Love, Reinvention and Loss

Christmas morning saw me leaving the home of my upbringing and running down to the lake grounds in Portishead.
I had decided that daily running may just build up my pathetic ankle, hence setting out when everyone else is at the breakfast table sharing smoked salmon with blinis.  I was keen to act out childhood journeys as I don't really engage much with the environment that shaped me.
A keen air raked me as I ran through Eastwood down to the royal hotel and on to the beach I spent a long time playing on as a child.  The beach part was pebbles; in the past ships from the West Indies would jettison their ballast prior to entering the port of Bristol and as a result it is possible to find an extraordinary mixture of geology.
Bedrock rises from the shingle like the ridge of a dragons back and pushes out into the mud of the estuary. I jogged over to where there once was a heavy concrete structure that we would crawl into, and once sheltered in when caught by a sudden rain storm. To my surprise the entire platform had tilted so much that the tunnels were raised to the sky and were full of stones.  Thinking about when I played there (forty years ago); no matter how massive and unmovable a structure is, the sea will gently upend and bury it if it has enough time. Nothing is permanent.

Feeling looser than I have recently, I ran along Woodland road, one of the main first roads in Portishead, built to transport tourists who had travelled on the steamer from Bristol.  Crumbling houses are evidence of previous opulence but now divided into flats and family apartments; manicured gardens are hidden under tarmac for the BMW, or the kids' trampoline.
On the other side of the road are the Eastwoods; apparently the site of an ancient hill fort, but also the site of our explorations as kids.  We would climb around in there for hours, only returning home when called for lunch.  Amazingly, the lack of traffic meant everything was so quiet that Mum could bellow for us and her voice would echo round the hill to our den or swing, and we would respond by scuffling home for sandwiches or beans on toast.
I used to run down here when a teenager, floating along with a feeling that the running was so natural it was permanent.  This time I was made very aware that this sense of immortal fleetness is not only ephemeral, but largely absent now. I seem to have replaced the glide with gritty determination.

To my pleasure there was a runner ahead who unwittingly provided competition for me and I ran him down as we approached the sailing club.
Along the cliff path, up onto Nore Road, and back around to the Lake Grounds. I glanced up at the window of one of the houses that had been built on Nore Road when I was a boy - a family were sat at the table with the children swinging their legs in their pyjamas.
The ducks were making the only noise on the Lake Grounds; gabbing away at each other.  The wind streamed off the channel and made me grateful for my windproof top.  The recent rain had overfilled the lake which then flowed over the path causing me to splashily tip-toe along the edge.  I stopped at the cricket pavilion, remembering the hours we spent there watching Dad playing hockey and wallowing in the responsibility of taking the orange segments onto the pitch at half time.  I could almost hear the clacking of the hockey sticks.












I ran past the swimming pool- again a place I spent countless hours in as a child. It belongs to a voluntary group now; they rescued the pool when the council decided to close it.  It seemed smaller than when I was a boy: it always felt so adventurous with high diving boards, the torturing curves of older girls and women in bikinis, and a balcony that was home to breezes from the sea. They have painted it now in Mediterranean colours that jar with my memory; of bleached white steps, a little booth for the guards that contained a tannoy ('NO DIVE-BOMBING'),  and a shelter to store your towel when swimming in the rain.

The path in Eastwood was coated in damp leaves with a silence that sucked up all my footsteps. Brittle twigs reached to the sky like angular fingers.  I love running in these conditions as I feel like the only animated thing: a splash of life in a dormant world.  A solid grind up the hill I used to plod up with my towel and trunks rolled up under my arm, and then a quick bounce down into South Road.

I walked up to the drive, only to see a bunch of irises that had decided to flower out of season.

Bookends

Two runs back to back, on the Roseland Peninsula this weekend.

Sandpiper

Bright sun, clean, sea stretching out like a plateau; I ease out my sore ankle, rolling down the road.  Past white houses, Agapanthus celebrating the climate, sharp gradient sharp bend, level.  
Down onto the beach over the sinuous stream filing its way across the sand; everything finds its own level, flat, smooth.

Footsteps pocked across the beach I spread out over the open space; waves like teeth in the mouth of the sea.  Things seem easier now when in my cadence and the warmth seems to seep through and around; elbows sharp bent, flicking the heels back.  
I step up out of the beach and into the folds of the fields running along tight brown paths scarcely room for one foot let alone two.

Rolling back down into the littoral domain my feet sink; the sand sucking the action from my foot and removing the spring.  
Sting taken from my stride I move with effort toward the rocks and then up, calf push, and over the dark hard; mussels crunching.  There is a man ahead, just by the tight gap in the rocks and I curve round him so he hears me coming, steps back, and lets me jump up and into the next bay, all change.

Boat moored, dragged like a carcass onto the track; past another person's domain. 

I stop, climbing onto the rocks and squat, sun warmed.  
Two sandpipers mechanical prodders crank along the beach, excising worms.  Unaware of my presence they stab closer to the rocks until I stand and send them panicking along the shore.

The warmth connects me to the land.  Space defined by sound and wind I hear the waves.  Shirt off I feel muscular, sinuous; organic movement contrasts with the immutability of the rocks as I retrace my steps, follow the path, leave it all behind.





Lighthouse
Jenny and I ran the other way the next day.  The path follows the curve and curl of the fields, and we found ourselves alternately climbing and dropping, and then sweeping round and over each hill.  Moby ran behind, ahead, and mostly in the way of us as he picked up smells and looped through bushes and routes that we couldn't fit through. Stiles and gates appeared to be placed in the most awkward places - at the top of a slippery path or pushed in the end of a bramble bush.  
Cows stood still in the calm of a windless day; lumbering out of our way as we approached. They have trampled parts of the path and must be cautious of the cliff with little protection from the drop.

The sea sat limpid until we broached the estuary where it gave us a sharper view of sky, rocks and trees on the opposite side.  

Back to Portscatho, and back into the people sorting out breakfast or planning the day.  Some just sat, sucked out to sea by the vertiginous flatness.  We made an effort to catch two bikers yards from the house, and triumphantly burst in on the peace.

