What is the worst phrase a runner can hear? 'Your leg is broken'? 'I have peed in your electrolyte drink'? 'Sorry. they don't make the Brooks Cascadia shoe any more'?
No, the worst phrase is one I heard last week.
I went out with Long Ashton Running Group - 'my' group, because I set it up. The aim was to run hard enough to irritate my knee; I had an appointment with the knee consultant the following day and I wanted to show him something worthy of the referal. I felt pretty good considering my recent lack of running and went ahead, relishing the freedom of speed.
There was one runner who could keep up with me and the two of us imperceptively sped up as we quietly tested each other. Nice, chatty fellow with a fast pair of legs; my knee was holding up pretty well even though I actually did want it to hurt. He then brought me crashing to the ground with his evil weapon, timed just as we locked horns on the slopes of Glebe Avenue.
'I hear you used to be quite good in your day'.
THIS is my day! I'm not done yet thank you very much.
Saturday 18 October 2014
Thursday 2 October 2014
5 minutes
I had a short ride to get the car this evening. I turned out of the railway station onto the high street, then on a whim turned back and onto the Strawberry Line cycle track. It leads the whole way through to my destination but as it is mud and gravel it is a lot slower. However, I had loads of time and the High Street is terrible for cyclists, so the trail was a much better option.
Panniers rattling and the front wheel bouncing, I cruised onto the moor, past a scary looking dog with a tennis ball propping open its mouth and a rather plump and immobile old lady struggling to get over a stile while her cheerless looking dogs hung back against their leads.
Leaves were starting to form drifts in corners, and the grasshoppers ran out their song of summer. Not a breath of wind, and the crane flies bounced around like swung marionettes - the sun causing sweat to form on my forehead. It felt like a time of no season - the confusion of a countryside that is between times.
I reached the main road at Congresbury and turned a sharp left along the rhyne. There were insects everywhere and I regretted the absence of sunglasses, blinking every time one hit my face. A heron stood on the other side of the water, its neck parallel to the bank; it looked as though it was waiting for someone to arrive.
I suddenly stopped my bike because, like a curtain drawing back, I was suddenly made aware of the light sitting low and drawing the green out of the fields and trees. The water glinted warm and smooth and the woods in the distance were rich and dense like one might expect in the early summer rather than autumn beginnings.
Panniers rattling and the front wheel bouncing, I cruised onto the moor, past a scary looking dog with a tennis ball propping open its mouth and a rather plump and immobile old lady struggling to get over a stile while her cheerless looking dogs hung back against their leads.
Leaves were starting to form drifts in corners, and the grasshoppers ran out their song of summer. Not a breath of wind, and the crane flies bounced around like swung marionettes - the sun causing sweat to form on my forehead. It felt like a time of no season - the confusion of a countryside that is between times.
I reached the main road at Congresbury and turned a sharp left along the rhyne. There were insects everywhere and I regretted the absence of sunglasses, blinking every time one hit my face. A heron stood on the other side of the water, its neck parallel to the bank; it looked as though it was waiting for someone to arrive.
I suddenly stopped my bike because, like a curtain drawing back, I was suddenly made aware of the light sitting low and drawing the green out of the fields and trees. The water glinted warm and smooth and the woods in the distance were rich and dense like one might expect in the early summer rather than autumn beginnings.
Thursday 25 September 2014
Bristol, Wells, Cheddar, Axbridge, Glastonbury, Wells, Chew Stoke, Bristol
This weekend I took advantage of Karin's trip to London and Simon-next-door's offer, and cycled to Cheddar; camped overnight and then cycled back.
Having a titanium bike doesn't lend itself easily to steady riding and so true to form I pushed at a decent lick across the Chew valley lakes towards Litton. With a windless day offering a calm and warm atmosphere, it was a sustained pleasure to ride in an area I didn't know very well. There were very few cars and as I travelled past cottages and stockbroker-belt mansions with olive-painted doors and green oak timbered car ports, all I heard to break up the natural calm was the occasional lawn mower.
Past William Waldegrave's demesne, including the Waldegrave Arms pub, and up the hill toward Priddy. I cut off the main road to Stockhill and the Old Mineries, a smooth tail-flow giving me a gliding impetus.
The sun seems to like the Mineries and this sheltered curve in the road was warm with bird song and the must of elderberries. Blackberries and elderberries alike were providing an autumnal olfactory haze that attracted insects of all kinds. I rode past beech trees, crushing their burrs on the road with heavy-lidded crunches.
Old Bristol Road leading into Wells must be one of the great descents in this area; a good two miles of winding road that threatened to drag the rider out of their margin of safety. I hurtled down at a speed I was grateful for not knowing, held up at one corner by a nervy jam of three cars and two other cyclists; I nipped through a rather small gap and left them to it.
Into Wells - it was packed. It was market day and the locals jostled with the tourists for all the space on the road as well as the pavement. I wove through the crowds and freewheeled into the space around the Cathedral. A stretch-out and 9-bar on a bench, and the world was pretty good.
Karin and I like to go to Wells; the cathedral has a worn-away age about it and the town still retains some resistance to cosmopolitan modernism. Medieval buildings jostle with branches of Boots and WH Smiths and I half expected to see a black-fronted Woolworths with glass windows reflecting out onto the street like a ghostly childhood retail opportunity. We thought about moving there some time ago but the only houses that seemed to be up for sale were scabby concrete boxes or leafy treats that were out of our range. Well, I don't want them if they don't want me.
I sat and thought about how Karin's illness has re-ignited an interest for both of us in visiting churches and the like to soak up the reflective calm; inhaling motes in the air like ethereal soup. We have experienced some life-defining moments in places like this recently, with the redolence hanging around us like sandalwood for days afterward. No religious message, just the availability of introspection sitting against age.
Sitting in such an established placed wearing lycra seemed very wrong - I nudged over the cobbles and left everybody to it.
Having a titanium bike doesn't lend itself easily to steady riding and so true to form I pushed at a decent lick across the Chew valley lakes towards Litton. With a windless day offering a calm and warm atmosphere, it was a sustained pleasure to ride in an area I didn't know very well. There were very few cars and as I travelled past cottages and stockbroker-belt mansions with olive-painted doors and green oak timbered car ports, all I heard to break up the natural calm was the occasional lawn mower.
Past William Waldegrave's demesne, including the Waldegrave Arms pub, and up the hill toward Priddy. I cut off the main road to Stockhill and the Old Mineries, a smooth tail-flow giving me a gliding impetus.
The sun seems to like the Mineries and this sheltered curve in the road was warm with bird song and the must of elderberries. Blackberries and elderberries alike were providing an autumnal olfactory haze that attracted insects of all kinds. I rode past beech trees, crushing their burrs on the road with heavy-lidded crunches.
Old Bristol Road leading into Wells must be one of the great descents in this area; a good two miles of winding road that threatened to drag the rider out of their margin of safety. I hurtled down at a speed I was grateful for not knowing, held up at one corner by a nervy jam of three cars and two other cyclists; I nipped through a rather small gap and left them to it.
Into Wells - it was packed. It was market day and the locals jostled with the tourists for all the space on the road as well as the pavement. I wove through the crowds and freewheeled into the space around the Cathedral. A stretch-out and 9-bar on a bench, and the world was pretty good.
Karin and I like to go to Wells; the cathedral has a worn-away age about it and the town still retains some resistance to cosmopolitan modernism. Medieval buildings jostle with branches of Boots and WH Smiths and I half expected to see a black-fronted Woolworths with glass windows reflecting out onto the street like a ghostly childhood retail opportunity. We thought about moving there some time ago but the only houses that seemed to be up for sale were scabby concrete boxes or leafy treats that were out of our range. Well, I don't want them if they don't want me.
I sat and thought about how Karin's illness has re-ignited an interest for both of us in visiting churches and the like to soak up the reflective calm; inhaling motes in the air like ethereal soup. We have experienced some life-defining moments in places like this recently, with the redolence hanging around us like sandalwood for days afterward. No religious message, just the availability of introspection sitting against age.
Sitting in such an established placed wearing lycra seemed very wrong - I nudged over the cobbles and left everybody to it.
Sunday 21 September 2014
Cycling: three types
One of the things I love about cycling is the huge number of forms it takes. Utilitarianism or bourgeois sportiness, the two wheels offer a wonderful variety of interpretations.
This last Saturday I went out for a testosterone-fueled burn with the local triathlon club. We shot down to Chew Valley lake with the speed often sustaining a good 24mph; glad to say I was at the front most of the time and can take credit for at least some of the race-like attitude. Cars seemed in a bad mood as we were beeped and sworn at repeatedly despite our generally good road behaviour.
We eased off towards Ubley and bowled along, willing the sun to come out. The Mendips were shrouded with cloud which added weight to our rather pathetic refusal of the monster hill at Blagdon due to one of the group needing to go home early. However, my competitive interests were given an outlet by our choice of finishing the ride up Brockley Combe, a 2 mile slide up toward the Bristol Airport. I like Brockley Combe as the road surface is good and the gradient allows for a good pace - you could almost ride up in the big ring. I was joined at the front by another rider who was benefitting from more youth than me, and we steadily cranked up the speed until both of us were flat out leaving the other four out of sight down the road. We pulled in at the top and after a minute of discomfort and oxygen debt had recovered enough to pull the group back to Bristol. Truly a muscular thump of a ride.
