3 Peaks Cyclo-cross

Sunny morning
You can hear it
Siren's warning
There is weather on both sides
And I know it's coming
Just like before
There's a black dog
That scratches my door
He's been growling my name saying
You better get to running
Can you make it better for me
Can you make me see the light of day
Because I got no one
Who will bring me a
Big umbrella
So I'm watching the weather channel
And waiting for the storm

Sheryl Crow, Weather Channel

Over and over going through my head all day long.

We left Helwith Bridge in a great big group and quickly settled down into scraggly  clumps of people.  I resolved this year to avoid the mele and ride at a simple pace to catch dad up somewhere outside Horton village.  The plan worked and we climbed the last few steep roady hills together before the turn off to farm tracks.

From there I said my "see ya laters" and headed off into the rain.

There were no flocks of sheep frolicking in the fields this year.  They were mostly huddling from the rain.  It was soon obvious that it was going to be a difficult day when I found myself walking across bogs that I'd normally ride over.

I caught up with my friend Anna at the bottom of Simon Fell, amusingly disgruntled that I was passing her.  Quite frankly I was merely surprised.  I took the fell runners route up Simon Fell, choosing to slough across the grassy wall instead of hauling up the stone wall.   Joined, as usual by an army rider, we zigzagged slowly up.  It went by quicker than usual - not that it hurt any less - I think I'm still relatively hill-fit after Scotland.

Reaching the styal over the wall, the wind hit.  No blustering, simply consistently around 50-60mph, the rain flying sideways across the moor, passing in a blur like a ghostly high-speed train.  I started riding my bike but  was soon blown sideways towards the wall at high speed.  Trying again, I went to ride to my left so at least I had 3 ft before hitting the wall but I was constantly blown into sharp and lumpy rocks and risking flying off the bike.  The bogs arrived and so we all reverted to walking again.

Keeping dry feet had at least gone by half an hour earlier so bog-stomping ensued.  Someone tried to zip my waterproof pocket up for me but we really didn't want to stop long enough and his fingers couldn't release the zip in the cold.

A final ascent through the rocks to the summit.  A gentleman asked what our challenge was.  "The three peaks" I said.

"Are you nearly finished?" he asked.

"Nope, this is the first one!".

The summit plateau was more difficult than usual.  It's never rideable - despite it being so flat - because of the chossy rocks which bounce out from under wheels as I try to ride it.  In these conditions it was hardly walkable.  Carrying the bike wasn't an option.  The wind would blow so hard, its pressure on the bike would accelerate me to a speed where my feet could not land on anything fixed and I floundered to put a foot on a solid rock.  I put the bike down and tried to lean into the wind.  That meant the bike was upright and my wheels were getting blown up in the air. I resorted to pushing my bike at 60 degrees to the ground, leaning into it to put some weight on the wheels.

We battled back to the edge, to the drop off and started the run down.

Once it eventually became rideable the descent off the mountain went by quickly.  Dropping out of the cloud to see the bottom 100m of the valley was a relief.  The view was finally back in colour.  I continued to ricochet of the side of the footpath but finally it was controllable.

"It shouldn't be that difficult to get this far" was my overriding thought.

Near the base, TSK was shouting directions at me from the other side of the bog.  I think I resorted getting off and running over to meet him for my food stash and drink, dodging the crash site to the side of me.  I left saying that Anna Cipullo was behind me and dad wasn't sounding healthy.  He'd been wheezing a bit on the hillclimbs.

As I departed I asked for a change of shorts, a wool top and another pair of socks at the next control.  I'd been thinking about them all the way down the mountain and not asking for them seemed silly, so I asked.

The marshal called out to me, "you'll have to do the ride of your life now!" which I took to mean, I had to rush to get to the next checkpoint before cut off time.

He was right but the road section to Chapel le Dale was heavenly and panic subsided.  The roaring wind which had plagued us was now on my tail and I ripped along the road, all the way stuffing food and drink down my neck as it's the best place to consume.  A turn onto the steep hill leading to the turn off for Whernside made no impact on my legs and I knew that I'd be in good shape to finish as I'm normally struggling by this point.

