hate this fitness surge between Christmas and New Year excess. 

The reason why I'm running?  I have grown tired of not using my fell running membership.  I love running in the fells and have missed the longer races that I started to do.  I suspect it will only enhance my ability on the mountain bike (particularly the foot-based bit) so I have committed to a couple of fell races and today was my day that I start a mini-commitment to make sure I do OK there too.

I stomped through the bog on the other side of the river avoiding a family of 2 kids plus the 0.4 (labrador) and excitedly scaled the 50 degree slope of the valley side, heart racing, feet sliding from underneath me urging me higher until I am away from it and can perch on a rock to eat lunch part 1 - a banana.  A badly timed run. I think there's a path up here or I'm going to look like a knob! (there is).

I drop back down to the river and the herd of blondes have made it that far so I stay on the road for a while, now seeing the answer to my long-standing question of why on earth people run on that stretch of road when there's a perfectly beautiful path by the river.  I join at the next junction, keen to avoid traffic now and the normals have thinned out the further we get from town. 

I munch a rice crispie square to kill the time in traffic at the final road section before turning off into the Fox Hagg Nature reserve.  I always dutifully turn left at the footpath sign but today I notice a worn path to the right.  It's obvious that it runs along the road (if on the other side of the valley and 40m higher up) so I follow it.  I don't see a soul but have an, "Ahhh, that's where that comes out" moment when I reach the car park at the other end. 

No need for map part 2.

This is the runners equivalent of riding out to the start of an Audax.  I have been hankering after the run up Wyming Brook every day since I've started off-road riding and here I am, at Wyming Brook and I didn't even touch the car. 

I love the steepness of the Brook, its waterfalls and treacherous scrambles over the rocks (not really that scary) and the deafening noise of the bounding stream.  The walkers here are more adventurous and bounce out of my way with good day cheer.  At the top, a feisty old lady refuses to have anyone offering to hold her hand over the stepping stones.  I waver over the idea of running through to Stanage Pole or Headstone but instead decide to retreat to home and save my legs for a ride tomorrow.  I'm pushing my distance as it is.

I follow a pair of mountain bikers for a while and keep them on their toes as they have to keep stopping for walkers as I just skip by, running at pace with a biker doing the occasional push. 

The posh people on the other side of the wall are playing golf whilst I stick some gloves on to protect my hands from the biting wind, otherwise wearing only a pair of leggings and long tee against the breeze in comparison to their body warmers and thick leather gloves and flat wool weave caps.

I toy with the idea of a teashop lunch at the garden centre but push on for home.  My legs have been sore since 10k and I don't like the idea of stopping and trying to get moving again.  I'm having the occasional walk and then feel better so run the last of the route home.  A couple of near-misses - a trip and then a rolled ankle remind me I am not invincible and still a little wobbly. 

A little walk through the stables - so as not to frighten the horses - of course - then I run it home. 

A run after a rest day is exactly what the physio allows.  Now let's see if I can back it up with a ride tomorrow!

Oh running. I have missed you but I knew you would hurt me.

It's been 2 months to the day, almost, since I did running in a world championships race. I have hardly run since, short of a little slogging a 'cross bike over rocks in the 3 Peaks cyclocross  and mountain bike pushing in the Alps. It's like I knew it was going to hurt.

I took my running kit to Scotland. The optimist was going to get there early and drive to loch Lomond so I could run Ben Lomond. The realist was going to run the path next to the river near Glasgow airport where my hotel was.

In reality I left the office at 18:30 after a 10 hour day and arrived in Scotland at 00:45. Needless to say I had a lie in.

Still, I escaped my meeting by 2pm and by 3.30 it was time for some me time... aka I was bored of driving.

I stopped in a remote layby on the A66 with a clearly sign-posted bridlepath on the horizon.  I dug out my Garmin - which wasn't where it should have been and recalled it was *exactly* where it shouldn't have been - still plugged into the wall at home.  So an out-and-back run then.

I got up the hill OK through two sets of gates and finally onto the open trail.  It felt GREAT to be out there.  Windy, cold but I'd warm up right?

Had to dive into the grass for a pee, no more than 40 feet from the A66 but all traffic was on the other side of the bluffs of grass and no-one could see.  I was warm, tucked away and spied a gun turret on the other side of the valley.  The grass tickled my nose and I had to drag myself away from my quiet spot.

At first I enjoyed my first bit of picking my way through bog, then I was reduced to walking so as not to turn an ankle out there on my own.  I tried to focus on the positives of being out in the fresh air - getting back to running.  Of course it was going to be slow and hurty but it was just about doing it right?

I decided that getting back to running is harder than giving up smoking.  When you're giving up smoking, every second you're not smoking is success.  I have to wait up to 2 days to be successful at this again - to be running again.

But it was better than driving and it was better than just running around the same old places.  To give myself something to go for I picked the top of the nearest hill but just as I started to off-route my way there, I stumbled across a track that I had not realised existed.  It wasn't as much fun but would give me a bit more scope for running.  Besides, the direct route was looking a bit less stable with a gully and fencing around a quarry in my way - I didn't want to fall down a hole out there on my own!

 So I joined the track and to my great surprise and joy, it skirted around the top of the gully's drainage and set off up the hill towards the top I had planned to visit.  Now I was motoring... actually, I was managing good form but was soooo frickin' slow.  Still, I ran as much as I could and walked the rest then arrived at the end of the track.  I picked my way across the summit bog until I finally reached my target.

I had to take my jumper off to take the brown vest top photo.

I turned straight around and headed back down.  Out of the wind, my panic levels dropped and I was able to enjoy the descent for a while.  I stopped at some mountain huts and had a nosey inside and they looked like good bivi huts - if ever I should find myself there.

Through more gates and retracing my steps.  Tired now, struggling to run.  Picking my way back across the bogs and I went up to my ankles in rusty brown mud.  Nowhere between here and the car to wash it off as all the puddles are black.  So I get back to the car and pour an old bottle of water over my shoe to wash it.  The neighbouring trucker looks in horror as I appear to wash a litre of congealed blood out of my shoe.  

Hard as nails me.

I change into civvy clothes and drive home for 90 minutes.  I fall into the house tired and cold and chase a shower.  It's so good to be warm.  So good to dry my feet.  I feel so free.  Like I've ridden my bike but different, harder... much harder.

Mickelden Straddle Fell Race - The "sensible" race

I've been trying to do this race for some years.  I think I entered it once and when the day came, I had a narsty cold and the weather was not good enough to accommodate 15 miles of bleuragh.  I attempted to enter it another time and probably found it to be full.  I have had years where I'm just nowhere near capable of a 15 mile fell race in February after a winter of hibernation and vicious cyclo-cross racing.

This year, we both entered early and we were both fit and healthy for it except for the slight hindrance, for me, that I haven't really done much running training for a 15 mile fell race - although that's what I said about last week's Tigger Torr 9.6 mile fell race which I finished remarkably well and concluded that pushing fully-loaded mountain bikes around Welsh hills for an entire weekend was perfectly adequate preparation for any fell race going.

I still wasn't convinced though.  I raced Tigger Torr so hard that it took me until Thursday to be able to walk down stairs normally and Friday to reacquire any kind of spring in my step but I said I'd show up and run it at a regulated pace.  I mean, I could definately do 15 miles at a  nice steady pace.  Then I discovered the cutoff.

TSK wasn't worried about it but I was a little concerned.  Last week it took me 57 minutes to do the same distance to the cut off.  This time I had 1h 10 mins on legs that weren't really that fresh.  Still, so long as I kept above 4.3 miles per hour I'd be OK.  I set myself a target of 5mph to allow for the faff - which often besets one of us on a race.

I gave TSK a lecture about the faff which he suffered from last time and reminded him he was racing.  Still, we both started the race in too many layers - he in a windproof and me wearing an extra teeshirt I didn't really need.

