In Memory of Karin Dixon Wilkins

Last week I cycled through the top field at Ashton Court in the evening. They had left the grass long for the flowers to complete their cycle and the field was lank and rich with life.  Orchids were standing alongside moon daisies; flies and moths hovered above, and the air was full of swallows etching the sky; their peeping calls bouncing back from the silent woods.

How do you buy a wedding ring for a singular person?  For Karin’s ring we trawled the usual sterile chain shops but found only two possibilities; an overly expensive vintage ring in an antique shop or having one made, which we ordered. The resulting ring was perfect and defined Karin accurately – quirky, unique and classy in a way was unique; a sine wave; gold with a twist.  

I lost it at Ashton Court festival in that same top field, after having offered to put it in my wallet for safety.  I must have dropped it in the grass amid the conspicuous rejection of plain living, the wine hidden in kids’ juice bottles, sweet illicit whiffs of cannabis, colours, eclectic images, sounds, tastes.  Those bright colours sat well on her. 

But now, the clatter of people had gone and the predominant sound was the gentle hum of nature. Over the years the field has changed; trees that I remember leaning over the path in the past have since dropped large branches that feed fungi and creatures.  The field has the same shapes, same indents and bulges but now there is a small new path that mountain bikers use to thread along the top. The bottom path that led out of the field is gone, buried under nettles and brambles. Karin’s ring is in the field somewhere, sat against the bedrock, maybe for millennia, maybe for eternity.

Two years ago we stayed in the Alps.  We packed loads of water to counteract the heat, a cold pizza folded in half for food, and a map, and set off jogging up a steep path that was toothed with rocks.  Plenty of walkers stepped aside to let us past – some made encouraging comments in French which only Karin understood; she was good at languages.  In fact she was good at all communication and thrived on contact with others.  I sometimes felt guilty at taking her up into wild places away from people and subjecting her to the physical discomfort of steepness and wind, but she would do these things for me.

After two hours of running we hit a plateau followed by a final climb to a cliff face that offered a startling view of Mont Blanc.  We felt we could reach out and touch it; its implacable face blinding in the sun.  People cluttered the spot and Karin was taken by what they were up to.  One family had a full picnic, complete with a jar of jam and a baguette.  Another man was reading Le Monde; neither seemed appropriate up a mountain but she thought this was excellent – people thumbing their nose at what you are ‘supposed to do’.

As the afternoon came to an end we started running back down the path.  It’s harder running downhill, the gradient burns your thighs and the temptation to speed up is controlled by fear of roots that could trip you up. The high plateau and Mont Blanc were left behind, still there but out of sight. 

That run was when the landscape entered Karin’s soul. We had travelled into the land and gained some understanding of how we fit in the world. The consistent cycle of days, rocks, impermanence, the annual cycle of orchids, the sun setting. We are mortal, even mountains are mortal. The only way to understand the different speeds of change is by sinking gradually into the land, the great breathing of bedrock.  Since that holiday Karin changed dramatically; her terminal diagnosis pushed her into thinking about how she fitted in her life and how her life fitted into time. Karin’s approach to her own mortality has given us a new template, one that understands that in a thousand or a million years none of us will be here; what we have right now is what we have. This is a gift from her to you.

Karin was scared of running up mountains; she hated heights and was cautious of going somewhere that was potentially dangerous.  What leads a person to give in to the desires and interests of their partner, despite being terrified? Only I know how much she struggled up there; I could read the body language as the ascent and descent both brought their challenges. Karin was prepared to face her ghosts head on and her reward was a final two years that were rich and meaningful.

I bought her a new ring.  The jeweller that made the first one still had the original design but despite a couple of attempts just couldn’t recreate it.  We bought their best effort; a lovely ring but not the same.  There is no trace of the original, no photos, nothing.  Except it sits somewhere in that field – it has gone but is still present.

 

How to run

Over the last few years I have read loads of information about efficient running - some of it has been genuinely useful for me, other sources would have been useful twenty years ago, and some of it is useless!

However, some online resources are so good I just keep going back to them, and these are the ones I really want to share with people who ask me about running.  After a while you start to realise that certain key messages keep being offered by lots of resources, and I list these so they can be used as a checklist for anyone who wants to improve their running form.  There are some videos that are just plain inspiring as well.

I am very aware that most people don't want to research as much as me, and so I have listed resources in order of importance; if you want just one good resource watch the video by Mark Cucuzella and go no further.  If you enjoy it, read on down. Of course you may have your own running style or school of thinking about running form, but these have worked for me.  I am not professionally trained, or an expert other than having spent far too much time on the laptop when I should be out running, and I daresay other people will offer totally different viewpoints, but like I said, they work for me.