I passed a man heaving himself up the hill in a massive gear and thought, "what a tosser" but then realised that he'd snapped his derailleur on Ingleborough and had done his best to shorten his chain and drag himself along fixie style in the middle of his block.  We had a brief laugh about the turn of events before I headed onto Whernside.

The marshal at the bottom said, "You're over the cut off time so you can stop now if you want to but I'll let you through".  Thank god.  There was no stopping me for I had found my legs and still had a lot of places to make up from waiting for dad.  A small man in a red coat with a little beard?  Get thee behind me Satan, I am going up this 'ill.  It was 12:03.  We had started at 9:30.  The only saving grace was the warmth of the weather.  Any colder and the windchill could've been deadly but the mountain rescue team are clever about exposure and they were content for us to continue.

I had a snicker with a man sporting a white beard about how we'd sneaked through by a whisper, though they continued to let people through for some time after.  I didn't know it but dad got through at 12:09.  At the water station I said hello to Eric Taylor, rivalling my dad at 39 events.

On the trudge up Whernside I passed on as many tips as I could to people carrying their bikes like a big kite or paraglider instead of putting it to their backs like a sail and using the wind to help with the climb.

I was alone on the climb, passing everyone I could, yet not catching anyone in front. I thought of Andy Smith face-planting on the descent last year and of the lady who broke her ankle and of the man who crashed on the way down Ingleborough two years ago and over strained his neck and I looked at the rain flying sideways across the hillside and I realised that there'd be no helicopters today.  I concluded that if I died on that hill that day I'd die happy.  I grinned and kept going.

On the summit ridge a Mancunican lass and I talked of the North and epic weather.  On the descent I ran past her teetering on the limestones slabs as I skipped by in the bog - feet already wet but happy to stay warm by running.

I caught up with an old friend - Ruth Gamwell on the bottom of Whernside in more ways than one - physically and verbally - our annual exchange of news.  I passed her and two people with her, jumping on my bike to finally find a rideable section.  We passed another man having a stretch with an agonising wrangled face of pain protruding from his helmet.  That was me a few years ago - completely unprepared for the task at hand.  I'd sworn my way all the way up PYG that year.  This year I felt good and bounced my way across bridges, stepping stones and river crossings - all over 12 inches deep in bubbling peaty water.

I saw Po at the signal box along the railway line and reported that I didn't know whether dad was coming or not.  I passed the same message on to Andrew.  Because I was still warm, I didn't take on the dry clothes or the warm top but carried on as I was and it wasn't a problem for me at all.

The ride to PYG was frustrating - back into a headwind.  I just got on with it though.  Phil Thackary passed, offering up energy gels from his car.  I declined but others sat in his slipstream which pissed me off quite a bit.  To be honest though, I wasn't bothered about trying to catch a wheel as I didn't want to use excess energy pushing myself on the road.  Ruth stuffed a sarnie in her mouth as she sat on my wheel and I got a lift back off her for a while but once I started taking on food, I couldn't be bothered with racing.

Arriving at PYG I caught up the Mancunian lady again and we both sighed with relief that we only had to do this howling wind one more time.  This year it wasn't about the mountain climbs.  The crowd at the bottom of PYG seemed louder than ever and most had assembled around a large puddle part way up the road.  A voice shouted, "it's rideable on the centre left" so I rode as fast as I could at the spot where I remember the land rover tracks used to be.  Water sloshed around my hands and thighs and soaked through my shoes but I pedalled and pedalled and popped out the other side to rapturous applause.  On I rode around the corner, up the side of the corners until finally, my strength ran out at the 90 degree bend.  I pushed for a while and me and Manc lass rested on our laurels for a moment for there were no more deadlines.

Eventually we got back to riding.  It seemed just recompense for the weather that they (I assume the parks authority) had resurfaced parts of the climb on PYG making it mostly rideable up until the first passing through the gate.  All of the steep rocky sections have been filled in with shaley gravel saving the legs both coming up and down.

Just as I started wallking, Lynn Bland flew by warning me that she couldn't squeeze the brakes and then I noticed through the corner of my eye the shaddow of the main that was Crispin Doyle and his broken collar bone, walking off the mountain - carrying his bike in a sulky fashion (who can blame him?)  There was too much noise in the wind for me to hear what had happened to him.

