Also ran runner

Swallowvallets orienteering

2011-11-27T12:40:00.006Z

On the drive over to the Forest of Dean, the Severn looked engorged and menacing but also dramatically beautiful - a welcome contrast to the manicured and exclusive sterility of the Cotswolds.

We turned-up in good time and sat munching in the car watching the registration tent inflate and strain skywards in the cold wind. Hunched-up figures went about their business of setting-up, stopping from time-to-time to exchange cheerful words.

"Two dibbers..." Sam reminded me with a serious look as I got out of the car to go and register. This was the deal.

NGOC are a very friendly bunch of people, obviously keen to encourage participation at all levels of their sport.

Just as well really because it took me the best part of a quarter-hour to simply realise that the first control simply had the wrong number on it...

A word of warning

2011-11-27T12:23:00.000Z

It's a dangerous game going for a walk these days. Pic taken at Tarn Howes - obviously

(Dis)orienteering - Mallards Pike

2011-11-06T20:28:00.011Z

Family Reid put in a gutsy performance at League 2 of the Orienteering at Mallards Pike, Forest of Dean. After two events we are holding strong at the bottom of the Yellow table. Not bad at all for three-and-a-half year-olds, I reckon.

Genuinely impressed with the boys. A good 0.5km uphill to registration and then the same distance again to the start; also uphill. A 2.2km course that was pretty muddy, sticky and uneven. Then 600m back to registration as well as the walk back to the car.

It was a big effort and Ben and Sam had much need of dried apricots and Soreen.

Must be careful - in my mind I have an image of 'Competitive Dad' off the Fast Show...

Sugar loaf race

2011-11-06T20:03:00.004Z

Steep tarmac turns into track, track turns into footpath, footpath becomes less distinct and heather encroached with height.

Lose places to road runners but make them back again as it gets steeper. There is cloud and rain on the top but we are up into it then back down and out within minutes. We run round in a loop and leg it back down the way we came up. I lose a few more places but make one back by strongly upping the pace before the end.

It's a fine and charming race. £3 to enter (the majority of which is handed straight over to the pub to provide post-race refreshments), laconic instructions from the race organiser and the prizes awarded to 1st, 10th, 20th (and so on) runner to the top.

Everyone friendly to everyone else. You try your best but miss the point if you take it too seriously...

I was way below par but managed 24th in about 46mins, Matt Farrer was a couple of minutes after (38th) with Mike Wood (45th) about the same time behind again.

Recent runs

2011-11-06T19:59:00.008Z

I ran up the hill in diluted sunshine. Was taken with the light on a stubbornly surviving willow and the hawthorn berries, their colour almost beyond red.

Stopped by to see The Pigs on the way back down.

(Dis)orienteering

2011-10-01T19:29:00.003+01:00

Me and they boys went orienteering. Dibbers were dibbed and we stopped for a pickernic half way round.

Black Mountains race

2011-09-27T10:34:00.010+01:00

The Black Mountains race: it's a fine brew of perfectly balanced ingredients. There's no need to talk it up, the flavours speak for themselves. A straightforward mix that packs punch.

This year 69 entrants form a motley, good natured assemblage of fellrunner 'chic' outside the Red Lion. Race organiser, John, stands on a wall to do the formalities and tells us that one of the checkpoints will not be manned today, and then laughs and says he's not going to say which one.

I enjoy the very tready sound of studded footfalls as we all set off down the lane. Right away the temptation is to charge away but this is most definitely a route where you must pace yourself, if you aren't going to pay dearly later on.

The initially steep sides of Pen Cerrig-calch give way to a gentler gradient before the summit plateau is reached. Paragliders wheel in stately circles above. There are clear views across to the Beacons to the west. I alternate between running and fast walking, making and losing the odd place, chatting with Dave who has done the race may times and is going for a sub-3 hour run today. He has even got splits and a schedule in mind.

Passing Pen Twyn Glas it's time for me to have the courage of my convictions as everybody ahead keeps going to the north and the instinct is to follow them. I bomb down over the tussocks and through the rushes, failing to recognise any of the landmarks i've 'memorised' on my last visit. Down a gully and onto the magic little grassy path through the heather where you can really open it up.

Fill my bottle (pre-loaded with electrolyte) at the Grwyne Fechan crossing with a view to having a gel and a good drink on the way up the 400m climb to Pen y Gadiar Fawr. The runners ahead have gone to the right. There are others further ahead but way off to the left. Again, it's time to trust the recces and head up the middle. Dave and I climb on up. It's a long steep pull. Towards the first of the false summits it becomes more energy efficient to lean forward and walk chimp-like on all fours.
I follow Dave now as he picks up speed down the shoulder into the next valley. "A lot of people tank it down here," he calls back, continuing our theme of taking it steady in the first half of the race . It's not feeling exactly slow to me, however!

Towards the bottom, I'm stepping down off a bouldery bit when my left calf locks up with cramp and I know that any hope of pushing hard from now on needs to be tempered. Considered running is going to be needed if I'm not to find myself tied up in painful knots miles away from the finish.

Fill up the bottle again at the stream, cross the road and head on up the bank on the other side, pulling hand-over-hand on the fence to make matters easier.

Now Dave steadily pulls away on the climb upto Chwarel y fan as he begins to put his foot down. Me, I get another gel down and have a good drink to try to stay fuelled up. Along the top I lose another place to a chirpy guy who keeps telling me he's no good at downhills.

Off Bal Mawr I know where I'm going and we follow the path down and around until I see my dead sapling marker. Then its fast as we can down through the bracken. The recces pay off properly here and I make up a good half dozen places by taking the best line.

The initial darkness of the short cut through the spruce plantation is like a blackout until eyes adjust.

Oozing another gel into my mouth as I shuffle up the forestry track and the long, long ascent to Crug mawr. Stop for a leak on the basis that it'll be one less thing to think about and promptly lose the places I made coming off of Bal-mawr!

The asent leaves the track and moves up underneath the spruce again. Huge Fly-Agaric mushrooms, red with white spots, line the path in places and lend a surreal atmosphere to the place.

It's getting a bit messy by now. The chirpy Welsh guy's overtaken me again and I'm cramping-up painfully. Tell myself that I just have to keep running through it. He's kind enough to hold the gate for me and then, losing ground every time I look up, I follow the others onto the top itself.

"Will this pleasure never end?" I ask the marshall when I get there - which gets a laugh.

Downhill all the way from here on in and as fast as possible given the state of my legs. Overtake one guy, but by now the others are diminishing figures way ahead. A loss of concentration and a misjudged footfall and the cramps seize me yet again. Give myself a good shouting at for losing the focus....

Down into the fields and woody paths that remind me of my local hill at Leckhampton. Along the road, living with the cramp now, head high and arms working hard. Over a stile - verrrry cautiously to avoid locking up - and then the last field and woody section before the malevolent final climb up to the finish. I run it all because I'm feeling boody-minded, but also because it would probably be just as bad to walk. Over the line with the sound of claps from the other runners who've already finished somehow in the background.

Sit down. Come round. Fall into conversation with the chirpy Welsh guy and a Chepstow Harrier called Steve who I'd been trading places with for most of the second half. We go fill up our bottles at the village tap over a trough of green murk.

3:08:something was the final time for me. Mike was around the 3:30 mark. Dave would have got under the three hours if he hadn't eaten - wait for this - "lentil and cabbage chilli soup" the night before and had to do a 'Paula' in the final stages.

Jamie - well the poor guy had picked up an injury and couldn't take part.

Black mountains - final recce

2011-09-18T19:37:00.005+01:00

There's a special feeling that comes with doing stuff you enjoy when by rights you should be at work. A special timeframe, therefore, and what better way to fill it than by putting a keen edge on my - ahem - 'navigational skills'.

The plan for the day was to drive to the problem points and suss them out rather than do the whole circuit of 17m or so.

Moving up to a cloudy Pen twyn Glas the air was still, condensed droplets balanced on each blade of grass. A raven sat on the gravestones over to the right and croaked at my to-ing and fro-ing. Indistinguishable clumps of rushes were memorised as landmarks to lead the way down to the trod that turns into a path...

Then back down the lovely valley, spotting some good overnight camp spots by the stream along the way.

Drove down tunnel-like roads clogging up with encroaching vegetation. Finches flew infront of the car, fluttering and then gliding along in streamlined dips. A farmer raised a hand and grinned teeth so widely spaced they could be flossed with bailer twine.

Pulling into the car park at Pont Cadwgan I was cut up by four mountain bikers who came flying out of the woods to the left. It was quite satisfying therefore to overtake two of them ten minutes later as they pedalled at slow speed and high cadence up the extraction track that leads to the route to Bal Mawr. Luckily I was able to sneak into the cut through the woods and start walking again.