The Land that Crest Nicholson forgot

The ground was icy in patches as, buoyed up by a slightly looser ankle than normal, I headed off to Dundry.  For non-Bristolians, Dundry is perched on an escarpment peering down at the city; the weather is always colder and wetter up there and the village has an atmosphere of isolation.  I can see it from our kitchen window, and so it often becomes an aspirational target when heading out for a run.

The land between Long Ashton and Dundry has been the subject of much planning debate - it seems that developers want to coat it in tarmac and erect the sort of houses that have a 20 year shelf life.  The fields have a sense of history about them and the prospect of 24,000 houses taking up my running territory is hardly going to fill me with pleasure, regardless of a stated need for so many more dwellings.

I ran under the bypass and along the side of the golf course down an ancient-feeling path with some reflection that I should enjoy this land before it is lost.  Up the steep climb to Dundry and onto ground that I imagine won't be built on for a very long time - Dundry is so steep that any pavements would have to be steps - it just isn't practical to build there.  For now.
I curved past Castle farm.  I have no idea whether there once was a Castle there and wasn't really fussed about asking the resident there - a man repairing the roof on top of some scaffolding.  He was dropping planks down as he dismantled the scaffolding and his skittish dog kept getting in the way.  Past the house and on to the top.
Over the ridge and I was presented with a view of Chew Valley lake gently glinting in the late afternoon sun.   A field of cows were rather startled by my presence and I took advantage of their presence to draw breath as I reached out to stroke them; their hides always being just out of reach as they cautiously stepped back.

 I love the time in the winter just before it gets dark; things feel expectant with the only sound being slightly hysterical blackbirds clucking warnings to each other.  They seem to be attempting to shout the dusk away with their voices echoing in the hovering silence.

I then dropped down Elwell Lane; surely the rockiest, steepest most challenging track in the area.  At the best of times a stream runs down the middle, and there is no level surface anywhere.  You have to carefully pick your way down one step at a time and this time I was joined by fallen leaves as they were washed down the hill by the stream.  I once found a load of hair care products up there - shampoo, hair spray and some brushes.  There is no way a car can get up the track and I couldn't imagine the owner of so many beauty products being up for a strenuous scramble and so the mystery remains.

Across the road, onto Rock Lane and out on the A38 by the house with loads of dogs.  There were so many border terriers in a pen, all barking at me, that it sounded like pebbles rolling down a beach after having been thrown up there by a wave.  One much larger black dog was also barking, but its lower-toned bark and the fact that it was much taller than the terriers gave it a sense of being the school teacher amid a rabble of small over-excited children.  I rolled on past the dogs, crossed the main road and then ran alongside the pig farm, enjoying a scramble of hyperactive piglets.

It was starting to get darker now, but I had my headtorch if necessary - past Jubilee Stone, through Barrow Gurney and up to the hill we call Elly's field.  I could see our house at that point but I couldn't see my feet any more, so I had to return to Long Ashton cautiously.

I don't know if town planners can feel the atmosphere that rolls through the country at dusk, or the pellucid summer mornings where every sound seems to travel further.  I don't know if they give value to sloppy deep mud by a stile or the vivid yellow leaves clinging on to trees in the Autumn.  Or holes in the hedge where a fox habitually passes through, or the sudden reward of an opening vista on rounding a corner.  But I do know that these pleasures are removed when the land is built on, never to be brought back.  There is some debate about whether we actually need all the houses that are claimed - if that is the case we should hold out until we know.

Holiday running

I had ninety minutes to run today - on holiday just outside Hay on Wye.  Ninety minutes for a lollop across new countryside armed with a map in a waterproof case, my OMM jacket and an eye on the scudding clouds. I needed all of those things within ten minutes of setting out as a filthy black cloud tore into view and enveloped me in a wild drenching storm.  I climbed up the lane by our holiday cabin through trees and leaves bearing the mark of the season - glowing light green and yellow with the road a carpet of fallen leaves. Irritatingly I lost my way the moment I left the road, as the path was marked by a post that was on the ground with no indication that it was in the right field let alone pointing in the right direction.
I finally worked out the way, only to enter a field full of a dangerous combination of chest-high bracken and brambles that knitted the whole layer together.  Ten minutes later and I had scarcely moved forward, so I decided that the best thing was to enter some woods and try to find another path.  I carefully eased my way over a barbed wire fence and into a remote and green world that sloped steeply down to a racing stream.  The only way across it was to walk, Bear Grylls style, along a fallen tree trunk that straddled the stream, so I inched along rather feeling as if I was in a documentary about some idiot who has decided to run across Borneo or some such place.  Over the stream, up a slippery slope and into a field - freedom!
Some poor path signage finally led me to Offa's Dyke which at least had the benefit of being well way-marked, down to the River Wye, and along the bank to Hay.  Resisting the urge to make crappy jokes about making hay while the sun shines, I squelched back to our lovely cedar cabin accommodation.

A crappy run, or an adventure?  My legs seethed with nettle stings and the map case needed a wash.  However, I had got outside when I suspect most of the country were holed up by their log burners; I saw some buzzards at close quarters; but the strongest echo in my mind is the ferns in the wood - stately shuttlecocks that provide a warm green against the backdrop of mud and sticks.  Their rotational symmetry gave order in chaos - a geometric shape sat among mud.  They were beautiful, and worth the soiled socks to go to see.