In the afternoon (after I had showered and had lunch plus of course two mugs of tea), Karin and I took the tandem into Southville to buy veggies. We floated along at a very sedentary pace, crunching crack-dry beech nuts under the tyres and watching the wheeling of birds in the sun-touched air. Nudging past football supporters taking their beer bellies to watch someone else run around we parked in North Street and headed for the lovely greengrocers; packed with seasonal veg, middle-class women, and stray apostrophes lurking on every label. The journey home was even slower as the utilitarian nature of the errand set the level of athleticism. Who cares; we saved the petrol, got some exercise, enjoyed each others company, felt smug.
This evening I took my usual route to yoga, over Ashton Court on my cyclo-cross bike. The journey there was the usual slightly panicky scuttle up the hill followed by an urban trot to ensure a timely arrival.
The return was cool and redolent. I pinged up the hill while the sky dropped its tone to a hovering deep blueness. Echoes of the yoga class lent a calm interpretation to the journey.
The dusty gravel threatened wheels with loss of control, and occasionally I moved over to the grass in the hope that it was a smoother ride only to reutrn to the gravel - bumpy but quick. Funny to think the Parkrun races go up here every Saturday; runners edging round the larger potholes. However, the sky provided the big note this evening as I climbed up to the old festival field, with a wide expanse of clarity dominating the odd wisp of cloud. I really needed my lights on but prefered to ride in the dark, my lack of vision causing me to drop into unseen bowls of dried up puddles rather than skirting round them.
On the top it was really quite cool and the evening gently excised the warmth I had built up during the yoga leaving me on the edge of chilliness. Out onto the road, lights on and a dramatic chute down Providence lane and home; mentally noting that this could be the last evening ride without a night jacket.
This last Saturday I went out for a testosterone-fueled burn with the local triathlon club. We shot down to Chew Valley lake with the speed often sustaining a good 24mph; glad to say I was at the front most of the time and can take credit for at least some of the race-like attitude. Cars seemed in a bad mood as we were beeped and sworn at repeatedly despite our generally good road behaviour.
We eased off towards Ubley and bowled along, willing the sun to come out. The Mendips were shrouded with cloud which added weight to our rather pathetic refusal of the monster hill at Blagdon due to one of the group needing to go home early. However, my competitive interests were given an outlet by our choice of finishing the ride up Brockley Combe, a 2 mile slide up toward the Bristol Airport. I like Brockley Combe as the road surface is good and the gradient allows for a good pace - you could almost ride up in the big ring. I was joined at the front by another rider who was benefitting from more youth than me, and we steadily cranked up the speed until both of us were flat out leaving the other four out of sight down the road. We pulled in at the top and after a minute of discomfort and oxygen debt had recovered enough to pull the group back to Bristol. Truly a muscular thump of a ride.
In the afternoon (after I had showered and had lunch plus of course two mugs of tea), Karin and I took the tandem into Southville to buy veggies. We floated along at a very sedentary pace, crunching crack-dry beech nuts under the tyres and watching the wheeling of birds in the sun-touched air. Nudging past football supporters taking their beer bellies to watch someone else run around we parked in North Street and headed for the lovely greengrocers; packed with seasonal veg, middle-class women, and stray apostrophes lurking on every label. The journey home was even slower as the utilitarian nature of the errand set the level of athleticism. Who cares; we saved the petrol, got some exercise, enjoyed each others company, felt smug.
This evening I took my usual route to yoga, over Ashton Court on my cyclo-cross bike. The journey there was the usual slightly panicky scuttle up the hill followed by an urban trot to ensure a timely arrival.
The return was cool and redolent. I pinged up the hill while the sky dropped its tone to a hovering deep blueness. Echoes of the yoga class lent a calm interpretation to the journey.
The dusty gravel threatened wheels with loss of control, and occasionally I moved over to the grass in the hope that it was a smoother ride only to reutrn to the gravel - bumpy but quick. Funny to think the Parkrun races go up here every Saturday; runners edging round the larger potholes. However, the sky provided the big note this evening as I climbed up to the old festival field, with a wide expanse of clarity dominating the odd wisp of cloud. I really needed my lights on but prefered to ride in the dark, my lack of vision causing me to drop into unseen bowls of dried up puddles rather than skirting round them.
On the top it was really quite cool and the evening gently excised the warmth I had built up during the yoga leaving me on the edge of chilliness. Out onto the road, lights on and a dramatic chute down Providence lane and home; mentally noting that this could be the last evening ride without a night jacket.
Sunday 10 August 2014
Su Gologone
My exile from running required some other channelling of energy and so when on holiday in Sardinia I rented a mountain bike for a day in a vaguely optimistic attenpt at countering the surfeit of consumed calories. I had taken my road pedals and shoes but the island just doesn't seem set up for roadies; sure there were cyclists coming through the villages very early in the morning but the roads just didn't feel wide enough, and the stereotypical view of Italian drivers seemed justified.
So, taking advantage of the trail that left from the hotel, I headed up into the ancient hills above the hotel. Granite outcrops poked out from the land and pushed the sky up, and the ground raised dust in little puffs. The temperature was well into the 30's which forced most birds into shelter; their role in noise-making being replaced by crickets churring and buzzing like muted electric buzzers. The land was locked into stillnes and even the wind seemed reluctant to upset the supremacy of the sun.
I pumped up the first climb, pleased to be out and using my legs, and my knee felt pretty good. I have been cycling for longer than I have been running, and raced for long enough to feel immediately at home on any bike I sit on. When running I find myself considering the natural urges to run and cling on to the nativist argument that we evolved to run, but this just can't apply to cycling. There is something so deeply satisfying about pushing on the pedals with a resulting accelaration that far outstrips running, but it does depend on technology.
I took full advantage of this feeling by cruising and bouncing down the track at a speed slightly higher than my confort zone - I really am a rubbish mountain biker (although in my defence it was an unknown bike and I haven't ridden off-road for ages). Wind streamed into my face and the front wheel bumped and jarred over rocks and dust with the odd random piece of tarmac thrown in to provide variety.
A quick stop to look at a cave that was home to people 5,000 years ago. I left my bike on the track and crawled in to see if I could feel some buzz of historical connection. The cave was pretty untouched despite having been excavated in the 1970's and fine green moss contrasted with the cool dust on the ground lending the space a cool calm. I squatted there with the outside noises seemingly more distant than they really were - no spark or ghostly presence sadly, but a comforting space nonetheless.
Back on the bike and starting to build to a sweat now, the legs recognising deep action-memories. I stomped harder and thundered through the heat; mountains rearing up on either side as I passed into the 'paleozoic valley of Lanaittu'. Bare rocks offered no leafy coolness, and even the trees seemed too miserly to spread their branches. Donkeys stood squashed into shady patches and gazed at me with their liquid eyes and the occasional lizard flicked across the track. Dust was settling on my sweat and when I licked my lips there was a salty graininess that mirrored the rocks. A quick in-flight swig from the bottle and I pounded on to the Nuraghe village at the head of the valley - remnants of an ancient civilisation nestled in a cave.
I didn't go in - no money for the entry fee and actually no desire to do so when there are tracks to be thumped along. Ignoring the pathetic map I was using I just rode along a track until by great good luck I looped back and hit the trail to return to the hotel. Returning raises the spirit, and linked with my increasing confidence on the 29er, I really started to pile on the speed. The air was thick with dust and the hills seemed steeper than the outward journey.
A quick shimmy past the car park and up the vertiginous cobbles that led to the hotel entrance. I parked the bike on the terrace by the bar and walked past the guests reclining in all their clean poshness with a gait that in my mind suggested a saddle-weary cowboy but in reality resembled a rather dirty dork struggling to stand upright.
Cycling - oh yes! Who cares if the weather is so hot that all sensible people are in the bar or swimming pool? Who cares if the combination of BaD Tri top and tatty barefoot shoes breaks sporty cultural codes? Not me - the legs got to work, and the swimming pool afterwards was like diving into refrigerated liquid silver.
So, taking advantage of the trail that left from the hotel, I headed up into the ancient hills above the hotel. Granite outcrops poked out from the land and pushed the sky up, and the ground raised dust in little puffs. The temperature was well into the 30's which forced most birds into shelter; their role in noise-making being replaced by crickets churring and buzzing like muted electric buzzers. The land was locked into stillnes and even the wind seemed reluctant to upset the supremacy of the sun.
I pumped up the first climb, pleased to be out and using my legs, and my knee felt pretty good. I have been cycling for longer than I have been running, and raced for long enough to feel immediately at home on any bike I sit on. When running I find myself considering the natural urges to run and cling on to the nativist argument that we evolved to run, but this just can't apply to cycling. There is something so deeply satisfying about pushing on the pedals with a resulting accelaration that far outstrips running, but it does depend on technology.