The route that works for me off Bal Mawr leaves the main path and follows the smaller path/trod that descends around the side of the slope. Again, I memorised unidentifiable landmarks - a dead sapling, a tiny hawthorn and a splatter of horse shit - to lead me down through the bracken to the forest...

Heading back to the car I harvested some Sparassis crispa or Cauliflower Fungus.

I'd never eaten any before and it went down well having been dipped in egg and fried in butter. Mushroomy with a tripey texture...

So all I got to do now is enjoy the race next Saturday. They say 3:30 is a respectable time so I'll be aiming for that - can't wait.

Rippon Tor

2011-09-18T19:32:00.003+01:00

A while ago, over on the back of Rippon Tor, the evening sun dipped below the ceiling of the clouds and my shadow stretched away.

Fan y big horseshoe race

2011-07-17T21:20:00.021+01:00

This event forms the second half of the Brecon Fans race weekend organised by the Mynydd Du.

On the Saturday, competitors run a short 'AS' race with a lot of climbing up to the top of Pen y fan, the highest point of the Brecon Beacons. The following day runners take part in a longer distance 'BM' run that has more gradual climbing and follows the Fan y big horseshoe circuit: distance about 10.5miles with roughly 2500' ascent.

The route heads out through fields from Llanfrynach before heading up a long steady climb up Cefn Cyff and on to the FyB summit. From here you can open up your strides on mostly fairly level ground around Craig Cwmoergwm and Bwlch y Ddwyallt; the head of the horseshoe. Then, as the saying goes, it's a simple case of 'brakes off brain off' back down to the village.

"Almost Athletes?" smiles the man taking the entries as Mike hands over his £6. "Never heard of them before..."

The heavy fine rain that had been sweeping down over us whilst we made our race preparations has gone as we gaggle together for the start. There's a fit looking bloke wearing a Dark Peak vest standing ahead of everyone doing his warm ups - he looks like he means business. I'm feeling like I could do without the coming effort as we collectively shuffle towards the line...

The humidity builds as we head out through the fields, up lanes and finally a loose cobbled track before we break out into the welcome sights and smells of the lower fellside. Al Tye is sat under a hawthorn bush taking photographs of the runners as they pass.

Jamie - on the left

Me

Chris

Mike

Upwards along a billiard table grass path peppered with sheep shit that cuts a swathe through the green bracken. Jamie's up ahead and going well but I can't summon the motivation to push hard enough to stay with him.

Peel off the helly hansen and put my vest back on when the gradient slows me to a walk. A Mercia runner called Mel who I remember racing against on the Stretton Skyline a couple of years back comes past - running. My striding pace keeps up with her for a bit before she pulls ahead. Then another Mercia runner catches me up and says in a friendly way that he's 'clucked' if he's going to run this bit - and then breaks into a run. I decide to go with him.

Jamie's blue top is miles ahead already. Away to the right Cribyn is smothered in cloud. The wind is picking up again, bringing a few spits of rain with it. We're into the tussock and wet peat. I'm finding my feet at long last and it feels good to be out.

"Hello. Thanks. 285", to the marshall at the summit checkpoint. "14th" I think I hear him tell me.

The Mercia runner is suddenly 50m ahead, so with the wind at my back I kick out aiming to close the gap. But he's a proficient guy and every time I glance up from where I'm putting my feet he's a little bit further away.

There's a flap, flap flapping of a race number about a metre behind my right shoulder. By now I've had enough of being overtaken so I turn it up. It goes quiet for a bit but ominously the noise comes back.

We pass the first of a series of unenthusiastic-looking, bergen carrying squaddies as we turn for home.

"Bloody hell, he's got a gun!", I say. "Don't annoy him...", says Flapping Number.

He's on my shoulder all the way down Rhiw Bwlch y Ddwyallt and then there's three of us as Dave (aka themadrunner) appears on my left wearing his bright orange woolly hat. I'm genuinely surprised as I thought he was way ahead and out of site but I push on, narrowly avoiding a squaddie, conscious that I'm leading the group and likely to pay for it later.

I try to shake off Flapping Number as we come onto the lower slopes through bracken and gorse where the marked route begins to emerge again. He overtakes when the gradient steepens and I slow down. At the bottom of the slope I hear Dave come crashing down the slope close behind.

Onto the tarmac again and I'm racing to try to get back in the running. My mind is getting tired and I run right up to a gate without deciding whether to jump it, look for a stile or open it and the few seconds it takes me to negotiate the catch are utterly maddening. [There was some swearing... But I found out later that Dave had the presence of mind and good values to give me that time back]

Back down into the village and I'm having a teenage strop. Dave comes past and I let him go.

"Reckon you can get me if you dig deep..."
"Can't be arsed..."

And that's it. He puts in a good effort and finishes well whereas I can't bring myself to go into the red zone any more. Lame.

Jamie's managed a very respectable 9th place and pretty much keeled over after coming over the line. I'm stood in a little stream talking to him when Chris (doing his first fell race) comes in about a minute and a half later and then Mike not all that much further behind.

"There's a better stream over here," says a guy who I recognise from Shropshire events and the Three Peaks, so we pick our way down to a deep pool overhung with trees. We get immersed and the cold water is the perfect antidote.

The race is won by a 19-year-old who's travelled up from Cornwall. Helen Fines has set a new ladies record for the course. But the biggest clap during the good natured giving of spot prizes goes to the man with the camera...

Black mountains recce #3

2011-06-30T20:17:00.010+01:00

Too fit for his own good, Jamie was waiting for me by the trig at the top of Pen Cerrig-calch. The sun shone, a light breeze breezed and flat bottomed cumulus ballooned upwards into the blue. It was shaping up to be a good day.

We picked our way through the white stones in the peat and over the flat top to Pen Allt-mawr and then opened up the strides on the springy turf down to Pen Twyn Glas.

After a false start, a climb back up the convex slope and some traversing about we found a fairly efficient line down to the (now) obvious diagonal grassy descent into the valley below.

'Now where is it...?'

'Down there...?'

We skirted the emerging bracken and moved quickly to the stream at the foot of Gadair Fawr where panicked small trout darted beneath the rocks in the clear pools.

After some food we did some more faffing before deciding the best line headed slightly up and to the left past three hawthorns, lower branches strung with sheeps' wool. It was humid in amongst the bright green bracken. A dumpy fledgeling flew clumsily away from me and landed on a bracken tip that furled back on itself.

The climb to Gadair fawr required a steady approach, each hands on knees step equating to a little more progress. The slope eased off and a little re-entrant led to easier tussocky ground and the summit tump itself.

Straight ahead this time and a speedy and grassy descent down the shoulder to the road crossing and a chance to refill the drink bottle in the stream.

Glastonbury performances were discussed on the next climb to Chwarel y fan and then after a gel stop we stepped up the pace along the watershed to Bal-Mawr. We spent a bit of time here working out the best way down and eventually found the right line to the woods below.

It went laughably wrong in the woods. We headed up a firebreak that became more and more nettled and impassable. I pressed on and through slime and was eventually stopped by a fence. Jamie climbed a manky stile into the plantation and we wandered backwards and forwards in the trees looking for a cunning short cut. We did not get very far.

Sctatched and stung, and back on the main path we found the right route - a small opening - about twenty yards further on! We went down through the trees, hit the made-up track, turned right and then left almost imediately down another path and then had a steady run down to the road crossing. Satisfying...

On the forest track that followed, I moved in a semi-hypnotic state. Sweating, aching legs: I was not going to stop. There was no talking, just the sound of feet crunching the gravel and the bright sunlight contrasting with the tall dark fir trees on either side. Further ahead, we ran past old limes that probably pre-date the plantations.

From the dark beneath the trees, the striking colour of foxgloves set againsta backdrop of sunlit greenery... It was getting hard to keep it going...

Past Ffordd las fawr farm and up the gully of a path. I finish my food, grimly striding on. Jamie gives me some jelly babies he's half-inched off his daughter and we run together out of the wood.
There are twinges of cramp in my legs but I manage to run up to the top of Crug mawr.

Then it's just a case of keeping the legs going on the long descent that follows. I'm between a rock and a hard place: it hurts to run, but it would probably also hurt to walk - and walking would last longer.

I now know that it takes 139 left foot steps to run the last climb back into Llanbedr. I know because my frazzled mind counted them...