Headtorch running

After a long period of inactivity caused by my foot deciding that it needed a rest, I have been popping out for a canter in the evening.  A headtorch is needed now that the Autumn has well and truly displaced the Summer - I have a very nice Silva one that seems to run for ages even when the batteries are low and a small Petzl in my pocket as a backup.
Anyway, I went out last week for an hour or so in Ashton Court, looping across the fields and alongside the deer enclosure.  There is an odd isolated feeling of running in dark that is accentuated when running in a place that is usually quite busy in the day; it seems as if you are in a silent alternative reality - same place, different light, animals instead of humans.  The moon shone through the dampness and my torch picked out features that were insignificant in the day .  Grasses were given haloes that made them resemble lamp posts and tiny shreds of foil from dropped sweet wrappers glowed like pin-prick lamps.  I was startled by something that shone up at me from the ground and when I picked it up I was surprised to find a Nike tick - presumably it had peeled off a running shoe or jacket.  Testament to the value of reflective elements on sports clothing.
I ran alongside the deer park and climbed steadily toward Clarken Combe.  The mist and darkness conspired to close in on me in a welcoming shroud so that my world shrunk down to the ten foot circle around me.  I was lolloping quite gently, scarcely out of breath, and enjoying the movement of my body.
My torch picked out a pair of eyes in the undergrowth, just through the railings of the fence, and I found myself a few feet from a couple of deer.  For some reason they were either unaware or unconcerned about my presence.  I was shining a bright light in their direction and not more than six feet away but they continued grazing around the edges of a fallen tree trunk.  One had a good set of antlers and up behind us in the woods a crashing indicated battles for supremacy were taking place.
After a good couple of minutes I drifted off and continued my run - a memorable encounter that suffused the run.  I regretted not taking my phone as I could have taken some pictures - maybe next time.

It's difficult to run while fighting off tears

Sometimes things don't go to plan, but instead they offer a new way of thinking.  I was due to go out for at least 6 hours today, but Karin has been knocked down hard by her chemo and I was very reluctant to leave her.  She has been unable to even get up out of bed even for something small like getting a drink of water and the thought of her laying there for 6 hours without being able to get what she needs put me off running at all.  I then came up with a plan; I would run for about 2 hours then go back and make sure she is OK.  As soon as possible I would go out and have another run, and so on.  This was quite exciting - she would be looked after and I wouldn't need to carry a days worth of supplies.
I hadn't reckoned on the difficulty of leaving the house again and again - it was so tempting to give up. However, I managed 30 miles in 3 legs, and actually I think that stop-start approach was good training:  I certainly have tired legs.  I also managed to make sure Karin was OK throughout the day and even prepared her a very quick lunch.
As I ran I pondered the natural extension of this type of running - how long could you sustain running for 2 hours, returning for 30 mins, then repeating?  I reckon I had one more slow run in me, although each run was getting shorter.  I must do some research on this as a training method.  I know back to back runs are popular for developing stamina - either two runs on the same day or one late one day followed by the other early next day - but does it compare with continuous running, which after all is what I do when racing.

Going back to the title, I also took my phone, some headphones, and a load of radio 4 podcasts.  I got used to listening as I went along; something I have avoided over the years.  Having speech was loads better than music as I could still hear environmental sounds through the words.
As I ran towards Failand on leg 3 I put on a podcast about Robert Wyatt singing Shipbuilding.  That song catches me every time, but hearing how it was written with some passionate analyses from a variety of people really pulled me up.  What a beautiful and profound song.  Elvis Costello said that when he finished the lyrics he knew it was the best song he had ever written.  So, I ran, sniffing to myself, and occasionally warbling to the snippets of the song they played.  Good job no-one was around.

Just to lighten things up I listened to Desert Island Discs with Stephen Pinker and some excellent debates about social policy - I do lead an exciting life!  My first day of running using podcasts was great - if I am in terrain that I don't know or in company I won't need any entertainment, but when on my own on familiar trails it was very welcome.

I am still a bit cautious about the 10 Peaks 40 mile race in 4 weeks, mainly due to not knowing how things will be at home, but I have had a good days running, and there is nothing wrong with that!

Running in the sun

 As part of our planning for the 10 peaks in September, four intrepid TACHers met in Talybont a few weeks ago for a 20 mile run on the route.  As we climbed out of our cars it was obvious that the day would be a hot one - it had been sunny all week.  Now, this is the weird thing- how do you plan for a run up in the Brecons?  No matter what the conditions are like at the car, there is no knowing what it will be like up in the hills.  I found that out during the Brecon 40m when I stood on the start line in my shorts, looked at what everyone else was wearing and quickly popped my tights on.  Very glad I was too; the horizontal rain was freezing.

Anyway, as we climbed it was clear that the day was a scorcher.  I was very glad of the 2 litres of water I took, as well as the fact that we would be stopping at the Storey Arms mid point to refuel.  Chris and Graham decided to cut their run a little shorter, leaving David and I to sweat away on the full route as planned.  We noticed a lot of soldiers on the hills - mostly solo and carrying massive bergens as well as a rifle.  We said hello to quite a few but very rarely got a reply.  David said that they didn't look the ideal types to be up there in full uniform; they looked young and not as craggy as you might hope.  We advised one to get into a stream as he seemed rather bewildered.

A surge of testosterone on the first big hill established me as the fittest, but also the one with the most sore legs for the rest of the run - do I never learn?  David was stronger than me on the second half - although his recent return from Hong Kong hinted at acclimatisation to the heat.  At Storey Arms I took my shirt and shoes off and sat in the stream - bliss.

A horrible crawl back up to Corn Dhu and we were well on route back to the car.  I was very happy at this stage to walk anything that veered from horizontal but unfortunately my plans for strolling were scuppered by a chance meeting with the race organiser for the September race.  He had run the whole 58km in that weather!  He was very pleased to run and chat with us, which of course meant that I had to pretend I wasn't falling apart.  Luckily I am a demon descender and made good use of gravity to pretend I could still run at a decent lick.
Back at the car I was finding breathing difficult; very odd.  David suggested exercise-induced asthma as a cause.  I found it easier to breath through my nose - maybe something to do with controlled breathing - so with me remaining uncharacteristically silent we headed to The Star for refreshments. One pint of coke and ice and I was restored to my usual voluble self.  So, either the cold drink relaxed my pipes or I was suffering low blood sugar I don't know, but it was a relief.

The following day we found out that two of the soldiers on the exercise had died, with another in intensive care.  It seems they weren't prepared for the weather up there, and the Army's response was that the process needs to be tough to select the best soldiers.  I don't know how to respond to that, other than to remind myself of the importance of careful planning.

So, a great run that was very challenging due to the conditions, with a chilling reminder of how easy it is to get it wrong up there.