I took full advantage of this feeling by cruising and bouncing down the track at a speed slightly higher than my confort zone - I really am a rubbish mountain biker (although in my defence it was an unknown bike and I haven't ridden off-road for ages). Wind streamed into my face and the front wheel bumped and jarred over rocks and dust with the odd random piece of tarmac thrown in to provide variety.
A quick stop to look at a cave that was home to people 5,000 years ago. I left my bike on the track and crawled in to see if I could feel some buzz of historical connection. The cave was pretty untouched despite having been excavated in the 1970's and fine green moss contrasted with the cool dust on the ground lending the space a cool calm. I squatted there with the outside noises seemingly more distant than they really were - no spark or ghostly presence sadly, but a comforting space nonetheless.
Back on the bike and starting to build to a sweat now, the legs recognising deep action-memories. I stomped harder and thundered through the heat; mountains rearing up on either side as I passed into the 'paleozoic valley of Lanaittu'. Bare rocks offered no leafy coolness, and even the trees seemed too miserly to spread their branches. Donkeys stood squashed into shady patches and gazed at me with their liquid eyes and the occasional lizard flicked across the track. Dust was settling on my sweat and when I licked my lips there was a salty graininess that mirrored the rocks. A quick in-flight swig from the bottle and I pounded on to the Nuraghe village at the head of the valley - remnants of an ancient civilisation nestled in a cave.
I didn't go in - no money for the entry fee and actually no desire to do so when there are tracks to be thumped along. Ignoring the pathetic map I was using I just rode along a track until by great good luck I looped back and hit the trail to return to the hotel. Returning raises the spirit, and linked with my increasing confidence on the 29er, I really started to pile on the speed. The air was thick with dust and the hills seemed steeper than the outward journey.
A quick shimmy past the car park and up the vertiginous cobbles that led to the hotel entrance. I parked the bike on the terrace by the bar and walked past the guests reclining in all their clean poshness with a gait that in my mind suggested a saddle-weary cowboy but in reality resembled a rather dirty dork struggling to stand upright.
Cycling - oh yes! Who cares if the weather is so hot that all sensible people are in the bar or swimming pool? Who cares if the combination of BaD Tri top and tatty barefoot shoes breaks sporty cultural codes? Not me - the legs got to work, and the swimming pool afterwards was like diving into refrigerated liquid silver.
Wednesday 6 August 2014
Weebles
You know those Indiana Jones- type films when they are crossing a rope bridge with the baddies catching up with them, and the baddies cut the rope? The bridge starts to disintegrate and the slats of wood fall away one by one into the chasm; the roaring river below waiting to swallow up anyone who falls. Every time the hero thinks they have a firm footing it suddenly gives way and they scramble along with us sitting, hearts in mouths, thinking they can't possibly make it.
I went to a Kung Fu class once and my instructor asked me if I would mind helping him practice for his black belt; he wanted to practice his knife drills and needed someone to attack him. I was happy to do this and spent the next two hours repeatedly threatening him with a plastic knife; each time he used a different technique to kick, punch or generally hurl me to the ground and deal me a death blow. After each mauling I would get up, pick up the plastic knife, and square up for the next futile attack. Down I went, punch, roll over, get up and repeat.
My running in the last few years has felt like this; recover from injury, nearly get back to form then something else happens to stop me running- another slat drops away from under my feet. In the last year alone I have sprained my ankle twice, continued with treatment for tendinopathy, had a sore knee caused by tight quads, had problems with every element of work that took up too much of my time, and found myself thrown into the role of primary carer for a sick partner.
So what now?
A torn meniscus. I can't run at all; in fact today I can barely walk. The unfairness of this is many- layered. I look after myself, I stretch daily and carry out strengthening exercises as well. I always use the stairs at work to get up six floors to the office. I attend a yoga class once a week, so my muscles and joints are well looked after. I eat very well and am highly motivated and passionate about getting out running. I don't push myself too hard and have read enough books to know how to construct a sensible training regime. I have been running competitively for 30 years, so have surely built up some durability. However, I have managed only one race this year, and only two last year despite some pretty regular running.
I am now faced with weeks, probably months of no running; another race entry fee down the drain, and another year closer to not being able to compete at all. The whole thing is deeply dispiriting and feels very unfair considering the amount of time and effort I invest in running. Not to mention that for me running is a perfect release for all the stresses of a challenging job and a seriously ill partner; the one thing I have always depended on has let me down again. I need to exercise but can't.
Surely one of the wooden slats is going to be the final one to give way and I no longer have the spirit to leap onto another one. I can't just keep getting up from an attack only to be floored again, and again and again. There will be a point when I just roll over.
So, how do I get up from this latest attack? Should I ask myself if my body is telling me something? Be unhealthy like most people? Pull myself together?
So, trying to maintain some optimism and clutching at straws rather than bits of bridge, I have been told yoga is ok if I don't sit cross legged, and cycling is fine. Cycling, my old fail-safe.
In the absence of any running it is on with the Lycra and out with the triathlon club. So the next blog entries will be cycling ones in the same vein as previous entries, and we will see what happens.
I went to a Kung Fu class once and my instructor asked me if I would mind helping him practice for his black belt; he wanted to practice his knife drills and needed someone to attack him. I was happy to do this and spent the next two hours repeatedly threatening him with a plastic knife; each time he used a different technique to kick, punch or generally hurl me to the ground and deal me a death blow. After each mauling I would get up, pick up the plastic knife, and square up for the next futile attack. Down I went, punch, roll over, get up and repeat.
My running in the last few years has felt like this; recover from injury, nearly get back to form then something else happens to stop me running- another slat drops away from under my feet. In the last year alone I have sprained my ankle twice, continued with treatment for tendinopathy, had a sore knee caused by tight quads, had problems with every element of work that took up too much of my time, and found myself thrown into the role of primary carer for a sick partner.
So what now?
A torn meniscus. I can't run at all; in fact today I can barely walk. The unfairness of this is many- layered. I look after myself, I stretch daily and carry out strengthening exercises as well. I always use the stairs at work to get up six floors to the office. I attend a yoga class once a week, so my muscles and joints are well looked after. I eat very well and am highly motivated and passionate about getting out running. I don't push myself too hard and have read enough books to know how to construct a sensible training regime. I have been running competitively for 30 years, so have surely built up some durability. However, I have managed only one race this year, and only two last year despite some pretty regular running.
I am now faced with weeks, probably months of no running; another race entry fee down the drain, and another year closer to not being able to compete at all. The whole thing is deeply dispiriting and feels very unfair considering the amount of time and effort I invest in running. Not to mention that for me running is a perfect release for all the stresses of a challenging job and a seriously ill partner; the one thing I have always depended on has let me down again. I need to exercise but can't.
Surely one of the wooden slats is going to be the final one to give way and I no longer have the spirit to leap onto another one. I can't just keep getting up from an attack only to be floored again, and again and again. There will be a point when I just roll over.
So, how do I get up from this latest attack? Should I ask myself if my body is telling me something? Be unhealthy like most people? Pull myself together?
So, trying to maintain some optimism and clutching at straws rather than bits of bridge, I have been told yoga is ok if I don't sit cross legged, and cycling is fine. Cycling, my old fail-safe.
In the absence of any running it is on with the Lycra and out with the triathlon club. So the next blog entries will be cycling ones in the same vein as previous entries, and we will see what happens.
Sunday 22 June 2014
Relish Cheddar Half Marathon - DNF
That was until the illicit pee in the shrubs.
Having over-hydrated (it was really hot), I popped up the path into the trees to 'lighten up'. On my return the Cheddar sprites, in an act of retribution, sprung a rock on me as I jogged down the path. Over went the ankle, and out the door went any possibility of doing well in the race.
I hobbled back to Karin pretending to all the other runners that everything was cool and I always ran with a limp. A mixture of gentle runs and firm pressure to the offending tendon got me to the start line but with little optimism, although there was always the option to drop out at the end of the first lap.
I felt quite good at the start and the ankle actually seemed ok, so I got into the race and charged up the hill with the others. It was very warm with little wind and we were all dripping with sweat within 1/2 a mile. Lack of cardio-vascular fitness started to make itself known as we climbed to the nature reserve and then into Velvet Bottom - as beautiful a place as it sounds. The temperature was pretty merciless and I guess most of us were calulating how far it was to the water station - although the cup of water they gave me seemed to evaporate before I got any satisfaction from it. The ankle was holding up but I felt very heavy. I still seem to think I can compete on natural fitness, but today was evidence that this can no longer be banked on.
Back down Velvet Bottom, more water, and I was starting to dig in for the long haul. Gary Jennings and Lynette Porter had passed me so I was very aware that I couldn't be where I felt I should be, as I would normally beat them. The ankle was starting to ache and the downhill bits took their toll - and there were some pretty technical downhill bits. I knew the steps at the top of the gorge would be hard; at that point just getting around had become the new target.