From 'Wheeze' on the FRA forum:
Race starts outside the Red Lion Pub in Llanbedr and makes its way to CP 1 Pen Cerrig Calch by way of a track that aims directly at Table Mountain from the lane at GR 244207 The route then runs north along a fabulous ridge over Pen Allt Mawr before dropping into the Grwyne Fechan at Pen Twyn Glas. At the northern edge of the forest on the valley bottom, cross the Grwyne to take the BIG ascent to CP 2, Pen Y Gadair Fawr. This is HUGE. Straight over to Grwyne Fawr now where the road exits the forest at 248292 for another steep pull to CP 3 Chwarel Y Fan. Another long ridge run south to CP 4, Bal Mawr and the navigational crux of the race. Run due south off Bal Mawr to pick up the forest trail at 269263. Go south into the forest, turning left of the trail after a hundred yards or so onto a cut that leads to the lower track that meets the road by a bridge at 267252. Straight over the road into the next forestry section, turning left at the cross roads onto the track that goes to Ffordd Las fawr farm house. Go right about 100 yards after the farm taking a track that goes straight up the hill side, straight over first forest road and then left at next forest road to exit forest over stile at 262232. Then head south to final CP, Crug Mawr. Return to llanbedr via Blaen Yr Henbant picking up lane at 240212 and then leaving lane on footpath on right at 243205. Descend to the little bridge and then its a short steep pull into the back of Llanbedr to the Red Lion.

Many of us have used the stream lines coming down the hillside as guidance. I can tell you that most people go too far right and then hit all the false summits. The best route is to bisect the 2 left hand streams. The aiming point is a small rocky outcrop near to the skyline. Pass just to the right of the outcrop and you hit a gentle grassy ramp that smoothes out the first 2 false summits and gives a nice entrant to the actual summit knoll quite close to where the track comes in from Waun Fach. Try it, you'll like it!

Sergeant Man and High Raise

2011-05-15T19:54:00.013+01:00

This year's week in Shambleside featured fine family time aplenty seasoned with nuggets of unremarkable 'fell action', the odd pint - and a head cold.

One day I managed a potter over and around Loughrigg fell and took great delight in the abundance of bluebells and the damp humic smells as I ran through the woods. I hoped that the swifts/martins/swallows that were nesting in the roofs of the big caves beside the footapth were coping ok with the seepage. With time to kill, I went back up over the top and came down in Clappersgate and finished with a brisk effort along the road.

Another evening I gleaned some time and went up to Wansfell Pike. Was pleased to be able to run all the way without having to resort to walking.

On Thursday, Pete and I walked up to Sergeant Man from Grasmere...

... and then wandered across to High Raise. The rain that had been pelting us eased away bang on cue and we took in panoramic views from just below the cloudbase. It was pretty cold though after our soaking...

We walked over Thunacar Knott and went on down to Stickle Tarn where we spotted a solo climber on the sodden walls of Pavey Ark before going on up again to Blea Rigg. From here we enjoyed some delightful undulating tops before eventually heading back down to Grasmere from Lang Howe, through a wonderland of juniper woods and fern-lined tracks.

Pete had an appointment with a hot tub and decided to get the bus back. I had a civilised pot of tea (with cup and saucer) on the shore of the mere before walking back over Loughrigg fell one last time. Felt pretty tired by the end - should have opted for the tub!

A grand day out (Black Mountains recce #2)

2011-05-02T19:18:00.013+01:00

Jamie, Chris and I headed over to the Mynydd Du to have another go at the Black Mountains race route - a great day out with bright sunshine and strong winds. Chris, running in the hills for the first time, put in a good effort following Jamie who was on form and pressing the pace. I trundled on behind on legs that lacked punch, content to enjoy the clear views and very blustery conditions.

We took a better, more direct line from Perth-y-pia up onto Pen Carrig-calch than last time. The run along the top to Pen Allt-mawr and Pen Twyn Glas was exhillarating in the blast of the wind and the sound of inflated nylon coats flapping madly.

Jamie's research had paid off and we found a better place to begin the contouring descent to the valley floor.

Chris enjoyed the many false summits of Pen y Gadair Fawr.

I think we took the wrong line off the summit and down to the valley, following the edge of the wood on an uneven path rather than heading down a long shoulder that eventually leads to much the same point.

The climb up the other side of the valley to Chwarel y Fan felt like a long old pull...

... but we enjoyed the views over to the Malverns and May Hill from the top.

We ran along the watershed in a cross wind where I did the longest spit (yes, Iknow it's disgusting) yet.

From Bal-Mawr we took the wrong line - again - down to the conifer plantations below. More work needed here.

There were some nice bluebells in the woodland section that followed, but my legs were not too enthusiastic by this point and I laboured on behind the other two.

One more visit should do it in terms of getting the route right, I think. We need to work out the best way off Pen y Gadair Fawr and nail the route through the plantation below Bal Mawr.

But the Black Mountains are fine hills and their rounded tussocky forms are suited to a windswept day. Well worth a visit.

The next day out in the hills is in about a month's time when Mike and I will be helping out as pacers for Dave's South Wales Traverse attempt.

A day out in the Black Mountains

2011-04-16T12:27:00.004+01:00

A couple of weeks ago Mike, Jamie and I headed over to recce the Black Mountains race route. We were a colour co-ordinated trio and the route finding was upto out normal high standards...

Long Mynd valleys race

2011-03-07T20:10:00.014Z

"Don't give it away," said Mike as he overtook me on the grassy descent off the final hill, Yearlet. But I had to let him go: I was kippered.

It had been touch and go whether I would be able to run, but the lure of a British Championship 'Valleys Race' and the prospect of participating alongside (ok, not exactly alongside) some of the best fell runners in the country, was strong enough for me to ignore doctors orders and head up to Shropshire with Mike. It would be my first proper run for three weeks.

Organised by Mercia fellrunners, the Long Mynd Valleys is an event that delivers post race joy directly in proportion to levels of pain experienced whilst doing it. Although eleven and a half miles and four and a half thousand feet of upping and downing (that's a bit more than Ben Nevis kids!) sounds like no pushover, it's the relentlessness of the steep climbs and descents making up the second half of the course which really forge the deserved reputation of this race as a classic.

Mucal distemper meant that my race this year was going to have to be a steady one. I plodded the first climb and enjoyed letting gravity do the work for me as I dug my heels into soft brackeny peat on the descent to Jonathan's Hollow.

On the Port Way the passage of many studded soles made the ground look like it had been thoroughly worked over with a steak tenderising mallet...

... I slurp a sickly gel on the climb to Barristers Plain and then on the very steep descent that follows, watch with detached amusement as a runner ahead goes out of control and tries to slow himself down by taking a series of increasingly wide, high-speed zig zags, shouting breathless warnings to others as he goes. In the end he makes up five or six places...

A few years ago I travelled up to recce the course on my own. But in Callow Hollow I met and got talking to Dave, and we travelled onwards together. Dave used words like, "re-entrant," and clearly knew his stuff. At one point he told me to aim for a clump of trees on the skyline and we heather-hopped our way down the slope to arrive slap bang on top of the location for checkpoint four. Dave looked delighted when I told him he knew the place like the back of his hand. Local knowledge and choosing the most efficient route between checkpoints is a key part of fell running, and he kindly went on to show me a series of subtle lines on the remainder of the run...

"I don't do heather," shouts a Cumbrian accent away to my right as I now follow Dave's advice for real and overtake a dozen places. I take more places later on by following a leftwards rising traverse out of Windy Batch and realise that, as we run down to Sleekstonebank Hollow and with traces of cramp seizing my legs, that I've nearly caught up with Mike.

I enjoy the fine sight of a drawn-out string of brightly coloured running vests climbing up Callow, the hill ahead.

After the steep grind up the side of Callow and a plodding traverse around the side of the next hill, Grindle (I have a theory here that it might be quicker to go straight over the top) I dig my heels in and gallop past the more cautious runners down the steep descent to Ashes Hollow.

The final climb of the final hill, Yearlet, begins as a tactical battle with cramps in both legs and nearly ends three quarters of the way up when my thighs literally lose the power to propell my body weight upwards. I'm grabbing handfuls of bilberry stems and spagnum moss and leadenly forcing a step at a time. 'Don't do heather' Ambleside woman overtakes me. Wendy Dodds (FV60) overtakes me, going like a train. I think I might faint, but I keep going and stagger onto the top to mark my number at the orienteering punch final checkpoint.

I feel really done in all of a sudden, so just jog back down the grassy slope which is set at a much more civilised angle whilst various runners (including Mike) come charging past.

The race is all but over barr one little slope immortalised on the Mercia website as a 'Little Sod' - which I walk up.

Finally manage to spur myself on to the finish back in Cardingmill Valley - down the steep descent, jump over the stream and hop over the line with legs that are locking up. The comlimentary clunky chunky kit kat was the best I'd ever tasted!