So, here we go!

The first is the following video - I can't find a better model of good running technique along with clear identification of key areas to focus on.  I know not many people want to run barefoot, and he does look scarily fast, but watch this a few times, memorise the messages and I promise you will be faster and more efficient.

This next video outlines some of the exercises that come from the Alexander Technique school of running.  It may not be a complete programme but it does give you an idea of this technique. I am interested in how similar the messages are to the first video.

OK - the next most important resource is the Kinetic Revolution website.  This is run by James Dunne and is a comprehensive resource for all sorts of exercises etc.  Click on 'Resources' for a million videos and discussions. You can sign up for a daily newsletter that usually includes a video on some exercise or another - I love it. The discussions are well-researched and I particularly like the way he starts with 'Hey team...' and ends with 'let me know how you get on'.  I sent him a question and he replied!  There is also a 30 day challenge, which I did start but failed to complete.

http://www.kinetic-revolution.com/ 

You can also be on his Facebook group - loads of ideas there

From these sources and a few others I have gleaned the following set of areas to focus on.  I wish I had known these years ago; perhaps I would be running injury-free now.

1.  Stand and run tall, straight body but leaning forward slightly.  Imagine a piece of string attached to the top of your head and pulling you up into the sky

2.  Active knee drive forward - look at Mark Cucuzella doing it

3.  Aim for short ground contact time, and run light.  Think about running on egg shells

4.  Core and hips need to be strong and flexible - James Dunne offers some excellent exercises; or go to yoga!  

5.  Strong Glutes.  Again, look at Kinetic Revolution, but actually a good running stance will activate the glutes more effectively anyway.

6.  180 steps per minute - I have a metronome app on my phone.  This feels quite fast and you may not manage it, not everyone works at 180bpm.

7.  The leading foot needs to land under your mass, not in front.  You should hit the ground with a slightly bent knee and avoid a long stride out front that casues you to recoil against the direction you are trying to travel.

8.  Heel-striking is so 1980's!  Aim to land on the mid-foot and roll onto the fore, driving off with the ball of the foot.

9. Elbows bent at 90 degrees, slightly diagonal (nip to hip!), and driving the arm back like a sort of chopping motion.  

My advice to anyone starting running would be to choose one of these points to work on rather than all at the same time.  Go for a technique run once a week where you concentrate on running form.

So, visualisation and conditioning - when out running you will run like you think you should run.  If you visualise Stallone in Rocky with that boxer's shuffle and Eye of the Tiger playing, that is how you will run.  Instead, look at the first video and memorise the feeling.  Or watch this;

Yeah yeah, I know he is the fastest man in the universe, but who better to learn from?

Ok - inspiration;

Vertical Kilometer - how mad do you have to be?  Kilian Jornet gets beaten in this vid;

Barkley 100 - why would you?

I read Bernd Heinrich's book years ago - he pretty much invented sports drinks, and his impassioned evaluation of running is very emotional.

I bet there are a million other videos that have a similar effect on you - please leave their details for me!

I hope all this is helpful.

Taormina, Sicily

Sometimes you set out and after a short while you know that this is 'the one'. This is a run to be remembered and possibly even written about so others may have a small taste - like bringing home wine from your holiday and sharing it with a friend. Actually, not like that because the wine you bring home never tastes the same; removed from the context it only provides a bit of the story and the magic is often gone. However, we do seem to want to share our experiences, like setting up a little show of holiday snaps for people to sit through; as they surreptitiously top up their glass to make the time go quicker.
So, with Karin safely ensconced in our (5 star, get us) hotel, painting her nails with the new varnish from the shop in via Umberto and getting ready to have a nap, I threw on the robo-brace and my trainers and headed up. Actually that is pretty much what I did - I ran uphill, turned round and came down again.

The path to Madonna Della Rocca was the start; a processional path that edged its way up the cliff using steps and handrails with sculptures of the stations of the cross at every bend. The air was crisp and warm and I took it steady; an earlier run had emphasised the steepness.  The hillside was decorated with spring flowers and huge cacti, and a glance back offered a hazy sea that gave hints of the sand beneath through variations in colour. It wasn't long before I was having to breathe deeply and the heat started to cut through the morning.

A very brief look at the view from Madonna Della Rocca, avoiding the curious stares of tourists clutching their cameras, children and cigarettes, and on to Castelmola. This village sits on top of a rock like a hairstyle and cars need to take a convoluted zigzag route to the ancient buildings at the top. The path was equally challenging and steep enough to be stepped all the way.
I arrived at the cosy little square at the top and was forced to walk through the groups of people gazing at the view, the traffic policewoman looking suitably nonplussed - at least I didn't give her any work as my car was down in Taormina. One lap round the tiny streets and then off to find the path to Monte Venere.