Why we run

When I went to see the running philosopher Mark Rowlands about a month ago, the interviewer started by asking ' so, why do you run?'.  I sat there, wanting to make a response; but even when the microphone was handed round for people to make a response to the talk I declined to ask the question that was rolling around in my brain - ' why don't you run?'.

OK, so you could read Born to Run, with the argument that we evolved to hunt down prey by chasing them until they collapse, but this doesn't explain why most people don't run.  The biological urge just doesn't seem very strong in most people.  No, the decision to run or not run is a social one - have each of us been influenced in such a way that leads us to this activity?

This is my parents in 1963.  No, this is my mum and dad; more familiar.  Inside that bike trailer was me at the tender age of one and I presume we used to go on weekend bike rides.  My parents met in a cycle club and cycling was a way of life, so when I was born the outdoor existence just continued.

As I grew up, on and out of the family epicentre, Mum and Dad turned away from cycling, to orienteering and then on to walking.  Not just weekend strolling down to the park, but big stuff.  When I phoned up Mum last month to crow about my successful completion of the Welsh Ultra 40 mile race she reminded me that when Dad was my age he was completing the LDWA 100 miles.  Walking rather than running, but still.  Put me in my place, rightfully.

So, the connection is clear.  Dad always said that when he got to the top of a mountain he wanted to run like a dog and I feel the same pulling at me.  Mum was on the phone this week worried that despite being in her seventies, her knees hurt when she walks more than 15 miles.  Rather than writing herself off due to age she has paid for a private consultant to sort things out so she can get back to 25+ miles.

So, why do we run?  Is there an alternative?  Not for me.

When Dad died all sorts of stories surfaced about his life, including the fact that when he was 13 he lived in a tent in the garden in the middle of London, and at 15 he forged his age to join the YHA and cycled off for a week on his own.  Now, I am not like that, but seeds get sown and lodge deep in the heart.  That engagement with the countryside and a throwing off of constructed matter is a thread that travels through him to me.  And Mum's need to push on rather as a dog gnaws a bone, provides a foot on the accelerator pedal.

I owe my parents such an enormous amount.  I owe them the yearning to get up and out.  I owe them the limbic joy of working hard up a hill.  I also owe them for all the phone calls on a Sunday night inquiring about how I have got on in this race or that, when I suspect that my figurative eyes glazed over when they they told me about what they had done, despite that fact that it was probably 2, 5 or 10 times longer than I had run.

Feel every inch, note every movement, smell all.  Warm, cool, sink into the soil, sense the space.  That's why I run

Weather

Now, I do like to run in the winter; dressed up cosily and pushing up some hill against the wind.  But, it is so nice to experience an early British summer after a long period of poor weather.

My desk at work has best view, ever.  There is no doubt that sitting at the computer while admiring the expanse of the Bristol Channel enhances my working day - yards from the beach, and six floors up so I have  an uninterrupted view of the sea, the Welsh hills and the Quantocks.  Go to the other side of the building and I get the Mendips.  I can see the weather as it changes; the colour and choppiness of the waves sending messages about how my ride home is going to be, and I can often see rain storms as they travel across the estuary like mobile showers.

I went out with Alex on Saturday - 30 miles through some unspoiled countryside.  We left pretty early but it was worth it as the air had that bell-like clarity; our only company was a good amount of birds and some deer leaving it a bit late to disappear for the rest of the day.  I felt a release of pleasure as we cruised down fields of buttercups from Dundry, the sun gently warming us and the wind still reluctant to make its presence known.

Through villages I did know and little hamlets and areas unknown to me; sometimes startling the residents of isolated cottages who were having an outdoor breakfast or getting ready to cut the hedge.  Quite a culture shock to reach the turn point at West Harptree - cars pulling in to buy the Daily Mail, and a lady buying eggs presumably for the family breakfast.  We lingered just long enough to top up with water and handfuls of dried fruit and nuts and then curved round Chew Valley lake to return.  It was quite warm by now but not unpleasantly so.

In the depths of winter when I am pining for a bit of heat I forget that running in hot weather is actually quite unpleasant; you get thirsty and sticky and sometimes get a headache from the heat.  I also forget that the summer brings stinging nettles that cluster round stiles and gates and push at you as you try to pick through without getting stung.  Sunglasses become useful, not to keep sun out of your eyes but insects, as they unerringly crash into the only soft moist part of your outside skin.  But it didn't matter on this run - bugs and nettles were overwhelmed by the pleasure of travelling through the pillowy countryside with every rise coyly showing a view of the lake.  The hedgerows - surely no other country can offer a habitat so extraordinary as an ancient British hedgerow - were soft and shaded with a green that seemed to glow in its verdure.  The soil hasn't baked hard yet and provided a perfect firm running surface.

As we walked (yes, it is allowed on long runs...) up the hill to East Dundry we entered a farmyard which, much to my great pleasure, had a galvanised trough full of water in which lived a healthy population of goldfish.  They too were lazily drifting around in comfortable appreciation.  It is my regret that I am struggling to work my new phone otherwise there would be a picture at this point.  Next time...

A long lollop down to the A38 to do battle with the traffic and through Colliter's Brook to finally part company at the bottom of Ashton Court.  I pride myself on my knowledge of the local area, and how curious to find someone who has built up a similar repertoire - some parts we both knew, others just one of us.  It was definitely a superb route that Alex had designed and I have recorded it for future runs.

With such an early start the rest of the day was still to come and we sat in the garden and basked.  It wasn't long before the cider came out and shamefully I undid all of the good of the run by drinking rather too much. A friend came round later in the evening and it was only then that I realised all my exposed skin was crimson and my hair was standing on end - a result of sitting in a windy garden. Combined with my new bright red thermal running top, style was clearly having the day off.
A legacy the following day of a surprisingly clear head but some sore leg joints reminded me to tell everyone I met of my excellent run.  Smug.

Running with the Devil

I went to the Watershed the day after the Welsh Ultra to see Mark Rowlands, the philosopher who runs and keeps wolves as pets.

Here's a thing - if you know you are going somewhere you know will be full of runners, don't wear a running shirt and poncy barefoot trainers.  I looked like a geeky groupie.