Pics below courtesy of Alistair Tye

May Hill Massacre 2011

2011-02-06T18:51:00.014Z

'The May Hill'. In a relatively short space of time it has become a bit of an institution in these parts with a well-deserved reputation as being a tough multi-terrain race. Competitive at the sharp end, it's also very friendly and inclusive in terms of different levels of ability. Located on the edge of the Forest of Dean, it comprises woodland trails, plenty of climbing (and descending) and fair amounts of glutinous, liquified clay at many points in-between. Over the five years that it has existed it has raised over £17k for Cystic Fibrosis Trust - hats well and truly off to Mike who set up and co-ordinated the whole thing, but who has now decided to step down.

There had been plenty of hills and threshold runs in the build up to this year's event and so, fully psyched, trained-up and respecting the motivation behind the event, I was ready for a blast. Mike's girls Thea and Scarlet started us off and we charged away down the short section of road. After all the practicing, I was relieved just to be getting on with it at last.

The first climb lasts about a mile and a half and is mainly on trails with short sections of road. I go for it pretty hard so it's mildly disconcerting when clubmate Dave appears at my shoulder with a cheerful hello and presses on ahead. I keep with him and we pass a number of other guys before I pull ahead again.

Leaving the road and going onto the first of many muddy bits, I know already that I've done it again and gone away too fast. Try to get it together by choosing my line and trying to run efficiently.

Over the top and past the distinctive clump of pine trees that define May Hill, I glimpse fine views across to the mountains of Wales before pulling the concentration back again to the effort of not slowing down. It's overcast and windy with spots of rain - my favourite weather. There's the ever-reassuring sound of wind passing through trees that's interrupted only by the paper-flapping sound of a number pinned to the vest of a runner close behind...

There was just no way I was keeping up with Dave who was having a blinding run so waved him through as we began the first descent and then just did my best to keep him in sight!

The route followed more trails as it descended through the woods. A drinks station came and went followed by the first proper bit of clart as the track passed through the Douglas Fir plantation that must have claimed many a running shoe in its time - I was able to close the gap on the guy in front at this point because he'd committed to going straight through the quag instead of keeping left. Then more trails and a long section of clay slop beside a lake led into the final sharp threshold speed descent down to the bottom of the hill.

Psychologically this always feels like it should be the end of the race so it's really necesaary to dig in as yet another rising sloppy track saps momentum and any remaining leg strength.

...out of the trees and into the open to cross a field of earth to the road beyond. Spectators gather near a big puddle that's just got to be jumped in.

Then backinto the trees for the second big climb to the top of the hill. There's someone on my heels again. It's a long slippery slog and I have run out of steam and foundered here before. Once more, I work at just trying to keep going, focussing on sticking to the edges where there's more traction, trying to keep up with the Vet50 who's just passed me.

We move on beneath towering Coast Redwoods, through close Sweet Chestnut coppice and, with more than a little help from positive thinking, the top comes along soon enough.

The final foot-slappy downhill just never seems to end and keeping on forcing the effort becomes a grim experience. There are yet more footfalls behind and as we leave the trails for the last time to run the 400m of uphill road to the finish my will evaporates and I wave the guy behind past me. He turns out to be a bit of a space invader though and squeezes me into the verge - which rankles - so somewhere inside my sub-conscious I gather myself, have a spit, stick out me elbows and kick out. But it's a desperate effort and every single bit of rational thought is screaming at me to stop.

Mike's bawling at me up ahead to get on with it and this gives me just enough to dig a little bit deeper, pull away from the others and gurn, gurn, gurn my anaerobic way over the line.

I need to have a bit of a sit down afterwards...

Dave has had a storming race and overtook several others after me to finish in seventh overall - I've managed 13th (4th MV40). He's knocked over 8 mins off his last year's time, I've managed a minute and a half. He's fresh and recovered already, I'm taking just a wee bit longer to come around...

But the euphoria of the end is great. Duncan's looking as white as a sheet having run the race jetlagged. Karen's chatting away. Chris and Joss in the bag store are their ever positive and warm-hearted selves. Nick's chirpy. Ed (who hates all off road races) is beaming and even says he enjoyed it. Dave, who I got talking to after the Cardington Cracker, tells me about his plans for an attempt at the South Wales Traverse this summer and I'm keen to help out as a pacer if he needs one.

I make my way back to the car with rapidly stiffening legs and reflect that the May Hill's definitely a race that's well worth experiencing.

Next up is the Long Mynd Valleys race - which is a lot harder than the May Hill. It's a championship event this year apparently so I think I'll hang around the back end of the field do the also ran thing and leave the competitive stuff to the proper runners.

Cardington Cracker 2010

2010-12-05T16:41:00.021Z

It's sometimes hard to put your finger on what makes a great race, but the Cardington Cracker definitely has whatever it takes.

Two hundred or so runners made the journey from near and often much further away to this little Shropshire village to compete (or maybe just take part) over the nine mile or so course that goes up and down the steep-sided turfy hills of The Lawley, Caradoc and Willstone Hill. Some of them doubtless made the trip as a one off because it is an understated classic of the fell running calender. Others I met keep coming back year on year.

Running recollections as follows:

This year's my fourth running of the race and there's snow on the ground with everything pretty much frozen solid.

A whistle blows and we're away through the field, brightly coloured running vests in contrast to the surrounding monochrome. The pre-race chatter is gone as breathing tries to find a rhythm . I get off far too fast and quickly realise as the stronger guys keep regularly passing me that i've set the tone for my race this year and committed myself to being overtaken - a lot.

After a settling-in half mile through fields, we drop down through a larch plantation carpeted with shed orange needles and out into the fields beyond where we get our first sight of The Lawley.

It's a whaleback of a hill: long and steep-sided. We go up in crocodile...

At the top of the climb the landscape suddenly stretches out in all directions. It's uplifting. Patchy snow gathered in hollows and low drifts brings the surroundings into new relief as we set off along the ridge.

As we pick up speed on the descent I realise the studs on the soles of my running shoes are useless because they can't grip into the frozen ground. Feet are sliding all over the place and the guy that I'm alongside goes flying. Follow others off the path and into the tussocks where there's some traction.

Skite through the gateway, down a path and over the cattle grid and onto a short road section. There's a good account of this section of the race on Jim's blog

I lose another place or two going through the fields that link the Lawley and Caradoc. More places go by the by on the track to the sheepfolds before the start of the big climb. Yet more places are conceded when I stop to take some snapshots just before the top.

Al Tye is on the top taking photographs:

Mike

Somehow it feels as if the battery has gone a bit flat. I keep getting overtaken by people who it feels like i should be able to keep up with. There's no spring today.

People out sledging stand to one side as we slip slide off the lower slopes of the hill, through the stream and off up the killer track that leads eventually to the Gaer Stones.

Then a series of smaller undulating high points before we drop down steeply off Willstone Hill through dead bracken and badger sets. I manage to run the long incline up to The Wilderness and even overtake someone - temporarily.

As Henry, a veteran of the event, says to me when I'm over the line and got my breath back: it's the kind of race where you've got to go as fast as you can when you can and just concentrate on keeping going the rest of the time.

Hopefully, I'll be trying to put his theory into practice next year - and for years to come yet.

It's a great race. Very well organised and marshalled. It's a varied and challenging route with plenty of fine views to take in when you haven't got to look where you're putting your feet. The cup of soup in the village hall during the prizegiving tastes great and there's the 'Running Bear' shop for any spare bits of kit you might need. Low key and friendly, I can't recommend this race enough.

Worcestershire Beacon Race

2010-10-25T19:33:00.018+01:00

We make our way up the earthy path that switchbacks through the autumnal woods and I'm aware, despite the odd runner coming past, of having got away to a good start.

"Be careful at the start to be RIGHT up the front - calling the opening mile a bottleneck would be an insult to bottles," Ed had told me beforehand.

Jamie had said much the same, describing the start as a bit of a stampede as 200 and more runners charge the short distance over the grass of Great Malvern's Rose Bank Gardens and onto the narrow footpath beyond, "I've seen people fall and get trampled," he'd said with glee.

It's a bit alarming, not to say an unaccustomed feeling, therefore, to be in the first five as we race out of the park, elbows jutting.

The 'Race Plan' was simple and based on the principle that a Morris Minor is always at the front of the queue on country lanes.

I lose places steadily until I feel that I can go with the pace. Seem to have the edge on the roadrunners I'm with whenever the gradient dips a bit. After the Woodchester Park, I'm taking the tactical approach, sticking to others and pacing with the group.

As the track breaks out onto the spine of the hills, an overclad walker turns to his mate and says, "Absobloodlylutely mad" as we pass.