I took some water off the ever-present helper on PYG which was very welcome to wash down the last of the energy bars that I had guzzled on the road.  Jo Jebb sprang past me on the summit climb with Owen Henrickson close by and Andy Smith updated me on Crispin's status when I saw him walking the opposite way down the mountain as I was on my way up.  They were a welcome relief from holding up my hand to protect my face from the searing stinging rain blowing straight at me at 60 miles per hour.  When I went to put my bike down, a large puddle had built up inside my waterproof coat in the crook of my elbow and it sploshed down my arm and through my already sodden glove.

The top of PYG is where I usually put on my waterproof to give me warmth on the long descent.  This time I was a little worried about what I'd feel like without another layer.  I ran away as quickly as possible, bog hopping to avoid the rocky path then dropping steeply away wherever possible.  It didn't take long to get to a point where I could get on my bike but as I did my hips slid forward, the bike started to move but my fingers didn't.  No matter how much I wriggled by elbows to get the brakes to pull on,  my fingers would not respond.  I simply reverted to dropping the bike and running away before it took over on its own.

A second, flatter attempt to get on was more successful.  The drains flew by in a blur and I was back out of that wind before I knew it, though still shifting my gears with the opposite hand to make it feasible to manipulate the lever.

Only now did Queen take over in my head, "Don't stop me now, I'm having such a good time, I'm having a ball".  The man behind me said, "just don't fall off infront of me".

The puddle on the descent was about 6 inches deeper and slippier.  I went to take my previous route but sadly my pedals released and I reverted to getting off the bike to push out.  A disappointment for me for riding it would've been so satisfying.

I was dismayed to see dad's bike on the back of the Vanu when I returned to the road and at the same time relieved that he had come down off Whernside and that Andrew wasn't stood around still waiting for him.  I also knew that it meant the vanu would be waiting for me at the finish so I wasn't going to have to go and camp out in the Norton Wheelers camping park until Andrew and Dad returned to the finish.

Four of us hit the road together.  Me and Steve Loades both agreed to ride together nice and steady on the basis that we both get leg cramp on that final hill to the finish line.  The Manc Lass and Karl Brown rode off ahead (obviously not been trying hard enough).  To combat the cramp I reached into my tool bag and recovered the 3 inch slab of Kendal Mint Cake that had been lurking there in a plastic bag.  As the Vanu rolled past I was ripping into it with my teeth and after I'd eaten a chunk I shared it with Steve.  We both made it over the hill top and freewheeled into the finish line together.

It's a relief to get to the end of every Three Peaks but this one was especially satisfying.  I didn't do a great time but I didn't bomb out either.  I enjoyed every moment of it and didn't do too badly considering I'd had 2 months off training to get married.  I hope there will be more 3 Peaks and I hope that one day there will be another one just like that.  For me it's the hardest thing I've ever done.  Harder than ADIL this summer because of the wind and the terrain.  It's given me a yearning for another event and an urge to go further and be fitter.

This years 3 Peaks has sent my head somewhere special & I think I'm probably quite looking forwards to getting there.

This years three peaks & life after weddings.

I have no idea how this years three peaks is going to go. Back in May I was pretty fit then in June I felt I hadn't done all the training I needed to do for A Day in the Lakes. Still, I finished and in a time that showed I was a lot fitter than the year before. Despite that, my recovery period rolled into pre-wedding chaos with only a couple of weeks in between where I actually did some hill training.


At least from that point I had a solid base to take away on honeymoon, not to mention to return to in September when I got back to work.

We did a lot of endurance style training in Scotland which has pretty much convinced me that I will be able to finish the peaks, even if I don't do a good time. 2 munroes in 5 hours and 22km with heavy rucsacs counts doesn't it.

Knowing I wasn't going to have enough time to do a good job of the 3 Peaks, I decided the best way to get back to training through the winter was to set myself targets for the middle of winter, ie. The 'cross nationals which I haven't done for a couple of years, given my own lack of fitness and the risk of being pulled out after 20 minutes. This plan also gave me the opportunity to re implement the bike training I did when I dabbled in road racing without having to worry about too much running and swimming training at the same time.