In the same way, when attending a cycling film in a bike shop (as Malin and I did the other week), don't wear old-skool wool cycling tops as if they are fashionable cardigans.  No, on second thoughts, do: when else can you get away with it?

Anyway, an interesting man - I enjoyed his first book 'The Philosopher and the Wolf', and so look forward to reading his new one; 'Running with the Pack'.



I would run if I had that monster coming along behind me.  Very fast.

Welsh Ultra, 40miles

I dedicate this entry to Karin.  It is a lucky person who receives encouraging texts in the middle of a race, and I feel privileged to be supported in the ridiculous hobbies I engage with.  Whatever the future brings for us, it will be good.

Photos courtesy of Gary Doherty, Kris Duffy, who also ran; I have shamelessly plundered their photo contributions.

I have spent the last three weeks fretting about this race - not prepared effectively; confusion over food choices; what shoes to wear; am I going to be exhausted by the preceding week and so on.  I have never made such a big deal over a race before, ever.  And quite frankly, I don't know why, as my target was only to finish anyway.  Possibly, as we have had a horrible two weeks, the race become something to distract me.

Anyway, I drove over to Talybont on Friday, found a bunk in the outward bound centre that would be my base for the weekend.




Endless faffing on the morning with a last minute change of shorts into tights - a good move as it turned out.  You can see me on the far right of this picture - looking as if another trip to the toilet might be a good idea.

Off along the canal in calm pleasant weather - in no way a forecast of the conditions to come.  We then headed for the hills with some vague attempt at controlling my pace.  As the race spread out we moved through forestry, layering up as we gained enough height to enter the clouds; this was the end of any dryness to the day and my jacket stayed on until the finish.



This was one of my favourite bits - we ran along a rocky path that cut through some misty woods.  it wasn't long after that (I think) that a whole bunch of us headed down the wrong track and lost possibly 30 mins.  Mental note for another race - check the route carefully beforehand, and concentrate rather than just chatting.  Retracing our steps we were literally back on track, picking off the runners that had been behind us.

Through the first checkpoint and onto the bit I knew from two weeks ago - see my previous blog.  The conditions really started to get serious here.



This was a grind - leaping from tussock to tussock in the vague hope that one might provide some sort of firm pathway.  I remembered that there was a path that hugged the fence so headed for that and saved quite a bit of futile sploshing around.  Up onto the plateau and then the ridge that leads up to Pen y Fan - oh my God it was windy up there!  Driving rain felt like it was exfoliating my face, but that was nothing compared to the hailstones that followed on.

This isn't me, but it gives you some sense of the 'technical running' we endured.  Mountain bikers would call this 'a bit squirrelly'.

Teeth gritted we shuffled - no way was it running - until the drop down to Storey Arms followed by a sadistic climb right the way back up.



This is me at Storey Arms - unbelievably given the climate I felt quite dehydrated.  Luckily there was plenty of water at all stations.

At this point sadly my source of photographs dries up, and so therefore I will have to fall back on my memory.

Over and around Pen y Fan with a long excellent swoop off, only to curve around and start the feared climb of Cribyn.  I love hills and was relishing this one but the steep grassy slope that led up to the peak itself coincided with a general crap-ness and I plodded along, never really making contact with the people ahead.  However, this changed when we hit Cribyn itself, as with some strength restored I clambered up and past four runners.

I, like most other people, figured that after the last check point, with 'only' eight miles to go and most of it downhill, the race was all but finished.  However, there were about four miles along a ridge that was barely runnable and I struggled to get past a group of walkers.  One last peak after this, and then a long swoop down to Talybont reservoir.  A female runner had been quietly approaching me, and as we began the descent she took off the handbrake in a way that suggested her legs sensed home.  I have been struggling with descending recently due to the old hamstrings pulling up, but remarkably I relaxed into the run and cruised past.  A tiny flash of my old ability was visible as I dropped off the hill, not only leaving her behind but also catching two others.

On the reservoir, down the track, I was really motoring now (bit late I know), onto the canal towpath, and then onto one of those awful dog legs they put in races where you can see the finish but it never gets any closer.  One last clamber into the grounds of the centre, and home!

I had run out of water with about four miles to go, so that was my first need followed by tinned peaches and a cup of tea.  I was starving but my stomach was so shrunken I couldn't eat.  A shower and an unplanned kip on the bed, I then creaked down to the kitchen for some quite fantastic chick pea and sweet potato curry.

So, what did I learn?  You can't swallow stale sandwiches so they make poor race food.  My waterproof gloves are rubbish because if you try to put them on with damp hands you can't get your fingers in the holes.  I need a rucksack with side pockets,  I am stronger than I thought I was, especially up hills; and a well placed text from a lovely wife provides a 30 minute boost.

Just me

I am sat in the kitchen wearing my wife's glasses because I am too lazy to find my own - very fetching they are with the little filigree bits on the side.  Using media technology often feels very solitary - people hunched over their device seemingly unable to communicate with the person sat next to them.  We know that everyone is talking to everyone else on the internet but there is no visual evidence of this.

I made good use of my Saturday run yesterday by leaving early and driving to the Brecons; it seemed a good idea to recce a bit of the ultra I am running in in two weeks time and get a blast of fresh air at the same time.  I parked at Pontsticill reservior north of Merthyr Tydfil and after an age of faffing finally hit the moorland.  I hadn't noticed the three empty car parks and so stuck the car on the approach to a fire track; I chuckled to myself when I got back to find the previously empty spaces jammed with cars.

Up a track then a bit of navigating where there was no path to join a thin track that threaded its way toward the dramatic peaks of Pen y Fan and Cribyn.  The higher I went the windier it got until I was forced to put my waterproof on.  It was still quite early and not a soul was to be seen.  I had the whole fells to myself and enjoyed the unpressured feeling of the only interaction taking place being between me and the ground.  As I reached the ridge that eventually rears up to Pen y Fan I saw a tent hugging the ground adjacent to a trig point, and some figures in the distance.  There were some rather tired looking soldiers running down the hill - I guess the tent was a checkpoint for a training event for them.  There were also a few groups of walkers, unsurprising as this is quite a popular area for walkers even early in the morning.