As the race threaded along the top of the gorge my ankle felt really sore and I figured that if it is getting worse I am not doing it any favours by continuing. Into the main field where the finish was as well as the loop for starting the second lap; I called out to Karin that I would just do the little dog-leg prior to the second half. Down into the strawberry field and a lung bursting climb through the woods. That was it. Under the tape and over to a marshall to announce my retirement.
We sat and watched the rest of the race. I depressed myself by working out where I would have come; enlivened by the presence of a delightful young lady next to us who chatted about running in an attempt to share some of Karin's job of stopping me slipping into a pit of despair.
So, great race but the first DNF in thirty years of running. However, my foot seized up totally by the time we got home, so it was the right decision. As concern for my foot gave way to introspection I wondered about racing. I love taking part in events like this, but more than that I love to think I am a competitor - in with a chance. Today I ran as a participant, which just doesn't feel like enough.
Unfit, weak foot, could this be age creeping in? After all I am in the 50-59 category which for once didn't seem very well represented in the top ten places. This is a depressing thought, so instead I am going to put a plan into action - sort the foot out; loads of strengthening when it is ready; go out with other runners to find some speed, and actually run for more than a couple of times per week, training rather than just running.
The alternative is so much worse - run these events just for fun alongside the competitors who hold a bottle in their hand and wear earphones. No, I am not ready for that yet.
Plusses? The hamstring felt ok, my hydration plans were good despite the heat, I had breath to joke with the marshalls, and no leg tiredness afterwards. Just need to sort the ankle out...
Thursday 12 June 2014
Shrews
I can't even start to consider how many miles I have run on paths and trails over the years, but to give it a ball-park figure, I would say, a lot. Over those years I have had the privilege of seeing nature close up: birds, bees, grasses, hares, owls, foxes and in one memorable encounter, a massive bull moose. Not in the UK I hasten to add.
Anyway, I was toodling up through Ironwood this evening, and as I picked my way up the path narrowly missed the corpse of a shrew in the middle of the path. My Brooks hit the ground on either side of the pathetic little bundle and I was struck by the fact that I have seen quite a lot of dead shrews over the afore-mentioned years. Rats? Nope. Hedgehogs, not one. Mice? Pah. No other animal approaches the shrew in public stiffs by a long chalk.
Now, why could this be? I have a few suggestions;
1. I am a shrew god and they sacrifice low-caste individuals at my feet.
2. They run out of energy crossing the path. After all , they do have a high metabolism and I totally understand what it feels like to have a low blood-sugar dip
3. Predatory animals cast shrews in my path to make me slip up. The thought of my foot pressing down on that little body and the contents sliding through the skin gives me the willies
4. They like the idea of meeting their maker staring at the sky, and a path offers a clearing in the tree cover
5. The creatures that like to eat mammal corpses don't like shrews
6. There are loads of shrews; simply millions
7. They trip up a lot and inevitably injure themselves
I like the idea of a prime number list. Oh wait, hang on, it's obvious - they are made of something that lasts forever. Well, what happens to all the sparrows, deer, slow-worms and other wildlife? You just don't see their peeling shells when they have come to the end of their allotted span - no, because they quickly decay. Not the shrews - they just don't break down in the same way. Perhaps they are alcoholics and therefore pickled, or perhaps their diet includes a mystery substance undiscovered by science that is anti-bacterial. Whatever, I rather feel there is a fortune to be made by analysing the key ingredient in shrew corpses. Please excuse me, I'm off out with a trowel and a carrier bag to collect some furry husks and find me a spectrometer or whatever they use now to isolate immortal substances.
Sunday 18 May 2014
Might Contain Nuts trail race - May 2014
It was with a little caution that I found myself on the start line of the MCN 10m trail race this morning - I haven't actually run fast for at least a year, hardly run with anyone, and wasn't sure of my level of fitness. Still, it was only 10 miles and could always just treat it as a training run by relaxing and enjoying the run.
Anyway, with one minute to go we jostled on the line; not to get to the front but to avoid being exposed as over-confident. I lost the shuffle war and when the bell sounded the start led the charge to the canal at Talybont.
I made a point of pinging along in a skippy barefoot style; partially to look relaxed and partially to ensure I didn't get over-competitive. One mile in and there were four of us together, with the rest of the race receding behind us - not what I had planned at all. However, I felt comfortable, knew what I was doing and had no expectations other than enjoying myself. Two runners drifted ahead - one I knew was in the marathon and so wasn't in the same race, but his compatriot clearly had ambitions. The race was initially flat, then climbed up Tor y Foel followed by a long cruise down to Talybont - my time would be on the hill as I am strong uphill, and was determined not to push too hard downhill in order to save my ever-complaining hamstrings.
So: foot of the hill, runners stretched out the whole way up the slope, weather looking less pleasant but still dry, and my protagonist (to be known hereafter as Gary Doherty, as it is his name) was lurking in the midst of the ultra runners about a minute ahead. Bit by bit I clawed my way through the field making good use of my leg strength and the hints I recently read in Trail Running magazine. Yes, past Gary, yes keeping running when others were walking, yes, through groups of pole-wielding ultra runners, and up onto the top.
What I hadn't considered was Gary's take on the race - while I fancied myself up the hill he fancied himself going downhill. I was suddenly sobered to hear a thundering behind, and then in front, as he capered past; arms and legs flailing, with sheep scattering in all directions. I was rather lamely picking my way down and watching my hopes of maintaining any contention steadily evaporating.
Through to the first and only checkpoint and we bad farewell to the few ultra runners daft enough to be running at the same pace as us and then dropped down off the hill. The only part of the race that needed carefully signage was clear and easy to navigate, and before long we had hit the path that led the whole way back to Talybont. I thought it would be a flying descent but the path was really rocky and hampered development of any pace. Gary had long gone - his buoyancy at taking the lead coincided with my resignation of the placings, so I picked my way downhill slower than a training run. A slight frisson was created by being overhauled by another runner, but he explained he had dropped out of the marathon; however if he had dropped out of a race and was still running faster than me that couldn't be good.
Never mind, a rather weak run along the towpath and into the grounds of the HQ and I finished in second place. There was the usual welcome from the MCN team that always seems to include more prizes than I feel I deserve, but am still very happy to receive.
So, how did it go? Well, it was nice to be running competitively despite the timid descending and finishing. I wasn't at all tired afterwards which suggests some fitness. The race had the usual MCN hallmarks - careful planning, crap weather, nice post-race atmosphere despite most of the runners still being out on the course. I wish I had entered the marathon as it was clear that I could have run that distance comfortably; mind you the idea was to ease back into competitive running very slowly and I achieved that. I wasn't very envious of the ultra when it was clear the weather wasn't at all good and they had to shorten the race - good call.
Camping at Talybont Farm was excellent as always, and I was back home by 2pm!
Anyway, with one minute to go we jostled on the line; not to get to the front but to avoid being exposed as over-confident. I lost the shuffle war and when the bell sounded the start led the charge to the canal at Talybont.
I made a point of pinging along in a skippy barefoot style; partially to look relaxed and partially to ensure I didn't get over-competitive. One mile in and there were four of us together, with the rest of the race receding behind us - not what I had planned at all. However, I felt comfortable, knew what I was doing and had no expectations other than enjoying myself. Two runners drifted ahead - one I knew was in the marathon and so wasn't in the same race, but his compatriot clearly had ambitions. The race was initially flat, then climbed up Tor y Foel followed by a long cruise down to Talybont - my time would be on the hill as I am strong uphill, and was determined not to push too hard downhill in order to save my ever-complaining hamstrings.
So: foot of the hill, runners stretched out the whole way up the slope, weather looking less pleasant but still dry, and my protagonist (to be known hereafter as Gary Doherty, as it is his name) was lurking in the midst of the ultra runners about a minute ahead. Bit by bit I clawed my way through the field making good use of my leg strength and the hints I recently read in Trail Running magazine. Yes, past Gary, yes keeping running when others were walking, yes, through groups of pole-wielding ultra runners, and up onto the top.
What I hadn't considered was Gary's take on the race - while I fancied myself up the hill he fancied himself going downhill. I was suddenly sobered to hear a thundering behind, and then in front, as he capered past; arms and legs flailing, with sheep scattering in all directions. I was rather lamely picking my way down and watching my hopes of maintaining any contention steadily evaporating.
Through to the first and only checkpoint and we bad farewell to the few ultra runners daft enough to be running at the same pace as us and then dropped down off the hill. The only part of the race that needed carefully signage was clear and easy to navigate, and before long we had hit the path that led the whole way back to Talybont. I thought it would be a flying descent but the path was really rocky and hampered development of any pace. Gary had long gone - his buoyancy at taking the lead coincided with my resignation of the placings, so I picked my way downhill slower than a training run. A slight frisson was created by being overhauled by another runner, but he explained he had dropped out of the marathon; however if he had dropped out of a race and was still running faster than me that couldn't be good.
Never mind, a rather weak run along the towpath and into the grounds of the HQ and I finished in second place. There was the usual welcome from the MCN team that always seems to include more prizes than I feel I deserve, but am still very happy to receive.