The training the Jamie feels like it's paying off. I'm running apace with Dave (Beardie Green Vest Man), short strides but a fast cadence. It's like being in a very low gear on a mountain bike - pedaling like mad, moving slowly but steadily.

The wind on the cloudy top is warm. We're steered past the summit itself, and then I open it up on the grassy descent that follows, arms windmilling, legs somehow keeping pace with gravity. I open up a big gap, but then Beardie Green Vest Man (BGVM) catches me up on the levelling stoney track that contours aound the back of North Hill. We chat intermittantly, taking it in turns to push on. It's hard work. It hurts a lot. He tells me that his half marathon best is 1:20...

But my new approach to training and pushing the pain barrier seems to be helping. On the final level section before the descent to St Anne's Well BGVM and I run side by side: competitive, focussed and in the zone. Spectators clap us by and I'm aware - despite the discomfort - that I'm managing to run with some strength.

The descent that follows is manic and I open up a gap again. Flailing arms, slapping footfalls and all the while looking for the next best spot to jump the drains that cross the path.

Past St Anne's Well and the clapping spectators, down through the earthy zig-zags (staying on route and resisting the temptation to just charge straight down through the wood) and finally back onto tarmac.

"Good running", the marshall says as I drop down through the trees and onto the final home straight. "It's only pain", says the advice of Mike inside my head, and I just concentrate on keeping going as hard as I can. As I cross the line someone says, "That was a strong finish..."

My best also ran result of the season: 51:28 and 16th overall in a field that included a lot of pretty competent runners. It turns out that BGVM (aka Dave) was a MV50 - as ever, there's some room for improvement.

Next up is my favourite race of the calender: the Cardington Cracker in Shropshire.

Best fell running birthday present - ever

2010-10-24T19:05:00.001+01:00

Oh yesssss!

Woodchester Park race

2010-10-24T19:04:00.012+01:00

Late again, the family-harried and tight-lipped dad had risked the safety of the wife and kids in order to make it to the race on time... At 10.01am, his good lady wife levelled a stare laced with wordless fury that said:

"You knew it was going to start at 11."

Bugger: it must have been advertised wrong on the Stroud AC website. Nevermind, the boys enjoyed the extra hour of pre-race build up. And, it was good to catch up with Chris Midge and Ed, as well as meet some other Almost Athletes for the first time.

It's a short trail race - only 7.5m - that repeatedly climbs and descends the wooded sides of of an incised valley near Stroud. It's a lovely event, on this occasion enhanced for me as a family experience.

It's a while now since it happened and I'm writing it up from memory. I wasn't fully fighting fit for it and as soon as the track left the cover of the trees the heat and humidity of the day was strongly felt. I pushed quite hard making use of gravity to speed the descents. I overtook some runners and others overtook me.

I remember the delight of seeing ace Stroud runner Martin Humphries' kids chipping in and marshalling in their yellow vests.

I also remember tanking along as best I could in my own little world and looking over my shoulder to see five other runners all pacing off of me. They all overtook shortly afterwards. It made me realise that a tactical approach is important sometimes.

Anyway, it was a good run and I was pretty knackered be the end. Thought I was the first Almost home but was beat by over a minute by Russell.

Sat with Rach and the boys clapping in the other runners as they came in. They boys did well but their lasting memory of the day seemed to be the big tractor in the next door field.

19th overall. 7th MV40. 57m36s.

Catch up and running reflections

2010-10-10T21:01:00.009+01:00

Well it's been a while since I got around to doing the blog.

I've done a couple of races that I still need to write up - the Woodchester Park and the Worcestershire Beacon - and been getting out running with the headtorch now the darker nights are drawing in.

Been going out running with Jamie and Mike whose styles compliment each other very well. At one end of the spectrum there's 'Diesel' Mike with the ability to carry on chugging away mile on mile. At the other end, there's Jamie who's an 'AS' man if ever there was - lightweight, fast but with a tendancy to fade as the distance increases. I'm enjoying their combined enthusiasm for Julian Cope.

We're all fitting our running in around our family committments and there's been more of and emphasis on shorter, more intensive runs as opposed to just going out for a couple of hours and doing a longer undulating circuit. Keeping up with Jamie is - murder.

What I'm begining to appreciate is that both of them have the capacity to really dig deep and push themselves when they want to. For example, Mike can run over a hundred miles in 24 hours or conjure up a balls out sprint in the final stages of a race. Jamie, who is also pretty good at cyclo cross, knows he's not really trying unless he's got, 'an agonising pain' across his back and can 'taste copper' in the back of his throat.

Me - I'm lazy by nature. I'll ease off the gas when it starts to hurt.

But now I think that improving my running performance is less about building physical strength and much more about trying to accept a familiarity with discomfort.

In my imagination, I push the image of a weight. It's the embodyment of the pain barrier. Every time I push it a little further it stays put and my threshold increases...

... in theory

Templer Way

2010-08-31T19:22:00.010+01:00

From Templer Way

This trail follows the route once taken by granite quarried on Dartmoor down to the sea. The eighteen mile route begins at Haytor quarries and follows original granite tramway tracks and a derelict canal to the quays, now a Local Nature Reserve, at Newton Abbot. The trail then follows the southern banks of the Teign estuary (low tide only) to Shaldon, where a short ferry ride takes you across the river to a beach a stones throw from the old piers from where granite was shipped to places like London for the building of the British Museum. Quarried clay was also shipped from here to the potteries in the midlands.

Highly recommended. The route is a contrast of natural and industrial landscapes with some good old fashoned British seaside thrown in at the end.

Another good bit is that it's all downhill!

Tor bagging

2010-08-30T13:51:00.002+01:00

From the top car park by Haytor Rocks, I headed south towards Bag Tor before turning west to follow the curving line of an ancient stone wall.

Found a way up throught he gorse to Saddle Tor and then cut back southwest to Rippon Tor - the trig on the top had a refreshingly remote feel to it. Then some compass bearing practice over to Pil Tor.

Again, I learned the lesson of trusting the compass. Having added the magnetic variation, the Pil Tor I was looking at lay in the wrong direction, soon later I realise that I've been looking at the wrong tor and that my original bearing was bang on! The direct line between these tors required a lot of gorse-wading.

Pil Tor to Top Tor, then Bell, Chinkwell and Honeybag Tors. Award meself a Tor for the rocky high point to the north of Hedge Down.

There's a short section of land that's not marked as open access on the map that I now need to cross. A thoughtful landowner has put a gate in the fenceline and then tied it shut and put up a No Walkers sign. I excercise my own right to roam!

Then Hound Tor, Greator Rocks, Holwell Tor and back to Hound Tor to complete a very satisfying circuit.

With a nod to 4Winds, I expose wet, white skinned feet for the final - somewhat effeminate - trot back down the soft turf to the car...

Brecon Beacons fell race

2010-08-23T20:14:00.014+01:00

The mangled pile of aluminium should not have been there. The memorial, adorned with poppies, should not have been there. The big cliff up above on the left that kept appearing and then dissapearing into the cloud and wind-driven rain should not have been there. More importantly, the four of us should most definitely not have been there either.

It was the second time that day that I had been 'temporarily misplaced,' as my book on mountain navigation likes to put it. The earlier time had been when, preoccupied by the atrocious weather conditions and concerns about the race, I had looked with a horrible sinking feeling past manicly flapping windscreen wipers at a big green sign that said, 'Newport'.

I'd made it to the start just in time to see a body of runners heading off at speed. Resigned to a solitary run around the first half of the course, I got changed and trotted up to the start where a car full of marshals was just leaving...

The race organiser jumps out:

"Late entry? Name? Sign there. They've just gone. You look like you should be able to catch them," he grins.
"Have you got a map?"
"Yeah, got a map. Did it last year."
"I remember him, give him number 12," a woman's voice from the back seat. He writes 12 on the back of my hand.
"We had a retiral. Someone didn't pass the kit check."
"Have you got full kit?"
"Full kit, yeah," I say.

He points me at a clag-covered lump of landscape and I'm off, running along the top of the Taynont Dam! I'm in the race! No warm up! No nothing!

Buzzing from the reprieve, I push my way up through the soaking head high bracken and brambles and into the field above. A direct line up the edge of the wood and a hop over a fence and I'm on the lower slopes of Tor y Foel with the back markers in sight.

The race route itself covers 19 miles and 4000+ ft ascent. Organised by the Mynydd-du, the circular course takes in the Beacons themselves but also a number of other, less populated hills along the way. It's run in opposite directions year on year. This year was clockwise, and conditions couldn't have been more different from twelve months ago when Mike Wood and I had staggered across tinder peat bogs and burned up in the heat. This year everything was saturated due to the prolonged heavy rain.