The race started on a rather tame forest trail and a LOT of people ran past me.  I wasn't going to get drawn into going too fast.  Every time I felt tempted to let rip, I thought of my ambition to be able to ride my bike on Monday... perhaps Tuesday... or at least do yoga on Tuesday.  I was going to talk to TSK as he came past but he never did and then I noticed his bright orange jacket ahead and I thought, sneaky bugger" but I let it go.  I was perfectly happy for him to beat me over this distance because he is doing a long distance race, not me.  He's been training for this, not me and I wanted to be able to ride that bike tomorrow.

I was thinking about it so hard I nearly missed the first turn through some trees before re-gaining the trail and the sharp downhill to the stream (taking it easy not to batter my legs) before the climbing begain in earnest.  After 2.5 miles I stopped to take the teeshirt off.  5 people I had passed on the last climb came by but then I ran back past them fairly quickly at my own pace.  The only problem was, I wasn't really paying attention to the way I was going.  I was watching my pace.  6.3mph had dropped to 5.6mph average and by the time I got to the top of the climb it had further dropped to 5.1mph and my calves were aching so bad.

Still, the moorland was upon us and flattened out.  Hopping across stones and climbing up peat hags to avoid bogs was still faster than trying to run up hill and checkpoint 1 at 5 miles was achieved in 58min:33secs.  The path was so attention-consuming that I forgot about my aching calves for a bit and set about the downhill to Howden reservoir with gusto, although still controlling the speed so as not to smash my quads and calves around like I did last week.  It was a much smoother descent and at the bottom of it I acquired a friend.

I met this older chap on the peak as I caught him up and commented how warm it was, he responded, "I'll say, I'm sweating like a pig!".  So harsh I was taken aback when down at Howden he turned out to be very well spoken.  We talked about Tigger Torr and he said he hadn't entered because of the online entry system and suggested that it might be a sign that he should retire but then I pointed out the beautiful scenery we were running through and asked how he could leave all of "this".

I think I might have swayed him.

We ran together - sometimes chatting and sometimes silent.  I enjoyed his company and his pace so much that I ran ahead to get the gates and he shut them behind us.  I was tempering my speed just a little bit.

We met the marshalls which then shepherded us up Howden Clough and the steep returned.  The first climb at least stretched out my calves and I was pretty surprised to see the guy continuing to tail me up the steeps.  We passed the runner ahead who had been intermittently walking then running off at a right lick, meaning we never actually caught him.  Clearly he didn't have much more of the run in him.

When we got out onto the open hillside, below Howden Edge I seemed to have dropped my tail and reeled in another guy, then a lady who I had been hoping was Andrew (in orange) but really wasn't.  We all stopped together at the path junction and I have to admit I had no idea how far along we were and almost took a wrong turn had it not been for a chap insisting we take the main path.  Much to my embarrasment, checkpoiint 5 was just around the corner.  I had to mask my embarrasment and hope that no=one had seen me stop to get the map out.

The people I'd passed had come back around me but once we were back onto the rocky bog my inner Dark Peaker took over and I passed everyone back as I skimmed across the stones, intermittently scrabbling up to the short heather above to avoid the really boggy slippery sections. It was much easier on my legs running on the tops since the heather is still only 20mm tall here.

I passed a woman who insisted on trying to leap over bogs where her legs weren't long enough and squealing and wailing every time she was submerged upto her knees and beyond.  I had to get around her and her partner who patiently waited, tried to keep pace with me for a bit to spurr her on then resorted to just waiting again.  The descent began and I ran faster and faster.  A quick glance at my watch told me there were still 4 more miles to go but damn I was enjoying this.

Delicate application of my hamstrings made me run much faster and... oh no, there was a path turning!  It said Langsett to my right but... did we come that way???

One of the marshalls, walking along behind me was looking at me earnestly.  No! Not an audience.  There was no-one ahead of me.  The man in a yellow jacket had disappeared.    Argh.  The map was still in my hand so I checked.

It was clear that the turning took me to the wrong end of Langsett and would have left me without check point 6 and therefore disqualified or facing a mile of retracing my steps uncofmortably before I was allowed to run another mile back to the finish.  Squeally woman's husband/partner came into sight and that was enough to stop me worrrying and send my scurrying off down the hillside at a speed approaching full-pelt - well, for a mile 12 effort anyway.  There was no point in taking care through the puddles now.  Mud went everywhere and so did my legs but it was worth it... right up until the point my left foot tripped over a stone and the resulting reaction in my right leg caused an excrutiating cramp to rip through my right calf muscle.  Ow!  I took a little more care.

A few little walks up hill and then the final spiralling descent to the river before climbing back up the other side.  I hazarded a look behind.  No one was there.  I had time in the bank to dawdle my way up the climb and even bypass the slithery path through the trees in favour of the bridlepath surface and space.  A marshal was surprised to see me coming from a different direction but I explained my reasoning and he said he respected me for my descision (I'm not sure he believed me).

There was about a mile to go and what should I see but the man in the yellow jacket walking.  I continued my pace and then he started running again and drifted away.  I kept to my pace.  He walked again and I closed in a bit.  This went on for ages, it seemed, until finally I caught him up and feigned a bit of fatigue.  I wasn't looking for a sprint, didn't fancy one but knew I could probably win it if it happened.

Sure enough, within sight of the finish we both had a bit of a go.  I shouldn't have, given my promise not to destroy myself but hey, you never know whether you're fighting for 124th place, or 99th place.  We propped ourselves up against a table and stretched.

We were given rescue ale and smiles and I went off in search of TSK who finished 4 minutes ahead of me and deeper into the hurt locker, having stayed in the same position for most of the run.

The organisation lavished us with sandwiches and wraps and tea.  When we picked ourselves up to leave, we could only hobble through the carpark.  Absolutely astonished at how quickly I disintegrated from, "Hey, this ain't bad, I'm doing OK here, I'll outsprint this chap" to, "ooh ahh, ooh, I can't move my knees, Ah! My ankles".

We peeled ourselves into clean(ish) clothes and drove home guzzling coffee along the way.  Presriptive long showers and baths were taken and then the bed... half an hour of lying on my back with my feet against the wall and the glow of endorphins and sweet sweet sleep.

I guess I can't claim I'm not ready for a 15 mile race any more.

14.61 miles, 2:58:28. El 723m
Overall: 175/192
Women: 20/29
LV40: 9/14 (making a habit of 9th).

Tigger Torr

Friday: Go swimming in the morning and am proud to knock out a whole mile.  Get outside and my hips are aching and I decide I deserve the massage that's overdue a week to recover from my christmas-holidays-training-and-race-fest.

I tell my physio just how much I'm looking forwards to my first running race since I grew new muscles in my legs and learned how to use them.

He asked what my race was.  I said I'd entered Tigger Torr.  He said, "Ah, this weekend".  Oh, well there you go then.

The results of my physio appointment were really positive.  The deep tissue massage I had booked turned into a slap-fest verging on the edges of assault as Marcus brought the blood to the surface to reduce the swelling associated with the massage and leave my legs "all zingy" (and pink) ready for Sunday's race.  My eyes were all welling and stingy by the time he'd finished.

Saturday: rested and made a pact with myself to properly *race* on Sunday.  I'm doing one or more a month for the next 6 months so I might as well start somewhere.

I got packed, I plotted a map.  I was ready.  There was a lot of waiting and then we set off and I breathed and I breathed hard.  So much for racing this thing.  I was well into my limits and streams of people were peeling past me until finally I hit mud and got into my stride within a group.

After the first road crossing we were faced with two options.  Many people went left and cut off a corner but they seemed to start to queue on the narrow track and so I stayed on the wide open path and cut my own pace along the corner.