I've been doing spinning and strength training for two weeks now and I have really enjoyed it. Despite it being short duration training, I discovered last weekend that it is having the desired effect and increasing my training endurance and my cyclo-cross at the weekend flew by in no time. Just as I was trying to decide whether to take a rest week or not, I have been hit by a massive, shitty cold exasserbated by the aspiration of a fly during the race on Sunday which has enforced the rest issue. Sadly it's coincided with a really important yet boring training course which I both really wanted to do but am finding very hard going.

Thursday Friday I intend to rest good and proper.

So with the culmination of good training, bad training and my head being in a pretty good place, it's difficult to know what might happen on Sunday.

I guess this like most other years will be a suck it and see hope I get around kind of event. I really hope there's another one next year.

In other news I have accepted an offer on my house in Wootton Bassett.  It is not what I wanted but from my reaction to the news I can deduce that not having a house in Wootton Bassett is what I want.  It's a lovely little house which I will miss but I don't use it anymore.

I accepted the offer reluctantly but now I am looking forwards to buying a house in Sheffield.  For some reason it feels like the grown up thing to do... despite the fact that the grown up thing to do is to hold onto it until the market comes around.

If I look at it this way:

"I will be the one living in the more expensive house - not Maureen"
Then it all feels OK.

It feels like a forwards step.  It feels like getting the HSBC off my back.  It feels like I won't have to fear that the under-cover rental operation will land me in trouble.  


C'mon Sheffield, come to Trep.

Historic Moments

A British yellow jersey leading out a British stage winner on the Champs Elysee.

Well done Cav and Wiggo.

A Day in the Lakes 1/2IM OR Middle Distance on Minimal Training

12 months on from this little disaster we ended up camped back at Park Foot campsite in Pooley Bridge  to finish what I started.  This time I brought my favourite weapon, my fiance, for much needed support.

For the record, it's been pissing it down for weeks and in North Yorkshire on Friday, rivers were bursting their banks and flooding villages, the Bob Graham fell run had been cancelled and the Great North Swim delayed 24 hours from Saturday to Sunday.  We weren't even sure if the race was going to go ahead but the organisers posted on facebook that they were on their way over to the Lakes, so we packed up the vanu, drove through thick fog and lashing rain to get to the Lakes and set up camp, in the rain of course.

A quick trip to the pub after dinner set me even more on edge for raceday as the river was gushing through the village at about 1m/s and the wind had picked up again and was throwing the lake into a choppy swell.  I didn't really want to do ADIL again without the full swim and I definately didn't want to face up to the prospect of doing one really HARD duathlon.

Sleep was as intermittent as it usually is on a campsite. Having to decide whether you *actually* need a pee in the middle of the night and weighing up the pros and cons of waiting for it to stop raining before you go.  I went and peace was restored with the help of earplugs to drown out the sound of the rain on the roof of the vanu.

Mercifully, raceday dawned dry (I hasten to add, not clear) but also the howling wind had dropped and the lake was pan-flat.  The only panics were some last minute toolbag packing and making sure the air pressure on my tyres was correct.  I considered using the track pump but decided that whatever pressure drop had occurred since Scisset would probably benefit my grip on a wet day so settled for a well-practiced squeeze of the tyres which seemed 'hard enough'.

Matt Hartley wanted to know my thoughts for the day to which I responded, "finishing".  Aparently he wanted a prediction on the weather which was basically, it will rain eventually.

As we got into the water it became apparent that the water temperature was not, as announced, 13 degrees C.  I think they might've meant Farenheit - or possibly Kelvin.  I knew I would have to get around fast to avoid the cold setting in and slowing me down even further.  As my swimming is still quite weak, I decided to use my legs on the swim too, hoping that the extra body-heat I held onto would make me faster in transition and on the bike.

The green hats started first and without further ado (to give us the best chance of not dropping out) the orange hats were started as soon as we had assembled.

The excellent call on behalf of the organisers was to move the course of the swim.  If we had followed the usual route across the lake and back we would have been crossing that surge of water exiting the lake into the river.  Instead they directed us directly South - against the current close to the edge of the lake where the current is lightest.  Then returning North further offshore with a little bit of a tail-current on the way back.  Spotting the buoy was tricky as we were on more-or-less an out and back course so the buoy was approximately 750m away but there were sailing boats in between which I used for sighting.  It was nice to see lots of people on the campsite, lining the banks to cheer us on - something you don't get on the usual course.

