Running in the sun

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why we run

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weather

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Running with the Devil

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

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

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

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



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

Welsh Ultra, 40miles

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

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

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

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




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

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



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

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



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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Change

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

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

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

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

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

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