Onto the moor now and half of the pack turned right off the trail and the other half continued on the wide open track.  This time I was surrounded by people going my pace and less of us seem to take the short cut route.  It is also a line I wished I had taken on the boxing day bogtrott so today seemed like good a time as any.

First checkpoint achieved after a subtsantial time wading through heather along a trod.  A few people ran past me as the group ahead slowly moved away but I didn't want to raise my game much at that point.

I exchanged a few places with a bloke in a pink teeshirt and bounded past a few guys coming off burbage rocks as my downhilling skills outweighed my slower pace.  They were still pretty good though.  Here's me: now mixing with people of my own ability!

We were all checking on a guy who had hurt is arm and for a moment I thought he was having a heart attack and felt guilty about not stopping but there were plenty of other racers around and he was still making his way over to marshalls, not *actually* collapsing in the heather.

We scrabbled up the muddy side of Burbage valley and over to Higger Torr then over to Winyards Nick without really noticing it to be honest.  Small changes in position didn't matter until this point when I looked at my watch and made the ridiculous conclusion that with 6 miles done, we only had half as much again to go.  Wrong - I'd only done 6km and still had 9km to go. I didn't realise this at that point though and resolved to keep going at the same pace - even to pick it up a little bit!

We got to the south end of the course at Burbage Bridge and then set off North again where we had the joy of cheering on other racers on their way down - where we could look up.  I shook hands with the marshall as I passed around them and then had the joy of discovering I was ahead of TSK - both of us confused as to how I had got ahead.  Still, there wasn't far to go so I had to keep pushing right?

Climbing off Carl Wark I saw Jen who is a twitter friend that I haven't *actually* *met* yet and is also wife to the nice man who slapped me on Friday.  I squealed a hello as I recognised some blonde hair behind a camera lens attached by a lead to a cantankerous beagle who was voicing his boredom of taking fotos of fell racers.  I should have stopped for a hug but I was sweaty and I felt like I was probably doing quite well and a hug may have been flippant, surprising and a little forward - given the sweaty! - even if she is a fellow runner.

Where we crossed Burbage brook and I acquired a tail through the slush who I then held up as I protected my knees going over the river scramble.  I was looking forwards to legitimately following the path that I'd accidentally taken on the boxing day bogtrott - for real this time.

It didn't disappoint.  My new muscles found routes from rock to rock through the heather and around the hill walkers, really not sure what was going on around them.  Now to venture out across Houndkirk Moor where it suddenly became blatantly obvious that the run was not going to be 10km long at all.

Still, I'd given it some to get here and I wasn't about to give up now.  I at least wanted to hold my place and we all plugged away through the bracken in a long, colourful line.  Occasionally someone came past and occasionally I raised my game and stuck with them until the next pack of people where I either stuck with it or faded into the group and waited for the next fast wave to catch.

We finally hit the Houndkirk Road again - that big wide open track and this time I chose the cut-through route because we were a thinner field.  As we approached the road I saw the change to teh route - no longer retracing our steps back to a short, flat run along the main road but instead, running through a small quarry.  A lady passed me and I complained that my knee was about to divorce me.  She said, "me too" and then proceeded to run away from me.

"It's just cramp in the little knee muscles" I thought and carried on running, trying to relax it into going away... but it stayed... and it got worse.  I hobbled a bit over the rises and then we were back on the road.  It felt like a good thing and I allowed myself to open up my stride a little bit and run fast.  As a fell-runner it pains me sometimes that I'm quite fast on flat roads.  It's like being a rockstar who's quite good at maths.  Cool but a little bit prim and proper at the same time.  Speeds hit 6.7 miles per hour and then we turned onto the Long Line Lane and a downhill.  My knees were hurting anyway so I just opened up.  The stride went long and I threw all regard for the condition of my legs tomorrow out of the window in favour of speed.

I kept hearing the woman behind me on my shoulder catching me up and every time I thought, "well if she comes past me at this speed, there's nothing more I can do" and she never came past.  Men did but I didn't care.   I just wanted to hold onto that ladies' place.  The speed hit 8 miles per hour.

For a brief respite we turned back into the muddy lower pitch of the rugby field and I looked up to see the wall of death - a wood chipped slope of around 5% leading from the lower pitch to the middle pitch.  I joked to the guy to my right that this was the worst hill of the race.  He hadn't looked up, he didn't see it coming, he went backwards with a groan and I never saw him again.

My knee was proper screaming now and all that time I could feel the next place runners breathing down my neck. It wasn't about women's places any more it was about all places and I finally opened up to whatever sprint I had left.  It wasn't much but it was enough not to let me be caught on the middle field.  I checked in then stopped my watch and leant on the shoulders of hte finisher in front of me - just in case my knee collapsed completely.

Over the line I caught up with a lady who I had exchanged places with several times and we'd checked on eachother as we passed by when she stopped to tie her laces and when I slowed down to drink from my Camelbak.

I also said hello to fellow tri club mates and waited for TSK to come in.  He had a nice run but not so good a race as he had battled with the faff.

We hobbled to our car, changed shoes and put on a dry top then drove home.

It was only later when I realised how well I had done.  I took 13 minutes off my previous time - despite the course being longer and I finished 15 places higher in my age group.  I was no longer in the second half of the women's pack but in the top third and just sneaked inside the middle third overall, having come in previously behind 300 other people.

There are things to be credited for today and none of them include much running they are:
Pushing heavy bikes up big hills
The favourable weather conditions - still cold but warmer than years gone by.
My Physio's incredible detective work (and no doubt the slapping)
TSK putting me into the inescapable carrot position.

9.56 miles 1:50:29 524m el.

A/G 9th/33
Women 31st / 94
224th overall of 380 finishers.
Much to my delight, I was the 6th Dark Peak women's finisher meaning that my time contributed to the Dark Peak ladies' B-team being in 6th place.

Boxing Day Bogtrot 2016

2 overshot checkpoints.  8 miles (13kms) of mostly thrashing through thigh-deep heather.  48 effort miles on foot.  Not sure how that fits in to the festive 500.

Lanterne Rouge.

I will take it as a compliment that the organiser has never returned back to base in time to get soup before - meaning that although I was slower than everyone else today, I was less slow than the slow people who didn't dare race today.

The weather was still windy but gloriously sunny and it only hailed on me very briefly.

I got lost and lay in the grass to check my navigation and I had just gone out by 100m and got straight back on track so I'm pretty pleased with that aspect of it and looking forwards to the next one.

Long may it continue.

Holme Moss Fell Race

The stupidest start to a fell race day.

Saturday night: "Yesss, race starts at 11am, so I'm just going to leave this here and prepare in the morning". 

On Sunday morning, through the fog of pre-coffee brain, I spent 30 minutes trying to figure out the route description vs. published map, only to realise I was reading a route description for a race in October.  I found the right route and in doing so, discovered that the event I was about to undertake was my first "AL" event - ie. beastily long and beastily hilly. This was going to feel like a marathon.

Once I'd drafted the right route on to my map and put it into my Garmin course list to check the distance (18 miles not 15-16) I had to scramble everything together quick, sharp.  Unloaded the washing machine and put my race vest on wet to dry it out before packing most of my kit (we won't need hat and gloves, surely?) and jumping into the car.

I put the postcode in the satnav - shit! I was due to arrive 3 minutes before the start!  Me and my stupid faffing around.  Still, I had committed to doing this today so decided to still go in the hope of getting there a bit earlier and the start being delayed.

The roads were thankfully quiet and I only had to overtake one Rover driving at 35 mph on country lanes.  As I drew into Holme I suddenly realised that the post code I put into the Satnav was probably the one for the October race.  

Good news: I was no longer late, because at 10:40, I was almost there!

Bad news: I had no idea where I was going.  