So, how did it go? Well, it was nice to be running competitively despite the timid descending and finishing. I wasn't at all tired afterwards which suggests some fitness. The race had the usual MCN hallmarks - careful planning, crap weather, nice post-race atmosphere despite most of the runners still being out on the course. I wish I had entered the marathon as it was clear that I could have run that distance comfortably; mind you the idea was to ease back into competitive running very slowly and I achieved that. I wasn't very envious of the ultra when it was clear the weather wasn't at all good and they had to shorten the race - good call.
Camping at Talybont Farm was excellent as always, and I was back home by 2pm!
Tuesday 6 May 2014
Treasure
I ran home from the train last week; up over Backwell toward Barrow court. The sun was just poking through which took the edge off the temperature. I climbed up the steep path through the woods, and right at the top, nestling against a rock was this common orchid. How lovely.
Sunday 27 April 2014
Wildlife
Went out for 2 sodden hours this afternoon. Luckily it wasn't too cold as it rained almost continuously with the occasional thunderclap to scare me. I ran through Watercress Farm, through the Tyntesfield estate and over to Lower Failand.
I ran up the hill that links Sandy Lane to Ferney Row - the area was deserted and I hadn't seen a soul since the lady with the dog on the cycle track. As I entered the trees I was aware of a movement to my right - to my surprise two pigs were rooting about under the trees. They must have escaped from a farm or smallholding but as I ran down the hill I couldn't see any pig-like accommodation or anywhere I could report their presence to. So, I left them there enjoying their freedom while it lasted.
Then, as I entered the golf course above Long Ashton a flock of Goldfinches flew off. They had been feeding on the Dandelion and Hawksbit seed heads and their presence on the ground resembled a hyperactive picnic. Lovely to see so many of this beautiful bird
I ran up the hill that links Sandy Lane to Ferney Row - the area was deserted and I hadn't seen a soul since the lady with the dog on the cycle track. As I entered the trees I was aware of a movement to my right - to my surprise two pigs were rooting about under the trees. They must have escaped from a farm or smallholding but as I ran down the hill I couldn't see any pig-like accommodation or anywhere I could report their presence to. So, I left them there enjoying their freedom while it lasted.
Then, as I entered the golf course above Long Ashton a flock of Goldfinches flew off. They had been feeding on the Dandelion and Hawksbit seed heads and their presence on the ground resembled a hyperactive picnic. Lovely to see so many of this beautiful bird
Sunday 13 April 2014
Five lives
Odd how some days seem to feel so much longer than others - maybe the experiences are more intense, maybe more gets crammed in. Or maybe we shrug off the steady ticking of the clock every now and again and squeeze ourselves into the gaps between the seconds.
I had the very great pleasure of staying at Monckton Wyld hostel near Lyme Regis last weekend. A real live sustainable commune complete with working dairy, fading regal architecture and probably the world's smallest pub (a 6x4 garden shed). I stayed over on Friday night with the plan that on Saturday I would go for a run that would be steady and will turn into a walk just as soon as I was tired.
In the first life, I shrugged off last night's cider and wandered down to the kitchen to see about breakfast. Plenty of tea and an alarmingly large bowl of muesli; both containing the richest milk I have had for years. There was a yellow skin of cream on the top and tasted - yes, milk actually tastes of something other than white- rich and characterful. This would prove to be perfect preparation for a run, and the weather decided that it too would oblige, with a cool and jewelled morning. I cautiously circled my rucksack, and having decided I could delay no longer, lolloped up the track and out into the 21st century.
The next life began as I entered a field at the bottom of a lane. I climbed over a stile and into a field sodden with dew. Chaffinches bounced around the hedging, shouting and calling in competition with sparrows. The landowner had made some splendid signposts with large fingers pointing the way, which was a relief as it was quite difficult to navigate through countless small fields. On reflection it is a pleasure to see those small fields, as years of unsympathetic stewardship have lost us much of the hedge; that cultural marker harbouring species diversity like a rural ark.
Without much difficulty I traversed past a number of truly beautiful farm houses and cottages and climbed up the slope to a rather threatening main road that sat along the top of a hill intimidating anything or anyone who wanted to move across the countryside. Hedgehog-like I skipped over the road, painfully aware of traffic hurtling at me from both directions.
Once across the road I suddenly found myself bowling down through some dense woods - a muddy yet easy-to-follow path that flowed downhill to the sea. Birds set up a cacophony that bounced off the trees, and the damp conditions had generated moss that glowed and sparkled in the sunlight. Blackbirds were engaged in their spring scuffle with two males squabbling; fan tail down. I exited the woods and followed a stream that led into into the middle of Lyme Regis. Path turned to track which led to road and then transformed into alleyways skirting back gardens.
My third life started when running past a strange collection of tiny bungalows that clustered round the stream as if plotting with it. Little wooden constructions that presumably harboured retired couples, sat freshly painted and showed off their whimsical names. Deeper into the town and the buildings got bigger until suddenly I was spat out into a main street full of art, fossil and pastie shops. It was still only about nine so not many people were about; the sea rolled forward into the town with only the seagulls keeping an eye on it.
I stood and admired the slight choppiness of the sea as it pushed into the Cobb, and then wandered down to the extraordinary beach. I had no idea of the coast at Lyme Regis - I knew of course that there were fossils and therefore there must be shale but was very surprised to see a flat stratum sitting like a shelf where the beach should be. I nudged past the huge digger doing something percussive to a rock and down onto the pebbly part that stretched the whole way to Charmouth. Rocks chinked and scrunched underfoot and the calm curiousness of a misty morning filled the air like a gentle breath. There were quite a number of groups fossil hunting, all bashing away at various rocks with their hired hammers, and a few looked up puzzled as I crunched past. I reached Charmouth but it only offered me a closed gift shop so I ignored it and looked ahead at the green line of cliffs that strteched right on into my next life.
This life traced the boundary between horizontal green and vertical tan as the coastal path inched as close as possible to the cliff; sometimes disappearing when sections of the coast were dragged down by the sea. The path was closed in a number of places but I took heart from the footprints of what seemed to be another runner and skipped under the barriers. The wave-like undulations of the path dragged at my legs but the increasing sun and a promise of water and a fruit bar kept the momentum.
Foolishly, two runners decided to hover just ahead of me like a target. I silently crept closer to them and they kept throwing furtive glances back to see if I had gained. Nothing worse than being the prey. However, they angled off to a road and left me to my own pace and no-one to chase; probably a good thing since the horizon was starting to fill with the outline of Golden Cap. A plunge down toward the coastline and into the blackthorn-filled valley; warblers singing and chasing through the trees. I went through the gate, climbed up through the trees and out into the grassy open stretching upward. The climb was really steep and forced the path into a zigzag. Nibbled grass sat like a velvet blanket with just a few strands of bramble inchig across. Feeling pretty good I stepped up the steepness; offering a greeting to a couple sat on a bench with a flask of tea. Through another gate and finally crawling onto the top of Golden Cap.
A rather ancient walker wandered up to me and informed me that Golden Cap had been an ancient hill fort, but at that time the ridge had extended another mile into the sea. I politely epressed astonishment and made a mental note to check its history out later - not yet achieved.
Nothing wrong with retracing your steps when the route is new - the return journey is fresh and unexplored. I was starting to feel tiredness in my legs during the zig-zag descent, with some detours around brambles to avoid closed sections of cliff path., but warmth in the sun and an optimistic view created by entering the second half of the run gave me energry. I cruised down to Charmouth with its car park full of detritus thrown up by the winter storms and headed inland on the hunt for food. A mango juice drink and packet of nuts and I was ready to attack the sapping shingle of the beach.
Returning to Lyme I entered a new existence, as couples leaned on the sea walls and watched me gingerly picking my way over the slippery rocks, past children and dogs, dads with rucksacks and mums guiding the hair out of their eyes. Off the beach and up the hill in search of a decent pasty. I found it in a shop that also offered tea, so clutching both treats I went and sat on the beach with couples eating fish and chips and failing to push buggies across the drifted angle of stones.
A check of the map suggested heading back over the hill toward Charmouth to meet the Monarch's Way (how funny that it passes our house 100 miles away), which would then lead me to Monkton Wyld. I hadn't anticipated a detour due to the erosion of the cliff, which at one point dragged me up a really steep path through some woods only to force me to double back when I reached the top: so frustrating.
I was reminded of the weather we have had this year by a soggy path that had been churned by horses, and it was possible to see how the water is slowly seeping down to the sea leaving new patches of firm soil. I was then routed along the main road, across the golf course, with golfers clearly appreciating the bright weather, and down to an unpleasant main road and roundabout from which I was supposed to pick up the path. This was a disturbing example of how busy roads charge straight over ancient routes; the path was all but lost with a new route that disappeared on one side of the road, and started again in a layby on the other. Any sense of the history and evolution of lines of communication is ignored in the new mantra of expedient travel. Mind you, I used the road myself, so am not really in a position to be self-righteous.
Luckily, before long the noise of traffic was replaced by more birdsong, and I was travelling through into a world of long grass and dandelions, sheep and bees.