The wind increased until I was having trouble running in a straight line.  I was however having better luck than the walkers I went past; they looked frozen, but my movement kept the blood rolling around nicely.  Up onto Pen y Fan and Cribyn where ice had been driven onto just one side of the peak, and I stood bemused as the wind blew ice particles up into the sky and then rained them down like space junk.  There were quite a few people up there as there always is, some wearing quite inappropriate clothing that grated with my very careful packing of survival bag and compass.  

There were a number of walkers enjoying the scenery on their own, and I reflected that the terrain seems to encourage solo activity.  There was me running on my own, partially because no-one else would want to get up so early on a Saturday morning but also because I like running on my own.  I am not pressured by another's pace; I can make my own decisions about the route so it matches my needs exactly; and let's face it, should I fancy a walk then there is no obligation to keep going.  Not a good strategy for training I admit, but I was there for me, not to be pistol-whipped by expectations.  There must be something about outdoors that nurtures the individual: I certainly feel that I have a relationship with the Brecons that is between me and them - a monogamous relationship with no room for putting the keys in the fruit bowl.

Later in the afternoon there was to be the Cribyn fell race - I ran it last year and it is a fabulous race, up Cribyn and down the ridge in the picture.  I was tempted to text Lucien who I knew was running to warn him about the temperature on the top but decided it was for him to find out - not out of meanness but because he is also in a relationship with these hills and it isn't for me to influence that.

I cruised down the track that led all the way back to the car.

You can see where I ran - the pointy peak in the middle is Cribyn, the flatter hill to the left is Pen y Fan, and the rounded peak to the right is Fan y Big.  Just after this photo I walked for quite a while, not because I needed to but because it was a nice day and I wanted to stretch it out.  The sun was pushing through and in the valley it was sheltered causing Chaffinches to bustle around in the warmth.

Back to the car, a good stretch and change into dry socks, and a drive home extended by the need for petrol and overshooting the turnoff for the M4.

Change

The railway line from Bristol to Portishead was closed in the early sixties - I believe my Dad used it once to go to work before Beeching decided it wasn't worth keeping.  Now, given the cost of car use there are proposals to re-open it so Portishead commuters can use it and avoid the bottleneck at the M5 junction.  Work has started to clear the line; slashing the brambles away to reveal the rusty lines still sat underneath.  I ran past the line at Portbury today in my bid to get enough miles under my belt to survive the 40 mile ultra I rashly signed up for in May.

I ran into Portishead - a town I scarcely recognise as the one I lived in as a child.  The docks have been developed into a huge residential area with apartments that overlook the marina jammed with recreational craft; false lighthouse vying with stainless steel buildings of unrecognisable culture.  I reluctantly concluded that despite the battles with the parish council planning department the construction companies have done a pretty good job of creating a living space that offers something to derive pleasure from - boats, the sea, history; all on land previously occupied by the power station and a phosphorus plant.

Over into the lake grounds and onto the cliff path to Clevedon.  I haven't run here for 30 plus years; it hasn't changed but I was frustrated  by my inability to run with that rolling pace that I had in the past.  Despite reassurances that I will be back up to speed soon I felt like a new running identity was ingraining itself; loping along at a pace barely above walking speed.  I was happy to use distance, and the weight of my rucksack as a reason for the pace.

Into Clevedon and up to the crumbling Victorian pier; another victim of nobody recognising the value of such an extraordinary structure, just like Birnbeck pier in Weston.  I passed through the chi chi shopping area feeling out of place as the only person there who didn't drive a new Volvo or Audi or own a labrador, and down onto the timeless moorland.  Swans looked concerned as I passed by their territory, through flocks of sheep and newborn lambs, avoiding the herds of heifers that spotted me just as I was leaving their field.  

A sluggish pass through Nailsea, and back home - 27 miles, although it felt like 37.

The leaves are just unfurling, providing a glowing green decoration in the hedgerows and celandines and wood anemonies provided sparkle.  Spring was apparent, giving hints of the summer to come and the passing through of the year.  On it goes, on I go.

Llanbedr- Blaenafon fell race

I am going to try to avoid any reference to my appalling performance in this race, and concentrate on sharing the experience.  For those of you who are not fell racers, you will hopefully gain some sense of why these races are a pure and natural joy.
As I drove to the start the mountains around were prominently covered in snow, but having competed in the MCN mountain trail race the week before in near-blizzard conditions I wasn't worried about this.  In standard fell racing style the race HQ was a rugby club, and people were putting up banners with bits of string most of the morning - in fact I suspect they never actually finished them.  Entry was a mere £7 and that came with a stern interrogation about taking the full kit - full body cover, map, compass, whistle etc, all of which I carry and never use.  Let's hope I never do.
A lift to the start with a bunch of other runners (the race was a place-to-place rather than out and back), plenty of jogging and chatting, another warning about the conditions of the hills and away we went.  The first 30 mins is just a solid climb up to Crug Mawr with the bunch in complete silence for want of breath.  The view revealed itself after exiting the trees and the sun caused the snowy hills to shine blindingly, but there was little time to admire this vista as the track surface was dotted with slicks of wet mud and snow requiring a good degree of concentration.
Running on terrain like this means that you need to study the ground carefully; a badly placed foot can cause you to slip back or slip right over - this creates the most intense connection with the land, enhanced by the rabbit-nibbled downy grass and little evidence of human development.

Over Crug Mawr and a romp down to the valley that separates it from Sugar Loaf, our next peak.  Running was very sketchy here and mostly consisted of crashing through the dead bracken hoping not to meet a hidden gully.  Every so often a runner would emit an odd noise and fall to the ground in a collapse caused by the foot landing in nothing - an embarrassed roll, and up and off again.  The sun was really quite warm and I regretted wearing two tops which was a surprise given the appalling weather of the last three weeks.
Through a farm with warm applause from the dozen or so spectators - given the remote location it was impressive to see anyone.  Then into woods for a slippery and leg-snappingly steep path that climbed onto Sugar Loaf.  The initial climb was relentless, but the demoralising part was hitting what appeared to be the top only to see the actual peak rising like a rounded Everest with a seemingly impossible approach.  We then hit snow and progressed carefully, not out of danger but sliding backwards loses a lot of time.
At the top there were a good number of walkers taking up what little path there was, up and around the marshal and another dodgy descent.  Down and down, until we hit Abergavenny.  Navigating through streets  so soon after the hills was a culture shock, then running down the road in the middle of traffic and off back to peaceful running.
 