I stopped and got out all the electronics - first my phone before realising that the route was on my Garmin and so I asked it to take me to the start of the course.  As the Garmin loaded satellites I realised I had the old-school version - a Map! and I had marked the course on that.  So I set about trying to figure out which of the tiny lanes out of Holme I should be driving on.

As I drove up the steep and cobbled Washpit lane, my fuel indicator light came on.  Cascade of bloody errors or what>???

My road navigation is useless so I reverted to following the Garmin directions.  To the frustration of other drivers, stopping regularly to get my next instruction.  Finally I pulled up at the end of a row of parked cars with people wearing brightly coloured vests jogging up the road.  I couldn't decide what to bring for a moment and half emptied my bag of stuff I didn't think the organisers would expect us to carry.  I took out my waterproof coat but then put it back in.  Not because I thought they'd make us carry it but because I'd rather have that than a base layer if we were hit by a torrential thunderstorm and high winds - even in July.

I jogged over to the registration point, happy to see that most other people were bringing rucsacs too.  Usually I am the only one when I do and mostly I had brought mine for the camelbak carrying rather than the kit in it.  

As I was second to last to register, I realised that they were doing kit checks for every runner. "Good", I thought... "oh no", I thought, "What have I forgotten?"  Panic set in.  I still registered - I had to in order to borrow some gloves.  I had a hat on my head, even though it was designed to keep the sun out of my eyes and off my fair head, rather than to keep my head warm.

Then I started to panic about my waterproof trousers and in the 30 seconds it took me to register, my brain changed its recollection of them being removed from my bag - not in the car 5 minutes ago but in my house over an hour ago.  Thankfully, the organiser ran over to his house (right next to my car parking space) to fetch me his waterproof trousers.  What an embarrassment!  My apologies to anyone from Dark Peak reading this!

Let me put it here and now that after the race, when I returned the trousers to the organiser, I not only thanked the man but I also explained to him that in my panic I forgot that I had left my pair in the car right there.  I am hoping that just made me sound batty, not an irresponsible numpty.

As I walked to the start chatting with my team mate, Alison Wainwright, she explained that all kit was compulsory for an AL race.  Now things are dawning on me and yes, I probably should have read the rules before setting out.  Perhaps committed to this race a few weeks earlier - rather than on the day, having noticed its existence on Tuesday this week.  Don't get me wrong, I was physically prepared.  Having run a marathon at Kielder a month ago and done a few fell runs since I had both the distance and power in my legs to complete this race (though potentially not one any longer or harder).

We talked to another lady doing her first AL race then all set off down the track at a lovely leisurely marathon-finishing pace.  So pleasant compared to the 5 and 10k races I've been doing recently.  A tractor followed us all of 1.5 miles to the end of the road before turning into a field, the weirdest broom wagon I have ever had the pleasure to be drafted by.

We were soon down the lane and on to open moorland for the first time - relief.  Everyone settled into a place before the wide path ran out and we started to descend like a conga line down an increasingly steep slope which eventually turned into a narrow rabbit warren run of a track through the bilberries.  It was runnable, but just, and only because it was dry.  A few runners stepped to the side to let faster descenders pass then it was goodbye to dry feet as we descended the easier yet sloppier path to the head of the watershed of Ramsden clough where we crossed over a (seemingly pointless by now) bridge.  At least the climb over the other side was not so bad though my neighbour reminded me the we had to retrace our steps on the way back - not a prospect I was looking forwards to!

The path gradually ascended the hillside now towards Holme Moss transmitter station so we could see the top of the hill for some time but most of my attention was focused on what I was doing with my feet through the grasses and heathers and occasional boulder.  One final climb to the road and the lady next to me (Mrs Tod from Todmorden) was complaining she felt rubbish and we'd only done 2 miles.  I corrected her to 3.5 miles so now I knew how far the final run back would be - about 4 by the time we had reached the summit.

In front of me, a lady and (what I presume was her dad) were running a little and walking a little and although I was gradually catching them up, they started running consistently and defensively every time I drew close to the point at which it was getting tedious but hey, that's racing.  A hardy bunch of marshalls and mountain rescuers were waiting to cheer us through, though there was no hardiness required on an ambient and lovely day.

Having started with a slightly less than full camelbak and drunk quite a lot getting to the top, I took on a 500ml top up of water into a small bottle that I keep easily accessible in my rucsac pocket and set off down the next gully into Heyden Brook before Mrs Tod and girlie and her dad. This was almost as steep but this time, merely lined with tussocks which bent under foot when we were least expecting it.  I warned Mrs Tod and she said she was already being careful, having turned an ankle last week.

We crossed the stream safely and let girlie and her dad go ahead yet again up the other side and now the payback started.  For all this hard climbing I realised that about 12 of the next 14 miles had to be flat-ish running to make up the mileage for all these short, sharp ups and downs we had to do.  So long as they weren't desperately hard bog-hopping bracken thrashing, heather slogging miles, I'd be OK.

We caught up a chap who was having a crise de confiance.  He was probably short-sighted and had lost visual on the massive field of runners ahead of us and suddenly couldn't see any flags on the hillside.  Alison had already warned me that sometimes this run wasn't clearly marked and anyway, I could see a massive group of people across the horizon in the distance, all running.  I don't think he believed me though but he had no choice but to follow me, asking if I did the route before, asking if the lady behind us did the route before.  He had so many doubts he was starting to make me wonder but I reassured him (us) that I could see all those runners over there and that there was definitely the crags above Crowden that I used to climb on all those years ago with Jo Simpson and Adam Whale.

Thankfully, we came across a big taped corner and set off from Westend Moss on the right direction and down towards Crowden car park.  As we descended,  Mrs Tod came by and shot off into the distance (clearly feeling better) then girlie and her dad came past me again, only for me to pass them back when she tripped and stumbled on the open path.  No-one laughed because we've all been there but she was fine except for being a bit winded and having a slightly bloody knee.  I checked she didn't need my one plaster and carried on, whereupon they passed me again before following my opinion on the correct route to descend to Crowden instead of carrying on across the hillside and ending up out of the way on the A57.  And so we descended into Crowden valley along with Mrs Tod and three in Orange.  Three in Orange being very fast descenders who passed everyone on the steeps to the carpark.

At Crowden I hadn't drunk enough water to warrant a stop so I continued past the others and on familiar territory of running routes I have taken on sneaky runs after business trips to Manchester.  So much more enjoyable in the daylight wearing shorts and vest than hauling head torch, fleece leggings and five layers around.  We followed a path up to the bottom of the Crowden Crags, girlie and her dad, gradually catching me up but then as I stopped to transfer the water from my bottle to my now, empty camelbak, they also decided to have a rest before the steep ascent and dad, who looked like he was more used to sprinting on roads, set about stretching out his very nice, wiry, strong legs.  For the first time, girlie was looking more relaxed although from her calls of "yay, half way" at 7 miles, I hoped she wasn't going to be disappointed to find out we still had 10 of the almost 10 miles to go.  We specifically, ascended the edge of Ladlow rocks, being glad that I've got long legs and used to be a rock climber.  As I made my way up the hillside I was really pleased to have caught up three of the people in front, feeling like we'd all closed a big gap to the next runners and were no longer a little splinter group at the back.

There were angels at the top.  Nope, just more marshals, mountain rescue and a lady runner with bags of water bottles.  I had plenty of my own but never say no to a free drink and I was quite thirsty enough to down quite a lot of water then more payback on the long path to Black Hill, the main summit at 582m AOD.