The new and last existence brought the day full circle as I climbed over stiles and into water meadows with only passing crows for company. My tired legs were boosted by the sight of wild daffodils in a field - they sat squat in the grass and from the distance offered a yellow sheen. I haven't seen so many for a long time and it made me wonder if this was evidence of an ancient field that had suffered less than others. Something else to research when I got home.
One last climb up a lane to the hostel. The lane was well below the fields on either side and the banks offered ample evidence of its extreme age. Surely no other country can offer byways that are a window to the past in such an intense and earthy way.
Another rubbish video - difficult to film while runnin. However, I am sure you can see the flowers; what other country can offer this?
One last bend round the church and into the hostel - 25 miles in 6 hours including stops for pasties and numerous photos. Legs tired but nicely so with plenty of energy to make a cup of tea and sit in the garden for a while.
I had the very great pleasure of staying at Monckton Wyld hostel near Lyme Regis last weekend. A real live sustainable commune complete with working dairy, fading regal architecture and probably the world's smallest pub (a 6x4 garden shed). I stayed over on Friday night with the plan that on Saturday I would go for a run that would be steady and will turn into a walk just as soon as I was tired.
In the first life, I shrugged off last night's cider and wandered down to the kitchen to see about breakfast. Plenty of tea and an alarmingly large bowl of muesli; both containing the richest milk I have had for years. There was a yellow skin of cream on the top and tasted - yes, milk actually tastes of something other than white- rich and characterful. This would prove to be perfect preparation for a run, and the weather decided that it too would oblige, with a cool and jewelled morning. I cautiously circled my rucksack, and having decided I could delay no longer, lolloped up the track and out into the 21st century.
The next life began as I entered a field at the bottom of a lane. I climbed over a stile and into a field sodden with dew. Chaffinches bounced around the hedging, shouting and calling in competition with sparrows. The landowner had made some splendid signposts with large fingers pointing the way, which was a relief as it was quite difficult to navigate through countless small fields. On reflection it is a pleasure to see those small fields, as years of unsympathetic stewardship have lost us much of the hedge; that cultural marker harbouring species diversity like a rural ark.
Without much difficulty I traversed past a number of truly beautiful farm houses and cottages and climbed up the slope to a rather threatening main road that sat along the top of a hill intimidating anything or anyone who wanted to move across the countryside. Hedgehog-like I skipped over the road, painfully aware of traffic hurtling at me from both directions.
Once across the road I suddenly found myself bowling down through some dense woods - a muddy yet easy-to-follow path that flowed downhill to the sea. Birds set up a cacophony that bounced off the trees, and the damp conditions had generated moss that glowed and sparkled in the sunlight. Blackbirds were engaged in their spring scuffle with two males squabbling; fan tail down. I exited the woods and followed a stream that led into into the middle of Lyme Regis. Path turned to track which led to road and then transformed into alleyways skirting back gardens.
My third life started when running past a strange collection of tiny bungalows that clustered round the stream as if plotting with it. Little wooden constructions that presumably harboured retired couples, sat freshly painted and showed off their whimsical names. Deeper into the town and the buildings got bigger until suddenly I was spat out into a main street full of art, fossil and pastie shops. It was still only about nine so not many people were about; the sea rolled forward into the town with only the seagulls keeping an eye on it.
I stood and admired the slight choppiness of the sea as it pushed into the Cobb, and then wandered down to the extraordinary beach. I had no idea of the coast at Lyme Regis - I knew of course that there were fossils and therefore there must be shale but was very surprised to see a flat stratum sitting like a shelf where the beach should be. I nudged past the huge digger doing something percussive to a rock and down onto the pebbly part that stretched the whole way to Charmouth. Rocks chinked and scrunched underfoot and the calm curiousness of a misty morning filled the air like a gentle breath. There were quite a number of groups fossil hunting, all bashing away at various rocks with their hired hammers, and a few looked up puzzled as I crunched past. I reached Charmouth but it only offered me a closed gift shop so I ignored it and looked ahead at the green line of cliffs that strteched right on into my next life.
This life traced the boundary between horizontal green and vertical tan as the coastal path inched as close as possible to the cliff; sometimes disappearing when sections of the coast were dragged down by the sea. The path was closed in a number of places but I took heart from the footprints of what seemed to be another runner and skipped under the barriers. The wave-like undulations of the path dragged at my legs but the increasing sun and a promise of water and a fruit bar kept the momentum.
Foolishly, two runners decided to hover just ahead of me like a target. I silently crept closer to them and they kept throwing furtive glances back to see if I had gained. Nothing worse than being the prey. However, they angled off to a road and left me to my own pace and no-one to chase; probably a good thing since the horizon was starting to fill with the outline of Golden Cap. A plunge down toward the coastline and into the blackthorn-filled valley; warblers singing and chasing through the trees. I went through the gate, climbed up through the trees and out into the grassy open stretching upward. The climb was really steep and forced the path into a zigzag. Nibbled grass sat like a velvet blanket with just a few strands of bramble inchig across. Feeling pretty good I stepped up the steepness; offering a greeting to a couple sat on a bench with a flask of tea. Through another gate and finally crawling onto the top of Golden Cap.
A rather ancient walker wandered up to me and informed me that Golden Cap had been an ancient hill fort, but at that time the ridge had extended another mile into the sea. I politely epressed astonishment and made a mental note to check its history out later - not yet achieved.
Nothing wrong with retracing your steps when the route is new - the return journey is fresh and unexplored. I was starting to feel tiredness in my legs during the zig-zag descent, with some detours around brambles to avoid closed sections of cliff path., but warmth in the sun and an optimistic view created by entering the second half of the run gave me energry. I cruised down to Charmouth with its car park full of detritus thrown up by the winter storms and headed inland on the hunt for food. A mango juice drink and packet of nuts and I was ready to attack the sapping shingle of the beach.
Returning to Lyme I entered a new existence, as couples leaned on the sea walls and watched me gingerly picking my way over the slippery rocks, past children and dogs, dads with rucksacks and mums guiding the hair out of their eyes. Off the beach and up the hill in search of a decent pasty. I found it in a shop that also offered tea, so clutching both treats I went and sat on the beach with couples eating fish and chips and failing to push buggies across the drifted angle of stones.
A check of the map suggested heading back over the hill toward Charmouth to meet the Monarch's Way (how funny that it passes our house 100 miles away), which would then lead me to Monkton Wyld. I hadn't anticipated a detour due to the erosion of the cliff, which at one point dragged me up a really steep path through some woods only to force me to double back when I reached the top: so frustrating.
I was reminded of the weather we have had this year by a soggy path that had been churned by horses, and it was possible to see how the water is slowly seeping down to the sea leaving new patches of firm soil. I was then routed along the main road, across the golf course, with golfers clearly appreciating the bright weather, and down to an unpleasant main road and roundabout from which I was supposed to pick up the path. This was a disturbing example of how busy roads charge straight over ancient routes; the path was all but lost with a new route that disappeared on one side of the road, and started again in a layby on the other. Any sense of the history and evolution of lines of communication is ignored in the new mantra of expedient travel. Mind you, I used the road myself, so am not really in a position to be self-righteous.
Luckily, before long the noise of traffic was replaced by more birdsong, and I was travelling through into a world of long grass and dandelions, sheep and bees.
The new and last existence brought the day full circle as I climbed over stiles and into water meadows with only passing crows for company. My tired legs were boosted by the sight of wild daffodils in a field - they sat squat in the grass and from the distance offered a yellow sheen. I haven't seen so many for a long time and it made me wonder if this was evidence of an ancient field that had suffered less than others. Something else to research when I got home.
Not a very clear video I am afraid, but you ca see the yellow of the daffodils.
One last climb up a lane to the hostel. The lane was well below the fields on either side and the banks offered ample evidence of its extreme age. Surely no other country can offer byways that are a window to the past in such an intense and earthy way.
One last bend round the church and into the hostel - 25 miles in 6 hours including stops for pasties and numerous photos. Legs tired but nicely so with plenty of energy to make a cup of tea and sit in the garden for a while.
Tuesday 1 April 2014
Bats
I went out for a brief jog this evening, partially because the clocks had changed, partly because I needed to unravel my head from the day, partly because it was actually warm and I could wear shorts, and partly because I just wanted to. Let's hope it was the sum of all those parts.
Anyway, through the plantation and down to Gatcombe in order to cross the road to return via the field where the scary cows someimes live. I rolled past Gatcombe (which for the uninitiated is a farm with a farm shop and sunday-lunch-type cafe in, although how they call it a farm shop when most of the produce is imported and in poor condition I don't know), and curved up the lane to what we locals laughingly call the main road (two cars a minute).
I was suddenly drawn to a halt by the unmistakable flitting of a bat; it dipped and circled above my head; disappearing, only to reappear in another part of the sky. I was very surprised to see it, given it is the beginning of April and I felt it was scarcely warm enough for bats. However, my pleasure was gilded by another bat joining the first in an airborne conversation.