Things were hotting up now, and sweat was rolling off me. The track was concreted in ridges, presumably to give traction to the cars of the few people who lived up there, and this made for uncomfortable running. It was unbelievably steep, so steep I couldn't imagining our car making it up there. If ever there was a need for a 4 x 4 this was it; forget all those people in cities driving their all- terrain vehicles around with only speed bumps to contend with. Pride prevented me from walking so I plodded up the face of the hill with only lizards and birdsong for company.

As I gained more height, back-glances afforded me increasingly vertiginous and startling views; I appeared  to be  right over Castelmola.  The smell of broom and jasmine filled the air, and giant powder-puffs of fennel leaves lined the track.  The hillside was ridged in a way that suggested a history of agriculture - possibly olive trees, as I can't imagine anything else growing successfully on such exposed slopes.  With only the odd bird for company the winding route became a meditation on a mountain as a living thing.

Around the corner and there was Mount Etna, sat like a white-robed parent.  Hazy clouds repeatedly drifted across the peak and I was frustrated in my search for a perfectly clear photograph of the peak.  I partially blame the mountain itself, because much of the cloud was forming around the crater at the top.
One last curve, the coastline stretched out below and away, Etna on the horizon and all around steep hills looking like erosion was just beginning. I was in among a cluster of radio masts - obviously as high as it is possible to go with a vehicle.  There was more to climb as the actual peak was still above me, but no obvious path and huge silent banks of drifting mist kept me from going further. I had left Karin for long enough and so this seemed a good point to consider returning.

Running downhill is often so much harder on the legs and I didn't want to push myself too hard, so I rolled comfortably down the track with plenty of glances at the spectacular view.  Past a rather puzzled dog, onto the road into Castemola, and then down the steps that lead to Taormina.  Tourists struggling upward had to step back to let me roll though them and the air was filled with comments about the folly and impressiveness of runing in that terrain and weather.  In Taormina I somehow contrived to get completely lost amid the many one-way streets, finding myself at one point running twice past an old lady who was shocked to see a runner first time round, let alone repeating 10 minutes later.
Suddenly, a drop down some steps, round a corner and I was pitched into the main street; tourists filling the road with their trickling pace.  I decided not to bother pushing against such a steady tide, and walked along to the hotel.

Battle

I ran my first race for about a year yesterday, despite not being particularly fit.  I just wanted to see if my knee was comfortable with that kind of punishment, as well as just feel the odd thrill of pitting my legs against someone else's.
So, the Two Bays Tough Ten in Weston-super-Mare it was.  Bizarrely the race HQ was in the college where I work, and the race took place along the seafront to Sand Bay; an area I know pretty well.It was strange mixing up my work and play identities, and chatting to the caretakers was very odd.

The weather was cold, and I flapped about trying to decide what to wear; whether a merino under my top was necessary, or whether my rather clingy running top would be sufficient to keep the chill out.  Actually, in all honesty, what was really important was whether I looked sporty in my kit - I hate the idea of being regarded as just a regular runner and want people to see me as a real contender.  On top of that I knew the race organisers had photographers out on the course and I have a surprisingly small collection of pictures of me racing - a legacy of rarely hanging out with other runners who may be wielding a camera and also having a wife who isn't a visual communicator.  I rather fancied a picture of me looking trim, flowing along sweetly despite my Robocop leg brace - maybe it would make it into one of my blog entries.

Luckily my leg brace marks me out as someone who could be fast but is clearly injured; that's fine as that image hides a multitude of sins, mostly age-related.  I toyed with the idea of starting in the elite group; after all, that is my place, but sensibly opted for a more gentle start.  Until the race started.  On the horn, I was off.

The race went pretty well - 90th out of 800 odd; not at my usual level, but running 10 miles per week isn't going to get me past the recreational jogger level.  My knee was fine the whole way round, but by the end my left foot was really sore; a reflection I suspect of my left leg having to compensate for the poorly functioning right leg.
I got home and was very excited that evening when the results came out and I could see where I fitted in among the people I knew.  I read all the way through so I could see who I beat, and who I might beat next time.  I looked forward to seeing the photos and was disappointed to see that they wouldn't be posted until the end of the week - surely they haven't anything else to do?