We were following flags - gritstone flagstones - across much of the moorland and so it wasn't at all challenging but after that much climbing, the slightest inclines were a bit hard.  I had a long gap to cross but could see that the threesome ahead were walking all the up hill bits.  I resolved to keep running no matter what.  At some times it seemed like I was running slower than their walk but that couldn't be true because it wasn't steep enough for that.  So I trudged on and eventually heard the chatter.  It was the lady I had met on the start line who was doing her first AL race.  I heard her chatter for quite some time as I ploughed on to get gradually closer and closer, eventually catching them up when the flagstones ran out and the boggy moorland began.  We were diverting off the Pennine Way at the request of the RSPB and following a dirt track through the peat bogs.  Not as bad as it sounds, given that the peak has had a few hot weeks to dry out a bit.

I caught up the group of three and had a brief exchange about how well we were doing and what we'd been eating to keep ourselves going.  By now I'd eaten an entire peanut butter sandwich and half an energy bar.  Having spent the morning reading about cases of hypothermia at last year's Edale Skyline from runners not eating enough, I was feeling particularly gifted at being able to run and eat at the same time.  I think it's an ironman thing, or maybe just a hippo thing and works particularly well when you can wash it down with lots of water.

We all got running together, much to my dismay as I like my moorland running quiet and peaceful and the chatter just went on and on. We all got to a water station together and I took a small cup of water as the three passed by.  However, my thirst quenching "Ahhh" must've inspired them and they also stopped for refreshments, giving me a chance to get slightly ahead and focused on chasing down Mrs Tod.  But, the three weren't stopped for long and the chattering followed.  It was a relief when, as I jumped across yet one more bog to hear the words, "I might have to have a little walk again or I won't make it back".  Gradually the words faded into the distance and I put in some effort.  And finally, that bloody transmitter mast was getting closer and closer.

So were other people.  I passed two men togther - one of which (White Boy - white man, white shorts, white hat) came with me.  A black man walking - particularly pleased with passing someone so fit and fast-looking, a pasty white wiry guy who complained he'd had cramp.  I still had a tail reaching Holme Moss for the second time and caught up Mrs Tod who had stopped for some time to drink.  I took a free glass of water (meaning one that I wasn't going to have to carry) and decided that what was left of the 500ml I'd added at the bottom of Ladlow rocks would be enough to get me back to the finish, 4 miles away.

Going across the road I caught a Mr Pennine who let me go ahead (this Dark Peak vest gets you favours I find!).  We slithered down the hill and Pennine was good enough to point out when I missed a flag and started to descend too early into the valley below.  Gratefully I clambered out before I'd lost too much height with him behind and Mrs Tod who had caught me up, ahead.  Whereas White Boy behind me continued someway down, refusing to believe that the three people above - me, Mr Penine and Mrs Tod knew something he didn't.  I guess he eventually made it out.

As we reached the clough again it was me, Wiry, Mr Pennine and Mrs Tod together.  Skirting around the watersheds, we kept getting an earful of chatter from the other side of valleys.  Mrs Tod flew down the hill behind me like a horse so I let her through and she laughed as we'd be back together in moments.  Sure enough as we picked our way through the bog on the climb, I caught and passed her back.  Then was the hellish climb out - back up the rabbit run and this time I felt like the rabbit.  The hill was so steep my nose was in the billberries and it was easier for me to semi-crawl up the hill.  After all my arms were working way better than my legs by now.  I pushed my fingers in to the bilberries and the ground and pushed forward.  The increased speed gained from using my arms forced my legs to move faster too but unfortunately the bizare position meant I couldn't get enough breath in to my lungs and I quickly expired into rasping, nearly asthmatic breathing more familiar with my zone 4 5km runs.  Calfs started to cramp and I realised I had to do something so I slowed down, stood up a bit, went slowly to regain my breath and then set about the technique again - this time slower and with deliberate yogic breaths, pushing all of the CO2 out before refilling my lungs as much as possible with the next breath in.

It felt brilliant, it felt fast, it was cathartic in the way that rhythmic breating is.  I felt expired at the top, red, fast.  Somehow, wiry white man was still with me but the others were well behind.  I took a drink from a very kind man at the top then set off on a run for that bloody road.

There were two ahead.  Wiry white man and another runner who could have been Dark Peak but wasn't, on closer inspection.  I tried to catch them briefly and was making gains on wiry until he heard me coming and sped up.  With my mind on whether I was doing any damage before next week's half Ironman, I backed off and jogged in.  Getting back in time for the prize presentation going ahead which meant I was getting cheered home regardless.

As I crossed the line someone put two drinks in my hand and i found the nearest concrete step to sit on whilst as small dog climbed onto my knee, licked my face and made himself comfy whilst I chatted to the little boy who patiently explained that they weren't his dogs, he was just looking after them.  They were very nice dogs and enjoyed their company until I was able to remove my shoes and socks and go in stearch of my free sandwich, tea and cake.  Ahhhh.

I sat in a cricket pavillion, listening to the prize presentation and looking out over Holmfirth.  It was a glorious day.  I finished my first AL race.  This is why I don't need to do a marathon.

4 hrs 28 minutes.  17.59 miles. 1285m climbing

Great Hucklow Fell Race and Hugging Strangers

For some time it has been a thing in my head that I'll ride to a fell race, run it and ride home.  Kind of an inverted Duathlon that plays to my bike skills and just brilliant for longer distance triathlon training.  I have so far managed it once, at the Trunce in 2012 where I rode there after work from Barnsley station and then rode home.  It was messy and left me with bad memories - particularly after a long day at work.  It took me over an hour to ride the 9 miles home.

Last week at work, the idea dawned on me again.  I considered doing it on Saturday but Saturday didn't turn into a doing anything day.  Friday night I'd rode into town for a meal with TSK and then rode up the hill, chasing tiger, arriving completely pooped at the front door and juggled the TV until we'd watched the TdF.

The recovery stood me in good stead for a bike-run-bike day today and so I started checking race details.  The slightly more convenient early afternoon race had been cancelled due to waterlogged fields and so I had to get my S**t together and go if I was going to make the 11am start at Great Hucklow.  A quick check of Google said it would take me 2 hours to ride to Gt Hucklow and I knew I could beat that, not being an average pleb cyclist - just a bit of a crappy club cyclist.

Phoneix In Retirement, loaded up for an 8:45 start

I threw my fell running kit in my Carradice, changed into bike clothes and wished TSK a good day at his bike polo tourney.  He was still sitting in a chair recovering a little from yesterday's matches and hoping that the competition would at least be hungover whereas he had a nice quiet evening in front of the TV with his wife and Chinese food.

Habit turned me right out of the ginnel - up the hill towards the A57, not down into the bottom of the valley.  No sooner had I realised I was going "the wrong way" I also realised I'd forgotten my sun glasses because at that particular moment, I didn't need them.

I could have gone home, down the hill, got my glasses, got on the right route but I just couldn't be bothered and I just wanted to get on with it.  It was spitting with rain and a cloudy rainbow streaked fuzzily across the head of the valley.  The air was warm it was beautiful.  Screw glasses, screw the bottom of the valley.  I wanted to ride high.  I wanted to ride in the sun.

I toyed with the idea of riding over Redmires.  It was set in my mind immediately.  I usually ride home that way but rarely ride out that way so it would make a nice change.  We've wiggled around the back lanes on my way home a lot recently and I tried to do the same today but somehow just got lost in Ranmoor and found myself going the wrong way down a street I recognised.  It was a bit embarrassing but I wasn't going to waste half an hour trying to get out of bloody Ranmoor so I stuck the Garmin onto navigate and let it figure me out.  As I rode past The Sportsman pub it was still telling me to do a U-turn.  Not quite getting the concept of me wanting to ride out along the tops and not do a U-turn to descend 200 m back into the bottom of a valley that I'd only have to climb out of again.

Finally, it got on message.

I was having a good ride.  There were a lot of newbie couples out riding in their bright clothes, new bikes and hawking on running shoes and plastic toe-clips and I passed them all.  One lady looked over her shoulder at me as I said, "Good Morning" in passing and witheringly said, "Oh, you make it look so EASY!!".  She MADE MY DAY.  I muttered something about having been practising for 25 years and shot off down the descent.