By now a subtle change had stolen over myself and runners close by.  Instead of a competitive silence we ran along together quite companionably.  We also knew that the worst was yet to come - the dreaded climb of Blorenge, so steep all you can do is step in the marks worn by previous walkers; not runners, nobody runs up Blorenge.  A fuel stop at the bottom and away we went, like a team.
I can't describe to you how, after 12 miles already, this is like a primitive basic training torture.  I suspect that my Kung Fu training helped here, not in terms of climbing but just being able to tolerate suffering.  Luckily this is my strength and I moved away from the other runners near me.  I even had the presence of mind to take in the view at the top.
Three or so miles off the top through what another runner described as a slush puppy - churned up snow that defied a stable footing, then down through spoil heaps and frozen streams and swampy marshes, seeing the destination ahead, knowing that this was the end, starting to flail down the hill, scared of tiredness causing missed footing, hitting Blaenafon, getting onto the road turning down another looking back and seeing another runner catching up confident that I had checked the route sweeping round a corner minding the pavement two boys a dog a car the runner ahead took a short cut i didn't know the runner behind can't catch me round the corner - and there we are.  The finish.  One rubbery sprint, clapping, and stop for a bottle of water and the free t-shirt.
In the club house there was a free lunch laid on for the runners with the cook proudly announcing that she had made her two daughters slave all morning for this, and tuck in there's loads.
I was now able to literally stop and reflect on the race.  Unspeakably beautiful terrain and weather, pushing myself physically and the friendship that comes with a shared experience.
Not to mention, £7 got me a fully waymarked race, water and food on the race, a bottle of water at the end, a technical t-shirt a free lunch and photographs published and downloaded the same day - bargain!
What can I say, this is addictive, the chance to be alive in the countryside and being part of a group of people who all work together to create this experience - a mix of social and solitary.  Try one, or go up a mountain.

To compete or complete?

Despite my nagging tendinopathy I ran the Llanbedr- Blaenafen fell race today.  16 miles, three major mountains, snow and melt water.  I knew that I wasn't going to do very well, but still entered, and once I got over the fact that I couldn't keep up actually had a good time.  But, it did beg the question - why enter a race?  I could've gone for a run in the same area on my own and had a good time, but instead I placed myself in a competition with no chance of success, especially given the fact I did quite well last year despite having whooping cough.
Why do we enter races?  Well, there is a buzz in an event that can't be replicated on your own - I ran with people and shared the run experience with them, and let's face it the organisers spent ages planning the route to save me doing it.  I also joined a tribe for a while, standing at the start joking about having to pee yet again, and being privileged to share a car to the start with a local fell running legend.  I don't think that is all there is, but it is clear that very often running is a social activity.
So, will I keep running in races, slowly drifting toward the back of the pack, or will my injury finally be defeated to let me take what I feel is my rightful place toward the front of the pack?  I still want to be a player - this is important for me.  My physical capability is still high (hamstrings excepted), and I love the feeling of moving fast over mountains.  Luckily my ever-supportive wife is convinced that with some effort and time, I will be restored to full power.  Faith.
Maybe I should take heed of our yoga teacher who said 'no matter what level you are at, it is all good'.

29th March 2013

Two rather creaky hours of running today, up over Dundry where the wind whistled up from Chew Valley Lake. I caught the early sun so the edge was taken off the chill of the early morning frost, but it was still cold.
It seemed each field was populated with families of sheep with ewes nervously watchful of me as well as the raggedy lambs wobbling and skipping around.  Surely it is a major bonus of running in the countryside at this time of the year: listening to their bleating and watching their tails twitching and flapping around.

This is number 62, and the lamb had 62 written on the other side.  There was another lamb, obscured by view here and as I inched closer all three  moved away.  I ran past a ewe trying to break the ice in the water trough, but no more photo opportunities as the herd drifted off over the hill.

27th March 2013

I went out for 2 hours this morning - legs still tired from the weekend's race but I plodded on through the ice.  What a pleasant surprise to see the sun having a go at shining through the bank of grey clouds that has sat on our weather for a few days now.  Not that it made any difference to the temperature; it was still gloves and hat weather.  Through Tyntesfield estate, across Watercress farm and over to Barrow Court; a complex Ghormenghast of a country pile that is almost visible from our house.  I reflected rather joyfully that most of the traffic I could hear from the main road was heading for work, whereas having the week off I could noodle around the countryside knowing that all I had to come home to was a cup of tea and some leisurely stretching.  And a wife with a hangover. (She had gone into town when I got back, to write more of our retirement plan - see the link to her blog, so I guess the hangover wasn't so bad.

 So, here is Barrow Court - well, a bit of it anyway.  Notice the blue sky - about time.

Now, this little chap has chased me on a number of occasions.  When he hears me running across the field opposite Barrow Court he rockets out of the farm barking furiously.  The field is really large and his legs are really small so I have a good while to get out of the field; I believe he is called Alfie and he often brings along a pal who lacks Alfie's aggression - perhaps he is the apprentice.  Notice the sharp teeth, whitened on the ankles of passing runners.

We all get chased by dogs, although it is rare that I get scared nowadays.  I feel that they are better controlled and usually accompanied by an apology, 'sorry, he doesn't normally do this...'.  Having said that 30 mins before meeting Alfie this morning I met a Sheltie, the owners of which were calling rather nervously 'don't bite, don't bite'.  Clearly this was a real possibility, although I am pleased to say he didn't.

Staggered back through the fields, rather appalled by two crows eating a dead lamb ( circle of life and all that), and home to the afore-mentioned cup of tea and a very nice hot cross bun.

Sometimes you just have to ask yourself...