It was hard-going because everyone spread out quite a lot.  I kept trying to jump on feet or get in a group but I would lose people quickly and suddenly find myself alone in between two groups so I just did the best I could.  I checked my watch at the buoy - 15 minutes.  Pleased with that but knew that I needed to keep going fast .  At the second buoy there was quite a cluster of people so I felt quite happy that I wasn't dangling out the back on my own.  We'd even caught up a green hat who turned out to be quite a good swimmer but rubbish at sighting so probably swam about 2.4km to everyone elses' 1.9.

The last straight was hard.  At first my fingers started to claw and it seemed to take forever to get to the boats again.  Once we did, the left calf twitched with cramp once or twice which is my signal to start easing-off but I just didn't want to.  I tried my best to really focus on my technique but it felt totally futile as I combed at the water with my useless hands.  I tried a bit of breast stroke but that was tediously slow so I sprinted for the shore after the final (starting) buoy.  When I stood up to the very enthusiastic onlookers, I just said, "oh my god" and walked up the hill to transition.

39 minutes on my watch.  40:40 by the time I'd walked over the timing mat! 288/334

I took time to dry off.  Although I knew I was going to get wet on the bike, it seemed like a good idea to at least hit the road damp instead of soalked and make the most of the first bit of the day.  I put my arm warmers on as I figured I'd need to warm up and even had the nouse to turn one inside out when I realise I'd put it on upside down and wasn't going to get the wrist over my elbow.  I am pleased with this.  Sorry if you don't understand what I'm on about but I am proud of myself for this - what with the frozen brain and all that.

All of my food fell out of my jersey pockets so I stuffed what I could find back in - the home-made bag of mixed fruit and nuts that I like to refer to as my nose-bag and an energy bar.  I grabbed my helmet.  I didn't realise my knee-warmers had also fallen out of my pocket.

I got out of transition with a smile on my face and decided to take the first part of the course easy as a warm up.

The route alongside Ullswater is beautiful and quite flat at first.  Some of the tarmac is lovely and smooth and it was very happy-making to just roll along it, quite unfussed.  I saw TSK on a street corner (sheesh) looking suitably enthusiastic in his marshall's jacket.

I took the time to sort out my nose-bag and started to eat from it, passing other riders and coping with motorists that overtake without planning.  Forget the no-drafting rules, in places it was like a road race with groups of 5 or 6 riders trundling along together although given the state of everyone's body temperature, it was more like a sunday club run and there really wasn't much benefit to be had from group riding.  None of it was organised drafting by any stretch of the imagination.

The road gradually gets lumpier and little streams spill out across the road meaning my feet had had dry socks on for about 15 minutes before a driver coming the other way soalked me and everyone I was with form the knees down.  So much for dry feet but then no point in crying over spilt rain on a day like today.  I was just glad of all the soggy Fairholmes rides I've done as a warm up!

Eventually we hit the bottom of the Kirkstone pass climb.  Time to stop eating, drop into the small ring and churn out pedal revs.  I got a few twitches from the left calf to let me know I needed to be careful with it so I sat down as much as I could on the climb.

When push came to shove as it does near the top of the K pass, it seemed I could do anything with this calf muscle except spin it really quickly so I reasoned to keep in a big-ish gear for the rest of the day.

I caught people up, riders passed me back and got through the last section of the climb watching the legs on the bloke in front.  He didn't have particularly nice legs but it took the pain away when I watched his Ironman tattoo on his calf expand and contract with each pedal stroke.

Over the top I stopped to don my coat just before a number of parked cars and riders.  They were warning us of the inevitable accident on the descent and the crowds of slow descenders started to form.  Me and one other rider dived into the abyss of fog and increasingly heavy rain with our eyes open and our brains switched on just in time to see someone being loaded into the back of an ambulance on a body-board, a pair of white dainty cycling shoes carefully placed by the side of the road.  I understand there were no major injuries reported.

Once we'd passed them I noticed just how bad the bloody rain was, moving from an incessent hissing drizzle to a constant pattering shower.