I couldn't be bothered to turn the Satnav off and I'm glad I didn't because it took me down the Ringinglow instead of surprise view or Scotsman's Pack and I forgot what a nice descent that is (probably it's been resurfaced since I last did it). I rolled through Hathersage, worried about the transition field for Sheffield Tri Club's HH event next weekend as the fairground has made rather a mess of it, then hit the climb for Abney in as low a gear as I dared.  I knew this road is closed to cars due to land slides and checked with a couple of club riders passing to make sure it was passable for bikes.  Yes.

I was caught up by two Rutland Cc riders who stopped to chat, asking if I knew Jo Jebb from their Saturday morning rides... ha ha! busted!  Now I know your secret training Mrs Jebbers.

They disappeared on the climb, leaving me to pace myself, my bike lock, shoes and big water stash over the final climb.  10:20am and I was going OK and getting close to the start.



As I descended the closed part of the road I passed a few runners coming up and, worrying I'd missed the start, checked with a marshal that they were just warming up.  Phew!  Can I go down that Byway to get to the start? I asked.  Sure, excellent.  I bounced my slick roadie tyres through the mud and gravel to the bottom and then slithered into the car park below the school to lock my bike to a handy pik-nic table, just in time to catch the organiser saying, "Registration, just walk up the hill to the school and sign on there".  Bugger, just come from there - still, there was no back way in.

I found a handy shipping container to get changed in, pinned my number on and went to stand around, wait for the start and cheer in the frighteningly fast juniors.  I had a chat to some fellow Dark Peakers who are always intrigued by my sudden appearance from nowhere.  My attendance is sporadic at best.  It's always lovely to meet new people though and we talked of races done and whether kids would have liked it and where we have been and what we've been doing that's kept us away from fell races.  A lady called Claire was nice to talk to and we chatted at the start line until the whistle went and we ran through the village briefly then down a steep steep slope where my brakes came off and I whooshed past a few people, including Claire.  "See you in a minute" I said, convinced that she would catch me up on a climb.

I ran past a few people until I realised we were queueing for a bit of a woodland single track.  It was a welcome recovery for a while.  Then things opened up again and we were running through long grass that had been flattened by the runners ahead.  It was a bit hairy although there were no falls.  It turned out to be pretty grippy.

Then a turn into a field and, "Watch the puddle" shouted a lady.  It was up to my knees and I got my shorts wet with the splashing.  Puddle / small pond, same difference.  I climbed up the slope and Claire caught me up.  Ha ha! Said I'd see you again.  We both walked together for a bit but then I started running again and, really, didn't stop and didn't see Claire again.  I felt a bit guilty for this but apparently my fell running has not suffered too much from 2 seasons of mostly road running.

Finally there was a top to the hill.  A jovial chap standing by the trig point sent us down the hill and over the rolling tops of grassy moorland with some beautiful roller-coaster, moss and bog cushioned downhills to follow.  I ran fast to stay ahead of the guy behind me, who cooed that they were beauuuutiful downhills.  I would have agreed but didn't have the breath.  When we hit the uphill, I let him go ahead, relieved I didn't have him breathing down my neck anymore.

We met with a road, at which point two runners who I'd just easily passed, passed me back.  "Is it tarmac all the way back now?" one guy said.  "I hope so, I like tarmac!".  He ran past me looking easy and comfortable.  Git.  I ran as fast as I could to stay with them and it was hurting.  The pair of them easily ran away from me. I checked my watch.  I was running at 8mph.  This is my max speed pretty much!

We turned off the road and finally, we descended into some vales somewhere.  The path had been obliterated by previous runners and had turned into a sideways slick.  I asked the guy behind if he wanted to pass and he just said, "No, I'll let you find all the mistakes first".  We caught up Mr Tarmac lover sliding sideways and swearing in the darkness.  Apparently the course was "ridiculous".  We checked he'd be OK and recommended he takes a trip to Accelerate next week to get some new shoes.  I'm pretty sure he was wearing the Saucony Perigrines that I have (and love but they are pants in the wet mud).

Eventually, even my Salomon Fell kings were screwed as we slithered down a muddy slope that was too slidey for my shoes but my shoes were too good for me to just ski down it.  So I didn't know if I was running or sliding.  They guy who hadn't wanted to pass me had no choice.  He flew past on my left, completely out of control.  He was around 8 inches taller than me so had been struggling to follow my line under some of the lower branches - my intention being to use them to break my fall if I did take a tumble.

Finally we exited the woods to two hill climbs remaining.  It took me a while to recover from that downhill but once I did, I caught up the lanky guy and passed him and another runner or two.  The only guy to pass me was a Penistone runner who I am sure had started late as he was powering past most of the field, all suffering from 8 km already on the trail.  We flipped onto the descent track and I tried to call out to a bunch of ramblers who were taking up the entire footpath.  To be honest though, shouting at them just made them scatter randomly so I ran through the open space in the middle of them.  Unfortunately, they then started calling at each other and scattering about the place like little bundles of chaos.  I dodged them as best I could and left them grumbling at the back of me as I ran away unable to hear the mutterings about what I am "supposed to do".  Who knew there was a rule-book?  Onto the byway I'd rode down on my bike, now covered in mud from the passing runners.  I skidded around a corner, expecting to enter the course from a different direction and checking with another runner I was going the right way.  (Phew).

At the finish line I met Mikk Murray (and his beard) and more Dark Peakers whose names I will one day eventually remember.

I watched Claire run in and gave her a celebratory hug, jibbering that I'd waited for her and everything... yeah, right.  She was happy to be back, as I was.  She said her fitness had gone and I believe she should have been about 6 ladies places and 26 overall places ahead of me.  Me, I was just happy to finish and have enjoyed myself with enough dignity to ride home.


We had a chat and I filled up on flapjack and orange squash - literally filling my bell;y and then my bottle for the ride home.

Successfully changed, with dignity, into my cycling clothes I pondered riding down the hill to ride up the clean road but instead settled for a short push back up the by way with my bike.  I was glad I did because I got to cheer in the last two finishers, a chap who was of senior years - good on him - and a lady who looked like she was in serious pain but being escorted down by a team mate / partner / husband.  I gave her the good news that she had less than a minute to go which made her smile a little.  The rest of the bike hike was OK and I was able to get on and get riding as soon as the road was clean.  Bottom gear, spinney spinney.  All OK though.  The steep bit was over quickly and then the rest of the ride to Hathersage was down hill most of the way.



I reached the railway line at Hathersage and struggled - really struggled to climb the hill which is only about 100m long.  Time for a rest and probably lunch.  Any excuse to go into the Outside Cafe.  Sure enough, chips and coffee was exactly what I needed.  Two coffees to be precise.  I contemplated my route home quite a lot but in the end, couldn't resist returning on the route I used on the way out this morning.  It was stunning and traffic free.

I was caught on the climb by a man on a Dawes Galaxy - quite a heavy bike - but he usually rides a tandem with his wife on the back so he was enjoying less weight on his ride and I drafted him for as long as I could - also stealing his tail wind.  We chatted for some time when he caught me too after the Burbage climb.  We rode all the way to the Norfolk arms together then I turned off and we shouted "see ya" to each other.

There's nothing more to report except the climbs on the road from Norfolk arms seemed normal.  I even rode through Redmires and past the Sportsman thinking that I wasn't actually destroyed.  Don't get me wrong, I was tired, but considering what I'd done today, I've been a lot worse, like the time I drafted a 12 year old boy, just to get an easy ride (he was in full Langsett Cycles kit, I might add).

I even managed to swing by the Asda in Walkley to stock up on food for dinner.  It's like I'm somehow making it, a little more every day, to being me again.

