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'.