My friend and I weaved our way down the country lanes without seeing another person until we reached the flat valley bottom avoiding major towns like Windermere and Ambleside.  I resumed eating, my figs, now turned to jam, which enveloped each tasty pecan that I pulled from my pocket.  I yearned for the frame-top food bag we'd been contemplating earlier in the day.

The day in the lakes ride takes you through some really lovely little villages and country lanes and I wish I could recall them all to you but it did kind of blur.  The rain did little to dampen my spirits to be honest because I felt reasonably warm most of the time and the flowers in people's gardens, the sheep grazing on a freshly mowed field, kestrels hunting in open ground, distracted me from the drizzle and the fact that the usual glorious scenery was slightly hidden behind the low cloud.

Finally I was at Shap climb.  The temporary road works that halted us on the feed-in downhill were gone so this year I hit the bottom of the climb at a rolling 40kph.

Shap isn't steep, it's just long and I was well into my smallest gear very soon, still suffering from the after-effects of the swim.  I had a brief chat with a woman with blonde hair about how our races were going so far.  I said I'd left it all in the lake and was slowing down but my only target was to get onto the run and finish the damn thing.  "Once past the aid station, there's nothing anyone can do to stop me finishing" I said.

A bloke with a posh accent asked me if this was Shap and "are we at the end of all the major climbs".  "Yes", I said, "you can let rip now".

As things started to level out, I caught blonde lady up again.  The fruit and nut mix had just kicked in (finally) and mojo reappeared.  Unlike last year's fiasco of lost energy drinks at the aid station, I soared by, happy in the knowledge that I had all the fluids and energy I needed and I could get to the end of the bike.

Blondie and I flew off down the hill together, me finally passing her as my downhill stance proved ever so slightly more effective at cutting through the wind - though my max speed on the descent was 3kph slower than last year at 59.

I got a bit chilly on the descent so I flattened out on the tri bars and bashed out the next few kms along the A6 and then back onto minor lanes as far as Askham.  Through Lowther Castle I was stopped to a halt on the beautiful park lanes by gamboling lambs.  Honest to god I could've 'ad 'em for dinner wee barstards.

I also got cattle-grid fear after a near miss at Fairholmes 2 years ago and several people caught me up.

22km further didn't seem like much when I looked at my Garmin but then I realised it was another hour at this pace so felt a little more reticent.  When it got to 10 miles to go I started timetrialling.  I wasn't going particularly fast but fast enough to stay warm and focussed enough to stop the boredom setting in, to prevent my brain shutting down muscles.  It helped as I caught up Ironman-leg again.

Just to spur me on, with 10km to go, it started absolutely pelting it down.  Marshalls were giving warnings about going too quickly around corners and they meant it.  On the straights I just enjoyed myself.  It was like cyclo-cross - but smoother.  I didn't have to worry about getting wet feet on the run - they were already absolutely soalked and were only going to get wet again on the hillside.

Despite this philosophy, by the time I reached transition it had stopped raining and I had already planned which bits of kit in the box I was going to change into and dry clothes and knee warmers were high on the list of priorities.

Expecting to see TSK at the dismount line and waiting with a comedy pun in my mind about his "dismount here" placcard and pizza restaurant adverts, I had to zip my lip when I realised it was actually the organiser holding the placcard.

Bike time: 3:57:05 257/334

I didn't bother to change my socks but the soggy tri top and jersey came off and dry baselayer and run vest went on.  My wet waterproof went in a pack pocket and as I reached for the knee-warmers I realised I also had full-length leggings in the box.  Those went on to protect my calf muscles from further damage.  Joy oh joy! My running shoes had been cooking inside the box in what little sunshine had fallen on the field and they were WARM!

Consolidated by warm feet and dry clothes I threw my emergency pack on my back (stored with the back-side down so it would stay dry in the rain) and ran up the field.  Yeah baby RAN!

I managed to run all the way along the flat bit then walked up the hill.  Not all the way - but most of the way.  I ran an 'ickle tiny bit.  Once at the top of the first climb it's a long, flatish stretch across the fell with great views over the lake and it's a nice surface to run on.

I put my coat on because not only was it raining again but the wind started to whisk across the top of the hillside and it was a bit chilly.  A couple of other runners did the same and were probably thankful of the organiser's insistence on an emergency kit for this event.  As I met a marshall indicating the turn onto the descent, it was raining so hard I asked her to do her best to make sure it didn't quite turn to hail.  She agreed to do her best.