Post-Ironman Blubber

I'm going to throw it out there an admit it (you can chastise me if you wish)...

"I was disappointed with my Ironman race"

Because I was going to race it.  Because I trained so hard in the early days (OK I got distracted by Lisbon but that's not an excuse). Because I put quite a lot of effort in towards the end.  Although I skipped a few sessions I did some hard weekends.  I thought I would do better but as a friend of the family pointed out (Mr multiple age-group wins retired over 65 git), I just sneaked in inside the cut off times... and this time I didn't have any punctures to use as an excuse.  

People have reminded me that I did an ironman.  I took 6 minutes off my marathon time.  Yada yada... but I would just have liked to be competitive.  I feel like I should have been competitive.

There's every chance I'm in denial - that I'm just not fit enough but actually, I really feel like I was due more from myself whilst I was at Kielder, that somehow the legs weren't doing what they should on the bike, the arms weren't doing what they should on the swim.  Yeah I'm happy with the run but that's about it.  I feel like some time soon, I'll see some payback from all my effort and one of these days, I don't know which one, I'll suddenly be all awesome - just like that.

So, after a week off, I got back on the horse (bike) and managed a few runs from work and a few swims after work - even managing a loop of Hatfield in my shorty wetsuit just for the pleasure of enjoying real swimming.

I've been battling with a busy episode at work and a general lack of motivation.  The first few "training" sessions have left me feeling really tired although I have massively enjoyed them.  Just swimming, riding and running for the hell of it is luxury and it makes me feel like I never want to follow a programme again (is this why I don't like Ironman?).  As the weeks have passed (2 now!) my rides have become more enjoyable and the runs more manageable though still a little infrequent.  I'm struggling with swimming due to a possible ear infection but I'm being positive and doing some pool sessions to work on the swimming weak-spot.

Exploring some new trails in my back-yard for motivation

I seem to thrive on a natural addiction to JFDI.  My best races followed on from last year's Sheffield Half Marathon where I accepted a place just because I could do it and surprised myself by quite enjoying it - although it's not an experience I'd choose to repeat in a rush - or even at a plod.

That said, last week, I did sit down and write a training programme but as I mulled over more and more my success off the back of impromptu events, it turned into a series of targets to be hit rather than a series of scheduled training sessions.  

As a kind of mid-year resolution, it includes all the fell races I feel I can "make" and all of the triathlons I have booked in (a half Iron in July and a standard distance in August) and it goes, conveniently, all the way up to our summer holiday (700km of mountain biking in the Alps) and then on to the 3 Peaks.

So I mess up a few races while doing better in others.  So what?  I'll be surfing on an overwhelming feeling of joy and satisfaction.  

Recovery and resting is for pussies.  Watch this spot for injury news.

Week 18 - the biggie (should've been last weekend but had the small matter of an international to worry about)

This isn't a story of the week.  It's the story of the last 18 mile run before Ironman.

I've been here three times before.  One time better prepared, one time so much worse (ill).

Last year in 2014 I ran 0.01miles less than today, climbed 200 m less and yet it took me an extra 40 minutes.

In 2013 I ran 18.29 miles with 300m less climbing but still, 10 minutes slower than today.  That year I finished my Ironman.

Today was a beautiful day to finish intense training.

I ran along the Rivelin Valley then up to Hollow Meadows and down to the path that leads to Stanage

Took the luxury of stopping for some lunch

Photographed a route that I led in my 20's with Rachel James as second.

Then ran along the top of Stanage to Stanage Pole

Checked out the new pole, errected this year with the support of local businesses - mostly by Dark Peak members (I get the impression!)

Then continued along the trail to Redmires Reservoirs and along the other side of the Rivelin Valley to get home.

I am more motivated by long distance running than ever, knowing that I have this wonderful route on my doorstep.

Already thinking twice about my assertions that I'm never going long again.

Hilliest flat run ever

A target of 4.5 mph. I scoffed at it yesterday but it was clear when I left the house that this run was going to be no speedier than any of my other long runs in the Peak. I still had Stockton in my legs and a hilly 70 miles ride but this is Ironman training. What was I expecting?

It's been 2 weeks since Brighton when I supported the marathon runners by doing a half but then I spent a lot of the day sitting around waiting.

The last time I ran over 10 miles consistently was 3rd April so let's not feign surprise at my slowness.

Most running from my house starts up hill. It's the quietest route out of town.  No surprise that I was dragging my feet. I gave up watching the speed and just concentrated on keeping my heart rate in tempo or less. There was a lot of walking up the steps to the golf course and a lot of walking over the tree roots alongside the golf course. That bloody heart rate alarm... but if I was going to make it today (and I was VERY determined) I was going to have to pace myself like I did at Stockton... but even more strictly.  Slightly easier with no-one breathing down my neck.

I started to think I was overdressed as I flitted through the sun dappled trees in a thin merino top and 3/4 leggings. I scoffed at golfers in down coats. I made it all the way to Redmires car park before I put on a Gilet. Sheffield looked beautiful below and there were a lot of smiling dog walkers out.

I dropped down to Headstone. Alone again. Just me and my buddy. A poignant piece of rock. Probably for more people who care to admit. We spent a very brief moment together as I took some pics and sorted out thin gloves and a banana as headstone kept the wind off me. Whaddaguy.

On down to the valley bottom then and over hollow meadows where I could watch the rain making her way over from Manchester to make my day a little more intense.

From the top I had to walk down to the farm at my 7 mile point. I didn't want to scatter the nursing sheep and their lambs so I picked my way through them, only disturbing a few families from their dry patches of grass as the driving drizzle moved in.

Over a dry stone wall away from the sheep, I sprinted for the next bit of cover, a long descent through woodland which I knew would delay me wearing my sweaty coat just a little longer.

It's my favourite running path and today it felt particularly safe as a little haven. Sadly it wasn't long enough and I stopped for a second banana before putting my coat on and stepping out into the rain.

The route I had mapped said right into the rain again. I opted for left, down the hill, into the friendly Loxley valley. I took a short cut through a field to make up for the diversion and soon regretted it when it turned out to be on very wet grass and my well-protected dry feet were now sodden through. Still, only 6 miles to go.

Down the hill to Damflask reservoir where soggy families, oblivious children and dogs and petulant teenagers in hoodies traipsed willfully, or otherwise, around the lake.  I ran by on the flat - finally injecting some 6mph pace into my running - my speed increased with the temperature.  Down in the valley bottom it somehow stopped raining for a few moments and I took my coat off and luxuriated in being in a single layer again.  I checked my watch: 12.2 miles run of my planned 14.  I'd get the miles in - and some more.

The dry spell didn't last long and I was soon wearing my rain coat and rather than praising the trees for keeping my dry I was cursing their saturation which dropped dramatically onto my head every time a gust of wind blew.  The river kept me company, it's various states of gushing providing a constant backdrop to the swish swish of my rain coat in my ears.  I engaged with my rhythm but had to stop myself when I started trying to beat the rhythm because I was the rhythm so trying to beat it would have been silly.

I had to pick my way around the fishermen at the pond, convinced that no-one would be out on such an atrocious day, they spread their umbrellas and poles and boxes of worms all over the footpath but at least they were apologetic as I passed.

A man and his dog (both?) gave me one of those sad, grave Yorkshire nods which very simply says, "I'd say 'what a glorious day' but clearly I'd be lying".

As I ran through the disused industrial estate, long closed to the discovery of asbestos and too many floodings, I knew I had to reach my distance soon but walking home from 14 miles wasn't really an option I relished so I kept on running and didn't bother to dig out my watch from beneath its layers.

A rumbling tummy made me scrounge in my rucsac pocket for a torq bar.  Rhubarb and custard - my favourite.  It went down a treat, to the extent that I nearly cried when I almost dropped it in a puddle.  The 3 second rule applies when it's raining too right?