... overtake a distinctive-looking runner with an improvised splash guard over his specs, made from a visor from a motor racing helmet...

... overtake a couple more on the monotonous track before the heavens properly open and the rain stair rods down...

...short cut a direct line on a bearing over the tussock and bog of Bryniau Gleision, and make places on others who have been more energy efficient and followed the track...

Self doubt creeps in for the first time as I run alone in the heavy rain and cloud on the featureless moor. It's reasurring to see footprints left by the runners ahead. At the second checkpoint, the trig on Pant y Creigiau, a woman's voice from beneath a drawn-in hood cheerfully says, "Number 12" - I take my hat off to her - literally - for it is a very bad day indeed to be marshalling.

The rain somehow manages to come down even harder as I descend to the road. Without meaning to, I reel in the guy ahead on the forest trail that follows by concentrating on a low gear steady pace. Away over on the hillside to the left, sodden clouds congeal in patches over the conifer plantations.

The roaring peaty brown water beneath the footbridge over the Upper Neuadd reservoir overflow is exhillarating.

The path up the steep hillside to the beginning of the Beacons horseshoe has become a stream. It's a hard climb back up into the cloud.

The grey cairn on the summit of Corn Du develops a blob. The blob waves an arm, and I run up to another inexplicably cheerful marshal. It's the same on Pen y Fan, except that this marshal has brought his dog and is handing out waterlogged bits of banana. The rain stops for a short moment on the climb up to Cribyn and I manage to get the camera out of the plastic bag and take a snap.

So I'm running along with a friendly guy from the Rhonda Valley. He's a keen climber and we're getting on well as we make our way along the Bwlch y Ddwyallt. We find the path off to Waun Rydd and are joined by two other runners who have doubled back - one of whom looks pretty cold in his vest.

I've been here before, albeit in good weather and going in the opposite direction. But I know it's featureless. So I get out the compass and set it to the pre-measured bearing of 117 (i'd done me homework). I sight along it, feel confident, and then follow a path that goes in a different direction. The path becomes a trod and then peters out. And then a pile of mangled aluminium comes into view...

Like sheep, we press on...

Try as I might, I can't make the features that I'm seeing relate to where I know we should be on the map. Luckilly, one of our number has a brain and locates us half a kilometre to the south of where I'm looking - wait for it - beneath a crag and, lo and behold, near a memorial...

Meantime, one guy has already headed off down into the wrong valley. The rest of us head back to the end of the crag and climb back up to the top. Aiming off a little bit, we follow a bearing to a little tarn and pick up the path proper. Drama over.

The rest of the run is nearly all down hill and I start to overtake the same people again! I enjoy the last stages of the race and happily chug over the line with what feels like plently left in the tank.

A great race. I'm sure that it would attract a field of several hundred if held in the Lakes, Peak or Snowdonia. As it was, on this day, there were only 45 of us.

A special thank you is due to the Marshals, who must have really put up with some grim conditions so that we could enjoy our race.

Standish Woodland Chase

2010-08-16T20:31:00.004+01:00

It sounds as if someone is setting off a roman candle away down in the valley. This puzzles my fried mind until I separate out the sound from a background of gasping breaths and slapping footfalls and realise that it's actually the mewling cries of buzzards up above the closed leafy canopy above. I'm on the second lap, and it's not going well.

The legs are dulled, my spit (yes, I know it's disgusting) has become adhesively difficult to get rid of and there's a dehydrated throb of a headache beginning to couple-up my temples. I'm losing places and there is not a lot I can do about it.

It had started ok. Any race that runs out from a farm where you queue for registration in a barn with a distinctive backdrop combination of smells - dusty hay, spilled oil and cow shit has go to be ok. Echoey cow sounds from the big metal barn on the other side of the car park and hens scratching around, doing what they do. A hundred and fifty or so runners and a measured approach create a happy atmosphere for this modest race that is run every year in aid of a small school in Gambia.

The course itself begins with a mile or so uphill on the road. It's quite steep and effectively thins out the runners before the main part of the race, which consists of two undulating loops on the trails around Standish Woods. About 9.5 miles in all.

Mike stays apace on the way up the hill, but drops back as the gradient steepens. At the top, on the tracks across the fields to the woody section, I'm mildly concerned to realsie that there's another club member on my shoulder, pacing off me. Toby, it later turns out, is 25 and a fit as you'd expect for someone who's into rowing in a big way.

There are four of us: a scrawny muscley guy with a beard who takes a lot of short quick steps, a Vet from the Forest of Dean AC who looks like he's consistently put in hard fast times for the last three decades, the aforementioned fit youth and a balding father of twins (who had considerately woken up their dad at 5.30 that morning). We set a hard pace: 6.30min miles to start off with according to the garmin.

We pace off each other, taking turns to lead the group. We overtake the Bitton Roadrunner ahead, but only because he's stopped to throw up. Then I take a wide line on a corner and slingshot my way into a downhill, taking the Vet with me. The other two seem to fall back as we force onwards. But it's way too fast for me. I know I can't sustain it.

The key point comes after a downhill that I've pushed as hard as I can. In the dip at the bottom and going into the next climb, a Stroud runner comes through and the Vet goes with him. They power away up the hill. There's no way I'm going too.

I run the second lap of the wood with a bloke of rugby player's build. Together we begin to reel in the guy ahead, before I begin to drop away again. The garmin says 7.30 min miles now - and there is most definitely not a spring in my step.

As they clap us up the last climb out of the woods, I know that I must have lost half a dozen places.

Out of the woods the humidity hits and I'm concentrating hard as I push it down the rough stoney track to the road. ("C'mon, you did four miles of this on the Snowdon...")

Then the slappy descent down the tarmac. A Gloucester AC lady comes past, running (as they say) like hot snot. I watch her catch up and then battle it out with the rugby player up ahead.

"Yay, first Almost," shouts Chris's wife Joss and then I gurn the final few hundred yards to the finish to be met by the beaming Vet (Steve) with a cup of water. Toby's in a minute later, Chris a few seconds behind. Ed and Mike about a minute behind again.

Due to poor turn outs by proper running clubs, we won the first team prize! I am dead chuffed because I haven't won anything in a race since I cheated in the egg and spoon, Kirkbride, Cumbria circa '78 (apologies, Mr Aitchison).

South West Coast Path Slog Blog Pt 3

2010-07-25T19:07:00.008+01:00

Heading down the M5, the wipers were already on when test match special broke off for the shipping forecast,

"Lundy: force 6 gusting Force 9" was the message, and heading north for the coast it was easy to see why the squat trees trailed their branches to the prevailing wind.

It was the summer before last when I'd made it to the Hunters' Inn at Heddon Mouth, an impressive steep sided stream valley leading down to the sea. I had arrived at 3pm, fortified myself with beer and scratchings before retracing my steps to arrive back at my car by 1oish and eventually home by 1.30 am. Although I had 48 hours to play with the free time had come at a price: in the spirit of family compromise I had pulled out of the Snowdon mountain race the following weekend. There weren't too many regrets - the Snowdon's a great race, but just a bit crowded for my taste.

Faced with torrential rain, high winds and the prospect of a wild night in a coffin-shaped tent that cost 25 quid, I did what any self-respecting backpacker would have done. I fortified myself with beer and scratchings and enquired after a room for the night.

The next day's ramble was long and memorable on a clear, windy and sunny day interspersed with short heavy showers. I covered 22 miles, passed through the settlements of Coombe Martin, Ilfracombe and (the very charming) Lee before making it to Morte Point, the easternmost bit of this part of the coast.

I wild camped on the peninsular in a sheltered spot with a view from the door of the tent across Rockham Bay to the Bull Point lighthouse (three flashes every ten seconds). The crap tent held up well during the night as the heavy showers continued.

I went for a run the next morning out to the tip of the land and was impressed by the force of the ebbing tide as it passed the point. The onshore wind and waves gave rise to some turbulent waters.

The walk back again was steady and a delight as the sun lowered to the horizon. I will remember a combination of images of yellow gorse flowers contrasting with purple flowering heather, brown grass seed heads - illuminated by the sunlight - dancing and waving together in the gusts above the crumpled silver foil surface of the sea. Surprising a female perigrine on the cliffs above Elwill Bay and hearing her wingtips clap as she flew before turning and coming back past me on the wind to join her mate maybe a quarter of a mile behind.

Before I turned inland for the last time, I sat a long while below Peter's Rock and looked across to the Gower, over to Lundy and back along the series of headlands where I had walked, each set one over another, fading in tone into the distance.