For reasons that have now left me I decided that I had the capacity to attract bats by drawing air in through my teeth and lower lip to produce a high pitched sound that would surely prove alluring. What actually happened was the Chiropterid version of 'wtf is that?' 'No idea; let's fly out of here before it gets really annoying'. And with that they left.
Not much of a bat-whisperer.
Anyway, through the plantation and down to Gatcombe in order to cross the road to return via the field where the scary cows someimes live. I rolled past Gatcombe (which for the uninitiated is a farm with a farm shop and sunday-lunch-type cafe in, although how they call it a farm shop when most of the produce is imported and in poor condition I don't know), and curved up the lane to what we locals laughingly call the main road (two cars a minute).
I was suddenly drawn to a halt by the unmistakable flitting of a bat; it dipped and circled above my head; disappearing, only to reappear in another part of the sky. I was very surprised to see it, given it is the beginning of April and I felt it was scarcely warm enough for bats. However, my pleasure was gilded by another bat joining the first in an airborne conversation.
For reasons that have now left me I decided that I had the capacity to attract bats by drawing air in through my teeth and lower lip to produce a high pitched sound that would surely prove alluring. What actually happened was the Chiropterid version of 'wtf is that?' 'No idea; let's fly out of here before it gets really annoying'. And with that they left.
Not much of a bat-whisperer.
Sunday 9 February 2014
Up. Down.
Due to a late bedtime last night Karin wasn't able to rise this morning, so I took advantage of her sleeping and went out for an hour or so. If she has a busy day one day, the next often finds her exhausted. Whenever Anne and Gary come down I find myself on the receiving end of a feast of excess, so a blast in the countryside would surely offer a cleansing.
The weather looked as if rain was a certainty, so on with the trusty OMM jacket, and out I set, resigned to the fact that I would be wet before I returned.
Up across the golf course - not a golf player to be seen. No-one in Ashton Court either except a few hardy mountain bikers and another runner ahead who I couldn't catch before he turned off. The wind was squalling in all directions adding extra challenge to the mud which threatened to make me slip up. At the rugby club across Beggar Bush Lane the only greeting I received was from the elderly horse in his blanket; I normally stop to say hello to him but the rain was starting to drive sideways so I kept moving.
Down the hill towards Abbot's Pool and the rain came at me in icy blasts forcing my hood up and making me pick my way very carefully down the path. I climbed up the steep slippery slope at Abbot's pool and ran through the woods on paths that thread like tracery; the ground soft with a damp mulch of pine needles. Thoughts of how Karin might be feeling kept seeping through and pushing me down to the mud; the rain tipping my face downward. A number of trees had fallen in the previous week's storms forcing me to meander in convoluted pathways. One old fallen tree was dressed in vivid green moss that pushed out of the rotten wood and brought life to the chill wetness.
I reached Sandy Lane and ran along it for some way. Huge puddles dominated the track, with abrasive sandstone rocks forcing me to pick carefully between obstacles. It was oddly sheltered from the wind - despite being high up, the hill must somehow push the wind up higher so I was able to pick my way up the field without being whipped by the wind and rain.
Ferney Row is always wet, even in the summer. Today it was exceptionally wet with ankle deep watery mud providing a challenge to maintain some sort of pace. I splashed and slithered through and over to the stream that was unsurprisingly large and fast moving, and then aimed for the hill that leads up to the field with the view of Avonmouth. Reduced to a walk by the conditions the mire sucked all the energy out of the run. A woodpecker was thrumming, the sound flowing through the woods.
I entered the lane that leads to Lower Failand and headed towards the main road. To my great surprise someone had erected a pink banner over the footpath post, with printed tendrils and fabric Ipomea flowers stuck on. It was stunningly beautiful and fluttered energetically in contrast to the heavy wet woods. My breath was drawn out of me and I was filled with the vertiginous sadness of beauty.
Unsure whether to be melancholic or ecstatic I rollercoasted along the road until lightened by a man in a car who stopped to tell me that he was driving carefully as he didn't want to splash me. Into the field behind Failand village hall where the horses are kept; a sodden blanket sitting heavily in a wheelbarrow. By now I was filthy and soaked, but maintaining a steady uprightness across the fields and over to the gate with the stupid finger-chopping catch.
I entered the golf course and right on the edge of the hill that drops down to Long Ashton I stopped, stunned by the sudden and piercing bird song of a good number of Long-Tailed Tits. Normally they peep away at each other like fishwives as they move through hedges and trees but this time they were in full spate with their startling songs resembling choirboys soaring through the cathedral roof. There was a bench there, but I resisted temptation and when the Tits had moved on echoing into the distance I continued to pick my way down the hill home.
Rounding the corner I was pleased to see the bedroom curtains drawn back - obviously Karin felt well enough to sit up and welcome the world in. A rather childish splashing in the huge puddle outside Tony's house removed some of the brown and restored some of the blue to my shoes and in I padded, better than when I had started. My hands were warm with running and outside, and I used them to stroke outdoors warmth into Karin's face.
The weather looked as if rain was a certainty, so on with the trusty OMM jacket, and out I set, resigned to the fact that I would be wet before I returned.
Up across the golf course - not a golf player to be seen. No-one in Ashton Court either except a few hardy mountain bikers and another runner ahead who I couldn't catch before he turned off. The wind was squalling in all directions adding extra challenge to the mud which threatened to make me slip up. At the rugby club across Beggar Bush Lane the only greeting I received was from the elderly horse in his blanket; I normally stop to say hello to him but the rain was starting to drive sideways so I kept moving.
Down the hill towards Abbot's Pool and the rain came at me in icy blasts forcing my hood up and making me pick my way very carefully down the path. I climbed up the steep slippery slope at Abbot's pool and ran through the woods on paths that thread like tracery; the ground soft with a damp mulch of pine needles. Thoughts of how Karin might be feeling kept seeping through and pushing me down to the mud; the rain tipping my face downward. A number of trees had fallen in the previous week's storms forcing me to meander in convoluted pathways. One old fallen tree was dressed in vivid green moss that pushed out of the rotten wood and brought life to the chill wetness.
I reached Sandy Lane and ran along it for some way. Huge puddles dominated the track, with abrasive sandstone rocks forcing me to pick carefully between obstacles. It was oddly sheltered from the wind - despite being high up, the hill must somehow push the wind up higher so I was able to pick my way up the field without being whipped by the wind and rain.
Ferney Row is always wet, even in the summer. Today it was exceptionally wet with ankle deep watery mud providing a challenge to maintain some sort of pace. I splashed and slithered through and over to the stream that was unsurprisingly large and fast moving, and then aimed for the hill that leads up to the field with the view of Avonmouth. Reduced to a walk by the conditions the mire sucked all the energy out of the run. A woodpecker was thrumming, the sound flowing through the woods.
I entered the lane that leads to Lower Failand and headed towards the main road. To my great surprise someone had erected a pink banner over the footpath post, with printed tendrils and fabric Ipomea flowers stuck on. It was stunningly beautiful and fluttered energetically in contrast to the heavy wet woods. My breath was drawn out of me and I was filled with the vertiginous sadness of beauty.
Unsure whether to be melancholic or ecstatic I rollercoasted along the road until lightened by a man in a car who stopped to tell me that he was driving carefully as he didn't want to splash me. Into the field behind Failand village hall where the horses are kept; a sodden blanket sitting heavily in a wheelbarrow. By now I was filthy and soaked, but maintaining a steady uprightness across the fields and over to the gate with the stupid finger-chopping catch.
I entered the golf course and right on the edge of the hill that drops down to Long Ashton I stopped, stunned by the sudden and piercing bird song of a good number of Long-Tailed Tits. Normally they peep away at each other like fishwives as they move through hedges and trees but this time they were in full spate with their startling songs resembling choirboys soaring through the cathedral roof. There was a bench there, but I resisted temptation and when the Tits had moved on echoing into the distance I continued to pick my way down the hill home.
Rounding the corner I was pleased to see the bedroom curtains drawn back - obviously Karin felt well enough to sit up and welcome the world in. A rather childish splashing in the huge puddle outside Tony's house removed some of the brown and restored some of the blue to my shoes and in I padded, better than when I had started. My hands were warm with running and outside, and I used them to stroke outdoors warmth into Karin's face.
Sunday 19 January 2014
Routes
For the first time in weeks the sun made itself known this morning as I headed out, climbing up through the plantation to Failand and into Tyntesfield. The air was as crisp and invasive as the first plunge into the sea, and birds were taking full advantage of the brightness by sending trilling messages through the clarity. The ground was thick with slimy wet mud as a result of recent rain, causing running to be a precarious and messy business - after the first path I abandoned any hope of keeping my feet dry.
I climbed through the Plantation; shady areas and verges hanging onto frost like a dusting of rime, and water sitting everywhere with tiny draining rivulets rolling downward. I was soon warm after the climb and the winter sun also made a contribution to pushing the chill away. The main road was empty: a benefit of going out relatively early on a Sunday, and I then slithered through the stile into the Tyntesfield estate. As I crested the hill and started the roll downwards I was aware of a hazy mist sitting toward the bottom of the field. It looked like smoke but smelled like wet and greyness. Through the mist, across the road and into the woods with the most heart-warming view of the valley across to Backwell. Sun picked out glints of glass on building and cars, and the whole scene felt like it belonged to warmer times. As if to add to the aura of well-being the church at Backwell was pealing out its message in the distance, bringing a traditional English note to the countryside symphony.