I ran the Black Mountains Trail half today.  Well, I ran some of it.
Snow was knee deep in places, with a howling wind that prevented you from seeing where you were going; the runners clustered together for safety and I felt really sorry for the two marshals at the top standing in a blizzard shouting directions to the runners.  The mist was also down and the signs were mostly buried in snow so there was a very real chance of getting lost.  On top of that we had to run down an ice field - pick the wrong line and you found yourself surrounded by ice and the only way out was a careful hands and knees traverse.  I lost 5 minutes creeping back onto the route.
As we dropped down into the valley the snow was replaced by a slick of mud; I guess we all fell at some point.  One slip and you plummeted down the slope on your back.  Just to add more misery we ran down streams that were mostly melt water - running along in that freezing wind with soaking shoes was no joke, I can tell you.
I was overtaken by another runner at one point and I made a comment about the evil nature of the hill section - 'I loved it!' he said as he cut left to start a second lap.  I however ran on, starting to realise that everyone was going on to do the second lap, and that there were no half marathon runners around; I must be in the lead.  Indeed I was, and after a fretful two miles with me worrying whether someone would shoot up and overtake me, I rolled into the campsite finish and first place.  Of nine runners.  Who cares, big prizes!  A pair of running shoes, a trophy and a t shirt, as well as a medal and chocolate bunny!  I came home with a clear profit.
As I didn't push myself too hard and descended really slowly due to my hamstring injury I actually got the chance to enjoy the run - it was great.  I did feel a bit crap inching downhill while others slithered by - next time I will wear a t shirt that says something like 'injured, otherwise you wouldn't see my ass for dust!'.  The whole weekend - camping in the snow, enjoying a pint in the pub with the locals and pretending to like rugby, and being first in the shower - it was all good.  It was entertaining hanging around pretending to be an ultra runner and looking at the particular kit and clothes they use - very different from other running tribes.  Roll on May - I have entered the 40mile Brecon ultra.

      

At this time of the year it is worth dreaming about what will happen in the summer - this was us last year in the French Alps with Mont Blanc breathing down our neck.  Running that I will never forget.

I went to Ashton Court tonight to see the Night Terror race - 200 runners heading off into the dark; slippery mud and hills everywhere.  At the insistence of a marshal I joined the back of the race, and lolloped along behind three ladies dressed in bunny girl outfits.  I was interested to note that my competitive spirit is bigger than my libido as I ignored the obvious pleasures of running behind them and made a show of scuttling up the Parkrun hill.  I left the race and cantered home, pleased to have gone for a run instead of flumping in front of the telly.

Never trust a train...

I managed to get to Weston super Mare this morning without buying a ticket - the machine was busy, the booth was busy and the guard on the train took 20 mins to sell one ticket.  Feeling smug, I hadn't reckoned with the train's capacity to gain revenge: when I got to the station this evening the train was cancelled.  My plan had been to run from Nailsea to Tyntesfield estate; this wasn't going to happen now.  I blagged my way onto the service to Bristol, and completed an urban run instead.
Clifton is awesome for hill training; zig-zagging my way up and down in a line parallel to Hotwells - I must have looked like a sewing machine.  Over the suspension bridge into Leigh Woods, through to Abbots Leigh and home.  Fab.

Are we here to work, or are we here to run...

Don't listen to what the captains of industry tell you, we were not put on this planet to oil the wheels of industry.  On the way home last night I got off the train at Nailsea (apologies to non-Bristolians), and headed up towards the airport.  I had taken my running kit to work, and had a rucksack containing food and my headtorch; I also had to carry loads of clothing as the weather has finally changed and was a lot warmer than I thought.  As I climbed through the woods in Backwell toward the radio mast I very quickly forgot that I was still on my daily commute, and breathed in the newly-warm air.  What a superb evening!  Buds were apparent on the hawthorn, the birds were identifying territory, and I even got the very first insect of the season in my eye.  As the sun dropped it produced a hazy dusk that really brought the woods to life.
Two hours later, I arrived home having passed through one world into another.  It was dark, my new headtorch had behaved really well, I was hungry, but more importantly my brain had unravelled all of the nonsense that had tangled up throughout the day.  In the middle of the week I had carried out an activity that is normally saved for the weekend, and had stumbled upon one of those magic, glowing evenings.
So, why not find a way to let running act as the wardrobe in Narnia and lead you into another place midweek?  Don't listen to them when they say that the whole point of going home is to get a clean shirt to be back at work the next day - go find the life!

I went to the Green Man Ultra this morning to see off a few running buddies, but also to see if my legs would get excited enough to enter next year.  47 miles around Bristol - do-able if I can manage to remain injury free.  I jogged along at the back of the pack for the first 5 miles, and felt like I should be there, so who knows.  Looking forward to seeing how Rachel (obscured, first ultra) and Alex ( ultra veteran, blue visor in the middle of pic) get on.  Perfect running conditions, cool, little wind and dry-ish underfoot.

Felt this picture needed explaining - this was the 'easy' part of the Meon Valley Plod two weeks ago. Icy rain over 21 miles or mud and slime meant a really tough race, as well as a torn glute muscle (again).  Highlights? ummm - I know; I saw a female runner slip, and with a faint squeak completely disappear into the mud.  Of course I stopped and gave her a hand, whereupon she sped up and I didn't see her until some while later when she was trying to convince a marshal that she wanted to drop out.  At the finish I was so cold I spilled my tea by shaking so much.  Great race though.

I spend so much time thinking about running (and very occasionally actually freeing myself from injury long enough to get out for a run) that I felt it was time so share some moments with the general public.  There are often moments during a run when I stop because suddenly all of existence is channeled down into one thing.  For instance, I was on a tiny lane in the countryside, and a hare bounded out of a field, stopped 6 feet away, and just squatted, looking at me.  I stopped too and the hare very cautiously crept over, sniffed my shoe, paused, and after about 20 seconds lolloped off into the field.  I was aghast at this, as they are such shy creatures.  I carry experiences like this around with me for days afterwards.  
My aim is to record these small life-affirming moments on this blog, and you never know I may even carry a camera and record them.  I hope this won't be all about me, but more a sharing of these things so that others can be given a little touch of the magic.  Who knows, you may go out and seek your own sparks of life!