Whacky racers

2010-07-11T15:52:00.006+01:00

With a furtive glance he drops down off the path through undergrowth and into a small hollow. Inside the small hollow - or 'depression' as it's known in the game is an orange and white flag with a number on the top. He dibs his dastardly dibber and returns to the path wearing what he imagines to be a 'straight face'.

He realises that he's maybe slightly more competitive than he'd previously thought.

His compadre comes charging back down the path, sweating so hard that his waterproof map is in danger of becoming papier mache-ised.

"... er yeah, it's back there..."

As Muttley would have said:

"sggingfggingbggingrickrastedly"

Mike and I had joined the North Glos Orienteering Club for a free have-a-go session at Crickley Hill. Not exactly a mountain marathon, it was easily enough to expose shortfalls in out navigation skills.

First, I hadn't got me compass out out of the boot of the car because I didn't want to look too keen and second, it took me a while to realise that an orienteering map is a bit like a photographic negative of an OS map. Woods are shown as white whilst open ground is shown as dark. This led to a bit of a kerfuffle with dense scrub when I tried to take a short cut.

The NGOC seemed like a friendly bunch and were far too polite to laugh at how pleased we were with ourselves.

Cotswold Way Relay - Chipping Campden to Stanway

2010-06-26T15:46:00.007+01:00

Climbing up out of Chippy we run beside rich green dock leaves and cow parsley, flowers set at crazy angles like spinning plates on sticks. Seventy of us or thereabouts, at the beginning of a day already starting to broil, stringing out along the path that leads up to Dovers Hill where the annual sport of shin kicking takes place.

The late great Ronnie Barker retired to Chipping Campden to sell antiques for a hobby. It's a place that is likely to have featured on the lid of many a chocolate box whose richness of heritage - for me - tends boil over into acute tweeness. A place of yellow limestone, thatched roofs and clipped box hedges. You would not be surprised to meet Miss Marple sleuthing among the blooming roses. The shin kicking - to me - speaks of an engaging and mildly anarchic underlying local spirit (and taste for zoider).

It bodes to be a swelterer and I'm relieved to be getting my stage out of the way early. Everyone takes the road instead of the footpath at one point so I feel ok about using my local knowledge to take a direct line along the old drovers lane known as the Mile Drive. I make a few places by doing this before we have to go into single file to cross fields of motionless unripened wheat.

Fall into conversation with Keith a vet 50 from Pewsey Vale and an ex army PT instructor with a marathon best of 2hrs 50 something and we bez down into Broadway from the tower together and then out and up the hill on the other side.

The long sections of track, white and bright, come and go - they're a less inspiring section of this leg. Then I open it up coming down through the dingly dell valley leading into Stanton and overtake the guy ahead. Keith's on my shoulder.

Stanton is just insanely twee.

Through the parkland trees that surround the village of Stanway. Keith seems to have dropped away. There's not much left in the tank as I dig deep and push it along the last short road section to the finish in front of the grandiose gates to the Big House. 1:33:19, 18th overall. Team wise (Almost Ultimates): 28th out of 74.

The Cotswold Way relay is run by Bath AC. The 103 mile route is divided up into 10 sections. It's not a baton-carrying style relay, each leg starts as the lead runner from the previous leg arrives. It's worth doing if only for the pre-race briefing delivered with military precision and well worn but nonetheless funny jokes.

Recent runs

2010-06-23T13:50:00.003+01:00

On the back of Eddie's Triumph up to Chippy was a bit scary - especially when he went wide on the way up Fish Hill. We were recceing the first leg of the Cotswold Way relay together and had a great time of it in the heat of a lush English summer's evening. Felt a bit tired by the end.

Another night, the sandy lane loop with Mike - went at it a bit hard but was pleasantly surprised to be able to just about keep up.

Cotswold Way relay this weekend...

Haytor

2010-06-14T14:25:00.006+01:00

A while ago I contacted 'Four Winds', through his blog and he kindly outlined a route for me to try next time I was in Devon.

From the busying car park, I trotted up to Haytor rocks and paused for a while watching a pair of climbers. Heading down to the old quarries I stopped to say hello to impassive ponies. Took an an old tramway for a bit before going off piste to an impressive cairn, distinctive cattle and the unpeopled promontary of Black Hill, where I lingered over the views for a good while.

Dropped down through unfurling bracken stalks to the Becka Brook and then picked up a trod that petered out and came back again further up the slope.

Stopping, starting, pausing. No hurry - taking things in.

Off piste again, I wobbled over a bit of bog then through gorse before taking a look at the quarries of Holwell Tor. Was quite taken with couple of lichen coated cracklines that looked to have good potential for esoteric top roping.

Running out of time, I sped up on the way back over to Haytor and streched me legs on the grassy descent back to the start.

No barefoot running this time...

Cleeve Cuckoo 2010

2010-06-10T21:45:00.004+01:00

It's a fine, fine race this one. Only five and a bit miles, but run on the soft turf of Cleeve Hill on an evening after work it's got all the ingredients needed to leave you with that knackered glow of post race buzz. Low key and informal - I like that.

This was my third running of this race, but I was least prepared. The motivation had been taking another nose dive and the fascia band in my right foot was painful; I hadn't dragged myself out for a run for well over a week. Still, any excuse to pop a brufen...

A fast pace south along the top of the scarp, using the gradient to pick up speed when we can. I'm doing some heavy breathing in time to some rhythm or another and my lower legs just feel dull, but as we turn uphill towards the masts I count the runners ahead and realise with surprise that I'm in tenth place.

The stronger guys start coming through soon enough though, but I'm digging-in, trying me best and I overtake a few on the familiar descent down to the wash pool. The climb out the other side from here is quite steep and drawn out higher up and I resort to power walking towards the end in an attempt to gather some breath back.

A few heavy drops fall begin to fall. I could do with a downpour but it's holding off...

Then pick up the pace again. Pissed off about losing places. It feels like an awful speedwork session - that shaky sense that everything is about to flop. Do I like doing this? Right now I'm not sure, but I am convinced all of a sudden that I could run better if I had more upper body strength.

Overtake two on the way up the last hill to the trig. Emit a loud 'uuuuurrrrgh' on the top in response to the way my body's feeling.

Then it's the long turfy descent back to the start and I make a place back only to lose it again almost straight away when we get onto the track. A Gloucester runner over cruises past. I know I won't catch the guys ahead but hammer it as hard as I can anyway.

Over the line and throw myself down on the grass to get down to some serious oxygen absorption.

The pint of guinness and salty crisps hit the spot during the prizegiving and later.

A great evening17th overall. 6th MV40. 36m42s. Last year was 39min ish.

Stop press:
A recent photo by Mike. As you can see, running is not a glamourous hobby!!

Back to it (again)

2010-05-16T19:55:00.007+01:00

First run out since getting back from the Lakes. I am lazy. Had decided to have a rest after the PPPs and Mike's run, which in a way more or less added up to two marathons on consecutive weekends, but had begun to climb the walls. Usually I have to negotiate time for running but this morning I was Sent. Bonus.

About nine miles, taking in Shurdington Hill, Crickley Hill and Lecky Hill. A different route again despite the familiar ground. Pottered along, feeling a bit stiff.

Came across some native Black Poplars - fairly rare.

The bluebells and wild garlic were out so I took a picture on the crap argos camera. A deer went crashing off through the trees.

A nice run. Good to get out. Funny thing about running: all the racing and training can sometimes detract from the core reasons for doing it in the first place.

Fairfield, St Sunday Crag, Wansfell

2010-05-13T20:44:00.009+01:00

Well, it was more like 'Childcare in Shambleside', with snatched moments of unremarkable but very enjoyable 'Fell Action'.

Making the most of a negotiated day, leaving Rach and Ag with the kids, Pete and I walked up over Heron Pike and Great Rigg to Fairfield, and then over St Sunday Crag and down into Patterdale. Pete tucked his trousers into his socks - he meant business. Four seasons in one day - almost - we had bright sunsine to start, some hail on the tops and a few showers on the way down. Looking up Ullswater and across to High Street the light contrasts were dramatic. A couple of pints in the Patterdale Hotel and then the bus back: smashing.

Another evening I had 45mins free, so it was on with the mudclaws and off out back, along a great little footpath and up Wansfell in a still, humid evening. Went up pretty hard and was able to take five mins on the top to take in the sounds of the town floating up from the valley and the still views. I remember the wash of the steamer spreading out across a smooth Windermere. Bombed back down (the runners' shortcuts were easy to follow) and was showered and then out with Pete with enough time for a pint before picking up the takeaway.

A great holiday but, as is always the way with the Lakes, nowhere near long enough.