Finally, into the Rivelin Valley and the long run up the river to the street that I live on.  I couldn't face the path and opted instead for the busy road and all the drivers splashing.  I avoided the worst puddles - at one point running down the central reservation and raised islands to avoid the biggest puddles.  I really didn't care though, just wanted to climb the final hills without a freezing cold shower first.

Then I did walk.  I walked all the way up the bloody hill.  All of it. I took off my wet clothes, had a pee, made a recovery drink and sat in the chair.  Then I made lunch and sat in the chair.  Then I had a bath and went to bed.

All of that and even if I take out 1.37 miles of the slowest movement, I still only get 4.3 miles per hour.  So no great performance then except for one thing.  I did 3 times more climbing today than I will on race day.  That is my only saving grace. That, and I really fucking enjoyed myself.  It would be wrong to wish I hadn't because I was running faster but I do wish I'd been able to run faster.  It would've justified how I feel, justified the time off, justified the effort I put in weeks ago.  I know I'm tired, end of a big weekend, need a recover etc. etc. yada yada but I can't help feeling flat about today.
Maybees it's the weather.  Bring on next week.

Week 7 - Cheeky little race number

If ever there was a week to go underground with training it was week 7 & 8.

Week 7 started well-ish with the 10 mile run that I should have done on Saturday moved to Monday because of SHaFF (bear in mind Monday should be my rest day).  Rather than take the day’s rest I went into Tuesday with some easy swimming to try to protect the shoulder injury that I am starting to feel.  It didn’t work and actually I felt my shoulder pop but I completed my 1600m and went to work.

Knowing I was away on Friday, Monday and Tuesday I had deadlines to meet and therefore I worked hard – not only to get my job done but to get ready for a weekend away in Grizedale with the mountain bike. 

We drove to Hartlepool on Thursday evening.  As I sat in a seedy curry house I wondered where my life was going (and particularly where my training was going).  As I stood around in the only Irish pump on St Patricks day with a couple of middle-aged engineers and my grad and a lot of pissed girls, I knew exactly where my life was going – a short walk back to the hotel. 

I attempted some yoga and then went to bed but not to sleep.  I spent the next 4 hours attempting – unsuccessfully to digest my dinner.  Eventually 5am came around and I went for a run.  I could still feel the curry being digested as I ran – it’s rare I can run much on a completely empty stomach but I hardly ran, more wobbled through the first half of my run.

Despite my best efforts I couldn’t get down to the sea front.  I ran down cul-de sacs, dead ends and loop roads until eventually I found myself on a dual carriage way around the old shipyard.  Finally, a sign to the old headland led me to a beach where I duly took my running shoes off and had a brief paddle before running back to the hotel to load my mountain bike back onto the roof rack and put my tent back in the Thule roof box before breakfast.

The Hartlepool site visit was what I expected except I did manage to escape by 2:30pm which, to my benefit for once, meant that I was at the Campsite I’d booked in the Lake District by 5pm.  The tent was up and the stove built by 8pm by which time it was too late to cook anything constructive so instead I heated a tin of beans and coped with that.

The race aside it was a bit of a ferrel weekend for me.  I didn’t shower (I know! Eugh right!?) and I didn’t put up the inner tent.  I padded around in trainers or socks on the forest floor.  I cooked off the tipi stove – which took some effort to get going in the minus 5 degrees evenings.  I did yoga on the banks of the water and talked to few people.

Smokin' hot

Mum and dad came down to find me on Saturday morning as I was heading out on a short shake-down ride on the bike.  I threw myself over some stupidly steep climbs though so I guess that’s OK.  What’s important is I had my usual lunch at Hawkeshead.  One of those rare times I fancied a BLT.

Back at the campsite too early to eat, I went for a walk along the shore, saw deer in the woods and stopped on the boat mooring and watched a cormorant chilling out on the wall of the mooring for a good 10 minutes.  I lay on the pontoon, stretched my hands out and stared at the sky. 

A slightly more impressive pre-race pasta dish which saved left overs for post-race lunch on Sunday.  The lovely girls at the campsite agreed to me staying on late so I could pack up after the race instead of before.

At Grizedale I checked in with the race organisers before faffing and finding Ruth and Ed with whom to share pre-race banter.  Mum and dad showed up just before the start and watched us head off up the hill.  I felt good so decided to hold my place.  A few women moved ahead of me and I passed back all but one and otherwise held my own.  I could see Ruth’s brother ahead but wasn’t going to stick with him.

Off the fire road I relaxed a bit as the terrain got rockier and gnarlier, then I realised I was glad of the shade.  It was so hot running in the open.  I am actually getting to know the route now so I was relieved at the arrival of Carron Crag and the downhill.  I had a laugh with some guys taking selfies and videos on the way down and then hit the tough off-road descent, bouncing from rock to rock. 

Mum and dad had been chatting to another race supporter and drumming up cheers from strangers.  I burst into T1 in a good mood, hoping I’d kept the blonde lady who kept passing me at bay and changed relatively quickly.  I didn’t even forget anything… it was such a glorious day, I even set off on a mountain bike ride wearing nothing but a string teeshirt and my running vest on top.  As I went through the gate, the organiser shouted "4th woman" at me.  Seriously? NO?!  My first run had been almost as fast as my lunchtime flat road runs at work.

I rode through the bike climb where I had to stop and eat fuel 2 years ago when my PE was taking charge.  I stomped through a number of tough climbs feeling really proud of myself for riding all the good ones. 

I passed two women.  One from Bingley and another who I didn't recognise. I was, to say the least a little surprised but also could not contain my excitement and shot off.  I reached the moorland which is really so nice.  Memories of passing through here in the pouring rain in years before and this time it was sunny and beautiful, hot.  I passed Simon, cheering us across the fells and descended into the river bed only to climb out again, riding most of the way until the next gate forced me to get off and walk.  Another rider wanted to know how far we'd come.  5 miles.  5-bloody-miles! We were 1/3 of the way through.  Bugger.  Cyclo-cross mode again.  The 45 minute sprint.

I descended in company back into the woods and began to enjoy the break of a few fire roads until, to my horror I saw Ruth Marsden coming up behind me! Now I'm used to Ruth trouncing me on the run but I'd never before had the opportunity for her to catch me up on the bike.  Try as I might I couldn't keep up with her.  Not on the up hill and not on the super bouncy downhill bike that she was riding.  She's a strong woman.

I told her she was now in second place.  She didn't believe me either but we carried on together relentlessly for a few moments before I admitted reluctantly that I'd over-cooked it and sent her on her way through a gate to downhill away from me.

The course was so dry that I rode most of the stepping stones on the gravel alongside and the boardwalks were dry... so how someone managed to fall off one I don't know but there it was, a big muddy hole in the bog.

The descent to transition came with its usual mind wobbles as the bridlepath starts to look like a footpath but then we dropped in and transitioned and out again.  Run shoes just about sliding back on.

The second run hurt all the way through.  I just about found enough get up and go to run most of it except for the steepest sections.  At 5.1 mph average it was still OK although my descent was just as quick so I obviously didn't manage that one too well.  In fact, I let rip in the vain hope that I'd catch Ruth but with my uphill being 5 minutes longer, I couldn't make it stick.

I thundered past my parents squealing "No brakes!" to find I had crossed the line in 4th woman place overall and 2nd FV40.  

Run 1: 41:09

Bike: 1:58:30

Run 2: 48:28

Dedicated support crew.

I went back to the beautiful campsite, de-camped at my leisure - including eating left-overs and watching canoe-based boy-versus-swan from the comfort of lakeshore.

This weekend was owned.  It's just a shame it had to share my ongoing week.  I drove home to start packing for working away.