The plan had been to get to Nailsea then cut across by the railway station in order to climb the hill at Backwell, curving round home, but my foot felt weak and tired from yesterday's run and as I dropped down to Watercress Farm my enthusiasm for the original route got mired in the mud. However, I gave myself the opportunity to consider that this was my training run to make the most of - if I cut home at this point that would be it, no more running for the rest of the day.
Down on the moor it was really claggy - I slipped and slithered along with boots of clay pulling at my hamstrings. The fields were striated with long thin puddles that matched the ploughed furrows, with grass plantlets almost floating in the liquid soil. The ditches were all full - one large rhyne had a sizeable flow and was eating away at its own bank, gurgling with satisfaction. I stopped and watched the water for a while, wondering what it is about moving water that brings us such pleasure.
I have been reading Robert Macfarlane's book 'The Old Ways'; a beautiful evocation of the pleasure of travelling across the countryside. (In fact, I think he says exactly what I want to say, which is a bit demotivating. Why struggle to define something what someone has already done it better than you ever will?). In it he mentions the Arabic word 'sarha' which means to let the cows out to pasture so they can wander about freely. This isn't a way I travel when I run; I plan my routes carefully according to the available time and my energy levels. However, I was forced into random running after the moor, as I had planned to run along the bottom of Nailsea until I hit Station road - I reached the houses, and after a while of following the line of development the path just stopped.
I guess in the past paths and tracks were created as a means of getting from one place to another and so they always linked through to the next significant point. Modern developers don't seem to see this function, so so are quite happy to let a sizeable groomed path just stop within sight of the next road. I headed into the housing estate and turned into cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac trying to find some way through to the road, to no avail. Who invented the cul-d-sac? A road that doesn't go anywhere! A piece of oxymoronic planning that dragged me further up the hill than I wanted which then forced me to run down the road and back to the route that was virtually visible all the way along. I then headed off along the bridleway, only to find the same problem.
A bridge and a dog walker led me to think the path had crossed into the field, and as a result I found myself slopping around the edge of a large field, painfully aware that there seemed to be no way out of the field other than the one I had come in through, which of course would necessitate greeting the dog walker again. The more we develop and improve things the further we are from an efficient route. A couple of months ago I was forced by roadworks to take a detour through a housing estate and spent twenty minutes driving round cursing developers who make leaving the area a challenge; every few minutes passing where I had already been, sometimes from the other direction. I am reminded of department stores who hide the stairs so you are forced to travel around the whole shop, possibly buying something to sustain you in your quest to exit.
Anyway, having found an exit at the end of the field, I alighted on Backwell Common Lane with some relief. It wasn't where I wanted to be but at least I had escaped the labyrinth of progress. The sun was really bright by now, although not offering any warmth, but the contrast with the last fortnight was wonderful. The faux Spring had affected others as well - some domestic geese were revelling in a temporary pond of floodwater, and flapping their wings with all the excitement of a dog being let out after a night of rain.
My foot was quite tired by now so I recalibrated my run to head back to Watercress Farm then up over Gatcombe. Straight back to the mud and rhynes, with streams winding like snakes, and the only evidence of human travelling being sharp imprints of my own shoes from earlier - like the Plaster of Paris casts we made as kids. A female blackbird perched on a hedge pulled her head back into her chubby body as I ran past.
Watercress Farm both benefits and debits from being a confluence of a lot of paths, most of which pass through the grounds of the complex - subsequently I often find myself being a voyeur at family breakfasts as I pass through. This morning I caught out a man putting his dog outside, stripped to the waist and clearly not expecting a muddied runner squelching past. Even the dog was confused.
Off to Cambridge Batch and down to the area that normally has a concrete bridge spanning a stream, Last week Heidi and I had to step carefully through the spate with water streaming a good foot above the bridge; we just stood in the water and laughed. This week the water was even deeper and with quite a force - I had to inch across with the water pulling at my legs.
Up above Gatcombe and down to Long Ashton, stopping at the puddles by the park to wash my shoes off - 12.5 country miles and sun induced blinking.
I climbed through the Plantation; shady areas and verges hanging onto frost like a dusting of rime, and water sitting everywhere with tiny draining rivulets rolling downward. I was soon warm after the climb and the winter sun also made a contribution to pushing the chill away. The main road was empty: a benefit of going out relatively early on a Sunday, and I then slithered through the stile into the Tyntesfield estate. As I crested the hill and started the roll downwards I was aware of a hazy mist sitting toward the bottom of the field. It looked like smoke but smelled like wet and greyness. Through the mist, across the road and into the woods with the most heart-warming view of the valley across to Backwell. Sun picked out glints of glass on building and cars, and the whole scene felt like it belonged to warmer times. As if to add to the aura of well-being the church at Backwell was pealing out its message in the distance, bringing a traditional English note to the countryside symphony.
The plan had been to get to Nailsea then cut across by the railway station in order to climb the hill at Backwell, curving round home, but my foot felt weak and tired from yesterday's run and as I dropped down to Watercress Farm my enthusiasm for the original route got mired in the mud. However, I gave myself the opportunity to consider that this was my training run to make the most of - if I cut home at this point that would be it, no more running for the rest of the day.
Down on the moor it was really claggy - I slipped and slithered along with boots of clay pulling at my hamstrings. The fields were striated with long thin puddles that matched the ploughed furrows, with grass plantlets almost floating in the liquid soil. The ditches were all full - one large rhyne had a sizeable flow and was eating away at its own bank, gurgling with satisfaction. I stopped and watched the water for a while, wondering what it is about moving water that brings us such pleasure.
I have been reading Robert Macfarlane's book 'The Old Ways'; a beautiful evocation of the pleasure of travelling across the countryside. (In fact, I think he says exactly what I want to say, which is a bit demotivating. Why struggle to define something what someone has already done it better than you ever will?). In it he mentions the Arabic word 'sarha' which means to let the cows out to pasture so they can wander about freely. This isn't a way I travel when I run; I plan my routes carefully according to the available time and my energy levels. However, I was forced into random running after the moor, as I had planned to run along the bottom of Nailsea until I hit Station road - I reached the houses, and after a while of following the line of development the path just stopped.
I guess in the past paths and tracks were created as a means of getting from one place to another and so they always linked through to the next significant point. Modern developers don't seem to see this function, so so are quite happy to let a sizeable groomed path just stop within sight of the next road. I headed into the housing estate and turned into cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac trying to find some way through to the road, to no avail. Who invented the cul-d-sac? A road that doesn't go anywhere! A piece of oxymoronic planning that dragged me further up the hill than I wanted which then forced me to run down the road and back to the route that was virtually visible all the way along. I then headed off along the bridleway, only to find the same problem.
A bridge and a dog walker led me to think the path had crossed into the field, and as a result I found myself slopping around the edge of a large field, painfully aware that there seemed to be no way out of the field other than the one I had come in through, which of course would necessitate greeting the dog walker again. The more we develop and improve things the further we are from an efficient route. A couple of months ago I was forced by roadworks to take a detour through a housing estate and spent twenty minutes driving round cursing developers who make leaving the area a challenge; every few minutes passing where I had already been, sometimes from the other direction. I am reminded of department stores who hide the stairs so you are forced to travel around the whole shop, possibly buying something to sustain you in your quest to exit.
Anyway, having found an exit at the end of the field, I alighted on Backwell Common Lane with some relief. It wasn't where I wanted to be but at least I had escaped the labyrinth of progress. The sun was really bright by now, although not offering any warmth, but the contrast with the last fortnight was wonderful. The faux Spring had affected others as well - some domestic geese were revelling in a temporary pond of floodwater, and flapping their wings with all the excitement of a dog being let out after a night of rain.
My foot was quite tired by now so I recalibrated my run to head back to Watercress Farm then up over Gatcombe. Straight back to the mud and rhynes, with streams winding like snakes, and the only evidence of human travelling being sharp imprints of my own shoes from earlier - like the Plaster of Paris casts we made as kids. A female blackbird perched on a hedge pulled her head back into her chubby body as I ran past.
Watercress Farm both benefits and debits from being a confluence of a lot of paths, most of which pass through the grounds of the complex - subsequently I often find myself being a voyeur at family breakfasts as I pass through. This morning I caught out a man putting his dog outside, stripped to the waist and clearly not expecting a muddied runner squelching past. Even the dog was confused.
Off to Cambridge Batch and down to the area that normally has a concrete bridge spanning a stream, Last week Heidi and I had to step carefully through the spate with water streaming a good foot above the bridge; we just stood in the water and laughed. This week the water was even deeper and with quite a force - I had to inch across with the water pulling at my legs.
Up above Gatcombe and down to Long Ashton, stopping at the puddles by the park to wash my shoes off - 12.5 country miles and sun induced blinking.
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