The most fun part about this years run was knowing (at least most of) the course.  Last year I tried to keep my feet dry at first because I usually try to keep them dry if I can.  This year I knew that eventually you have to get wet feet so I didn't bother trying which meant no bog-hopping, no jumping over streams, just chugging on - only checking to make sure you're not going to turn an ankle or end up in up to your knees.

Last year I found it very difficult to contemplate a half marathon after everything that goes before.  I still do but it is quite amazing that once you're in a rhythm, it feels like you've just set out.  The pain of the bike ride is gone from the legs and you can just get back to running.

The blonde lady caught me up again and we ran together all the way down the descent talking of where we live and what we do for fun and which events we're into.  I think she made me run a bit faster for a while and whether that was good for my race or bad (I was properly spent well before the end), I certainly enjoyed it more fer her company.

I stopped to put my coat away and dig some energy beans out of my bag and away she ran into the bog and was lost to me.  To my relief the aid station arrived quite quickly and I got to wave to Matt Hartley on his way down to the finish line.  He gave me good notice of the boggy sections across the top of the fell ahead which I was glad of as it meant I didn't need to look for the easy way around - just get on with it.  I smiled and said that it was what I was into!

The run (walk) up Fusedale was lovely - a quiet hidden valley that can't be seen from Ullswater.  It's green and has a river running down the middle.  The fells sweep up to the sides and the steep climb out of it proffers a wonderful view of the surrounding peaks.  It had actually stopped raining so all was good with the world.  I stopped and sat on a rock to remove a large boulder from my shoe.  I walked most of the way around Fusedale head chatting to a Mancunian from Flixton which was a desperate shame since I actually wanted to slink off behind a rock for a pee.  We pondered together how much further this run could keep going up and checked the Garmin for confirmation that it couldn't be much further.

Onto a big open pasture and the boggy bits that Matt had warned me of.  I enjoyed this bit, striding out away from the Manc lad and running the downhills.  I caught up the scotsman and some others before we rounded the best corner of the day.  Exiting fusedale you're suddenly on the otherside of the fell which made up one valley-side of Fusedale.  On this other side it sweeps downwards at 60 degrees to Ullswater, around 500m below.  The path takes a daring slant down this hillside over rocky outcrops and slippery slopes, ferny fields and torrential rivulets.  Me and the Scotsman bounced down it and he whooped, saying, "They call this a run!?" as I sunk onto my hands to launch myself off a miniature crag.   As I fumbled down a grassy slope I reaffirmed my love for my fell shoes as I looked around me at the litter of slither-marks made by flat soled trainers.  I stopped laughing when we hit the very vertical final descent to a marshal with a dog who, up until yesterday, should've been TSK.


A few hundred metres back down the road and the course veers up again on another fell track.  I'm still scouting for somewhere to relieve my poor bladder but the walls are unsuitable and the ruin turns out to be someone's house.  I can't get onto the road with my bladder this full.  Eventually, a suitable rock outcrop presents itself and I descend into the grass to momentarily flash my bits to the other runners and the Ullswater steamer trundling up the lake 200m below me.  I really hope no-one on that boat had their binoculars focused on the race!  I'm welcomed back to the race by a stream of people checking I'm OK and I have a big smile on my face.  Definitely "better".


Around the hillside and it's back to the aid station.  Unlike last year, they have a few car loads of water bottles left over and they seem more concerned with that than offering me water or telling me which way to go but that's OK because I can do this bit.  I practiced it last year.


Actually the cattle grid is still scary.


Running.  On the road.  Not my fave thing.  The church is nice.  There's a grassy bit.  Then you're on the lake shore.  The captain of the steamer is wading up the path to the launch in his wellies (yes that's right, he's wading up the path) and gives me a smile and tells me I'm doing well.  It ocurrs to me just now that he's seen my bum earlier but I will let that lie.


I'm doing OK, I'm still running along the road.  Running running running, hurty hurty hurty.  Ow.  No.  Can't do that.  Ow.  It's not that my legs hurt, it's that my hips are refusing to hold up the rest of my body.  Perhaps its muscular.  I'll take a look in my rucsac and see if I've put any ibuprofen in there.  