Then I remembered.  I remembered watching the fun run before the main race that went along the promenade and returned along the rocky part of the beach.  The runners at the front were young and fleet, and in the middle were sporty parents coaxing their kids along.  But at the back was a lady with a large zimmer frame with a teddy in, and heavy oedemal legs; walking very steadily alongside her partner who looked somewhat more athletic.  I had seen them at the start and wondered without thinking why they were there, as 100 metres into the run they were so far behind everyone else was out of sight.  So twenty minutes later, here they were, heading toward the finish; long after everyone else had collected their medal and cup of water. The ground was so rocky she had to pull her walking frame along behind her; it must have been really difficult.
To his very great credit the announcer suddenly drew everyone's attention to the couple slowly approaching the finish line.   He told the crowd her name, and despite confirming her last place announced that it was a huge achievement to complete the run, and we should give her the applause she deserves.  I was up on the promenade looking down on the finish and the people around me seemed too busy with their family to hear what was going on, so I started clapping, quite loudly.  Like a mexican wave, a swell of clapping grew out of the beach until smiling, the last placed fun runner stepped over the timing mat and she finished.

That evening I was struck by the vain, narcissistic approach to running I had shown - it was all about me; me against my injuries, me against the clock, me against the hills and the other runners.  The big story was that lady and her run.  The difference between what I did and my capability was close, so no significance there; the difference for her was much greater - that was an achievement.

update

OK, so I feel an update is in order.  No entries, no meandering around runs, no nature-inspired reflections; I have maintained a strict radio-silence.

A physio, a musculo-skeletal specialist and a surgeon have all said said the same thing; I need to appraise my hobbies.  My right knee has what I would describe as a grumbling condition, and what the surgeon described as degeneration.  The more I pound it the more likely it is that one day I will actually mangle it.  The surgeon described degeneration as the meniscus hardening, so layers will flake off until the whole thing falls into little bits and presumably drops out of my leg and into the floor.

However, there is a technological glint at the end of the tunnel of running morbidity.  I have spent a large sum for an unloader brace that takes the presure off the knee as well as re-aligning the whole joint to spread the impact.  So far it has been pretty good - runs of up to two hours have been possible with only the last few minutes evidencing joint pain, and even then it stops when I do.  I have used it after the run to aid recovery, and also at work for a slightly embarrassing six weeks in order to retrain my leg.

On top of this the consultant I bought it from showed me how crap my core strength is; particularly my glutes.  This doesn't seem fair as I tend to do some kind of glute exercise every day, but he said that exercises don't work, as the moment you go to your chosen exercise you revert to old behaviour.  Instead he gave me exercises that are part of a general gait overhaul.  The first one he calls 'dog poo'; where you pull your foot back along the ground as if scraping the offending turd off your shoe.  I then need to trace large butterfly shapes with my leg, jabbing my finger just above my back pocket to ensure full glute-engagement, and after that walk backwards on my tip-toes like Nadia Comaneci on the beam.  As if to hasten my demise, he also suggested I got a slackline (I aready have one) and set it up (I never do that), as they are really good for developing core strength.  I am 52 ffs.

Well, three months in - what progress?  I have been able to do some sort of running, although mostly along the lines of marking time rather than progression.  I think I have the brace to thank for that, but lack the scientific rigour to go out without it to see whether it hurts.  I have definitely lost any speed I previously had, and my stamina is chasing after my speed, calling out for it to wait.  However, I have maintained some sort of running through the winter, and haven't actually gone mad.  I have been out cycling with the local tri club; although lack of fitness shows up the hills when my usual romping up ahead of the others has been replaced by a spluttering and leg burning second place behind someone who has just come back from a training camp in Majorca.

In terms of looks, well, I think I have set a new trend - Robocop meets greying dad.  The whole right leg encased in plastic:I am thinking of wrapping my calf in some shiny material so people think I have a prosthetic leg.  It would certainly explain my slippery descent down the results list.

However, a new secret weapon was revealed this week.  I found an article that said that visualisation is the way forward, and the author's chosen way of engaging the glutes is that just prior to the back foot leaving the ground you imagine the foot up against a glass wall.  This will then throw the foot upward in a skippy way.  Well, I have tried it and it is an interresting proposition.

In an attempt to replace my interest in ultras with a more knee-friendly distance I ran the Parkrun yesterday.  With my new-found technique of skipping along with a myriad of glass walls forever pressing against my back foot, I tiddled through the race, and finished in 21.30.  This is hugely slower than my normal 19 min times, but it felt pretty good on my kneee despite the brace steadily slipping down.  At the end I was standing round chatting, but upon deciding to leave, my glutes competely went on strike to the extent of me nearly falling over.  This I take to be a good sign - the glutes had clearly been working hard.  Time will tell whether I have happened upon the answer.

Don't run with other people

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.

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.