Ohhh! 


thank! 


God!! 


I! 

did!


2 down.  Wash down with water.  Bit of running. Bit of walking.  The pain is easing.


The little muscles at the top of my thighs that make my legs move forwards don't work anymore so I am using my hips to kind of throw my legs forwards, walking like someone with a mild degenerative disease.  The paid is easing.  Some people pass me saying they've had energy gels.  Perhaps I will just have one (they make me violently ill if I use too many).  Should I take one with the drugs?  I do.  I think it speeds the uptake of the drugs and the pain eases some more.  I wonder how far I have to go?  I am concious of not just meeting the cut-off time but being well inside it.  I have too much self respect.  I have put too much into this to be close to the cut off time.


Garmin says...
you have 5km to go and if you can do it inside 30 minutes you will have done a 3hr 22km run at the end of everything else.  BLOODY GARMIN!


Running.  Crap.


I catch someone up who says, "don't catch me up, then I'll have to start running".  I say, "you really don't have to.  I'm running because it's personal."  Nevertheless, off he ran.


Someone else caught me up, a small lady just jogging past.  No walking just running.  All the way, bloody running.  I've stopped running on the up hills.  Just walk the up hills, and the down hills.  Running on the flat bits.  We can do that.  I've run out of up hills and downhills so I have to keep running.  I can see campers but I can also see boats so that means it's not my campsite.  A car comes past with the window down and the passengers shout encouragement.  I see another campsite, still not mine.  Garmin says 3km to go.  


Finally I can see the green army tents on my campsite and I have a sneaky walk as my legs really can't do it anymore but I know they will have to because as soon as I round this corner... yes, there they are.  Three kids, all dressed in waterproofs and they're clapping.  I focus on red coat and for every clap of her hands there is a a foot fall.  Slap slap slap my flat and crappy feet on the tarmac.  The pain is gone, all eyes are on me and I am there, I am doing it, I am finally going to kick this course on the ass and go home!.


The marshal on the gate has an entry list in her hands so shouts me, "well done Andrea!" as I round the corner.  Sprinting through the field, Matt is there shouting, "Go on Trep, Tick in the box" and I say it's more like a cross in the "never-again" box.  Splodge splodge down the muddy track, over the dismount mat and up to the finishing line where I make boo-hoo faces at the camera and grab TSK for a big hug and a lovely photo.

Vest on backwards - what a pro.

Runtime 3:09:20.  292/334
Overall 8:00:43 289/334.

2012 April Stats

Swim -Still Nada.  I have summarily failed to achieve 2/3 of April's targets.
Bike - 349.75km (without the  use of an Audax, this is good), 15kph (wtf), 7313m el. The elevation is happy-making.
Run - 40.47km, 8.3km/hr, 1237m.  That's better
April's targets:
To get some swimming in there. Fail
To get the run distance up to 13km per run. Check
To bump the bike speed up. Fail again.

May's targets:
Up to 20km run
Swim!
Sort out bike speed.

2012 1st Trunce (No 2)

I missed the first Trunce of 2012 because of my stoopid job but resolved to do the second, despite the fact that I had done the Hell on Th'Ills Duathlon the day before.

I thought a ride there from Barnsley station would do me good but that only seemed to make my legs stiffer as they were out in the cold.  By the time I got there, I was making deals with myself that if I got there before 6:30 I would run so I didn't have to rush around and risk injury.

I got there at 6:23 and damned myself for doing so.

I jogged up the first hill and talked on the way down.  Because I hadn't brought dry socks or my fell shoes I resorted to the stepping stones for the river crossing which only lost me a few places I quickly regained.

I walked up the steep hill through the woods but ran my normal descent because the going was good under foot.

The second river crossing I did on stepping stones but I enjoyed the flat running sections this time because I managed to keep my place.

The final river crossing was a bit hairy and the ascent even worse as all the other runners had made the surface wet and slippery.

I knew my legs were a mess when I reached the final downhill but I managed to keep my place, in spite of stopping to fasten my shoe laces.

I crossed the line in 42 minutes.  Could do better, but I'm not sure I could with a duathlon in my legs.

The ride home to sheffield took me 1 hour.  For 9 miles.  Atrocious!

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.