24Hr Cotswold Way

2010-05-04T20:06:00.002+01:00

Sorry for the late post. Currently in the spiritual home using a wi-fi pub :)

Well he did it! 104 miles in 23:48. A brilliant effort. Haven’t yet worked out how much ascent was involved. It’s academic really.

People talk about BGRs, Ramsay Rounds and PBRs, and I know that this isn't on the same scale, but it is still a fantastic achievement.

We set off from Chipping Campden at 21:00, but had arrived early. Rich was driving the support van, a veteran of amateur athletics over the decades he was wearing a flat cap which contrasted nicely with the Inov8 freebee super etand dart running coat that he'd been given for helping at some ultra event in Keswick. He and I sat in the foyer of a posh hotel him sipping a coffee and holding a conversation with the Polish waitress, me jumpy and exited and with a job to do. Mike’s wife, Kate, and their girls Thea and Scarlet came in after a private moment or two and then the timekeeper (forgot name sorry) turned up and we were set.

"Let's have it, Mike," I said meaning every word. They counted us down quietly, and with minimal fuss we were off, bouncing down the road, feeling fit.

It was my first so-called pacing experience and I was surprised how much there was to think about – running ahead to open gates, making sure he kept eating, getting the drinks quickly sorted at the 10 mile pit stops.

The support was always there on the section that I did. At the Stanton pit stop, as well as Rich in the support van, there was a Dave who’d turned up of his own accord. The same Dave picked us up later at the next road crossing in Stanway, and gave us a good toot of his car horn as we disappeared into the night.

"Who's Dave?"

"Lovely guy. He came up to me in the pub after the club run, shook my hand and said, 'I lost a good mate to CF. I want to give you some money."

......

It brings a tear to my eye to type it now. I ran ahead to open another gate. There was a job to do. What it took to bring this guy out in the middle of the night to lend his support?

The run went well. I had the compass bearing ready for the long section across fields where we'd gone arwy inthe past. Steady away.

At Cleeve we saw the torches of half a dozen Almosts with the good heart to be out at one in the morning. Unbelievable.

Next day, I was tired after my section and short sleep, but couldn’t believe that he was still going. 24 hours is a very long time to keep running.

Spoke to Mike from a Shambleside pavement.

The section after mine with Duncan went well but for one nav error. Mike stopped for a 12 min power nap at severn springs. Was an hour behind at the next checkpoint but Marek pulled him together well. Nick kept up the good work on the final section - he's a very experienced long-distance runner and must have been the perfect accomplice.

Apparently the last mile and a half came in at 7min mile pace. The adrenaline kicked in. There were loads of other Almosts at the finish.

Everyone happy. Will add some pics at a later date.

John many thanks for contacting Mike and sponsoring!

24Hr Cotswold Way attempt

2010-04-29T19:33:00.003+01:00

A quick post to say that this weekend, Mike's going for the all-in-one attempt with a view to making a new record. I'll be pacing him on the first night section before heading up to the Lakes the morning after.

Further details, sponsorship etc

Three peaks race

2010-04-25T12:08:00.004+01:00

Much more enjoyable run this year. A minute slower than last time but don't think this matters as I did put in a few stops along the way. Dry conditions and quite hot. Took care with my hydration and thankfully there were no cramps to contend with. I seemed to have a fair amount in the tank during the second half of the course. Fuller report to follow:

Three peaks anticipation

2010-04-23T20:37:00.004+01:00

After a piled-high plate of beans on toast at the caff, I enjoyed a leisurely potter around Ingleton in the bright spring afternoon sunshine. Knowing that but for that wonderful thing called flexi-time I would have been working made the experience so much the better; coasting along, enjoying the river and irregular symmetry of the walls.

Am currently sat in a layby at Ribblehead looking at the viaduct and how Ingleborough and Whernside seem to be quite a long way apart. Also thinking that PyG is further away still.

The curlews are calling and the skylarks are burbling.

Memories of last year’s race in no particular order:

…running along the top of Whernside and thinking, ‘Great I didn’t get any cramp,’ and then both legs locking up.

…mixing up my hydration drinks powder by eye, so that when I arrived at the Hill Inn I had a ‘thirst quenching’ bottle of syrup for refreshment.

…the long run-in of Ingleborough and the guy in front retching every few steps.

…getting cramp in my knees on the climb up Ingleborough.

…at the finish, being unable to get the dibber off my wrist and a woman snipping it off with scissors.

...seeing Rob Jebb come bombing down PyG when I wasn’t even half way up.

...being given a great bit of advice by another runner on top of PyG – “When you get to the viaduct, you’re only half way…”

...the look of pride on my dad’s face

Conditions are dry but if I even match last year’s time of 4:15 I’ll be happy.

Come on legs – do your stuff!!

Recent runs

2010-04-19T20:23:00.008+01:00

Last Sunday

Took the map and mostly tried to avoid any footpaths I'd previously been on. A tundle of a run with lots of stops to enjoy the different views on a glorious spring early morning. Wood anenomies were just beginning to raise their fragile heads.

The surreal view of a Narnia-like roof above the hedges. A bandstand in a field. It could only be polo.

Lambs. I closed my eyes and listened to their calls in the warmth of the sunlight. Just great

Tuesday eve

Met up with Mike for a trot out from Lecky Hill. Off the familiar footpaths again, seeing where the map took us. Ran with my old Petzl Zoom headtorch which was about as much use as a candle in a jam jar. Mike's Cotswold Way attempt taking shape. A brisk run, about 7min miling...

Thurs eve
Up to Lecky hill for 'Hills'. Again, keep off the main paths. Follow the trods. In the zone.

Saturday aft/eve
Ran out from my house down yet another new footpath and zigzagged through a housing estate. Headed up towards the Crippetts and found a small fishing lake along the way, which was a bonus.

Edward Wilson (buddy of Scott of the Antarctic) used to visit the Crippetts in his day and there are some nice watercolours of his in the local gallery. An exclusive spot to this day, the only views I could glean from the re-routed footpath were of Victorian pitched roofs.

And then to a real gem. Shurdington Hill a little visited, gorse and turf-capped point on the scarp. The views are the expansive.

I contoured around the side of the scarp following a bridleway that rapidly got diverted back onto the main drag higher up. It pisses me off just how many landowners seem to 'allow' rights of way to lapse.

Excercising my right to roam, following the map carefully and ready for an altercation, I climbed fences that took me into dilapidated territory. An old '50s van loaded with crap gradually collapsing into the brambles. A static caravan, windows broken. The contents of a home stacked in a sideless van tilted to one side. Nature and time in the ascendancy.

Over another fence where there should be a stile. A derelict farmhouse, water pissing out into the garden from the upstairs overflow into the back garden. There's a light on. Mr Todd's place - Tommy Brock inside crashed out with his boots on.

Wound my way around to Brockworth eventually.

Made my way back up the road to home with the phone tuned in to a le Carre play on the radio. About 3.5 hours. Couldn't be bothered to stay out for longer...

Some concern about my endurance levels for the PPPs...

Poetry please...

2010-04-12T20:54:00.005+01:00

Found this in an aromatic hardback with a faded spine...

'Climbing Suilven' by Norman MacCaig

I nod and nod to my own shadow and thrust
A mountain down and down.
Between my feet a loch shines in the brown,
Its silver paper crinkled and edged with rust.
My lungs say, No;
But down and down this treadmill hill must go.

Parishes dwindle. But my parish is
This stone, that tuft, this stone
And the cramped quarters of my flesh and bone.
I claw that tall horizon down to this;
And suddenly
My shadow jumps huge miles away from me.

Recent runs

2010-04-05T19:27:00.004+01:00

Tuesday night
On top of Cleeve Hill, the blown hail forms countless white lines through the headtorch beams. The wind of this sudden storm is strong enough to empty puddles. Running into the wind I am in low gear; on my toes and making small steady steps. My forehead aches with the cold and it feels as if mother nature has put the end of my John Thomas in a vice and is mercilessly applying the pressure. A different noise by my ear, a straining flag, and I realise that two pairs of mudclaws have just made their way across a sodden green - oops.

The evening had begun with fine views across to the Black Mountains, dramatic areas of fiery light in the windswept landscape. The wind moaned in through the masts and, later, the sagging wires between the pylons.

I took photographs, but it now looks as if the crap argos camera has finally packed up, unable to cope with the wet. I've put it in the airing cupboard - see if it gets better...

Eight and a half miles with hills.

Thursday night - hour and half of hill reps

I pick up a stone as a counter and begin to run up to the top of lecky hill. The air is sodden. Through the trees I can see the linear outline of the Malverns. There is birdsong. I see yellowhammers.

Up and down. Up and down. Each time carrying a stone to stop me from losing count. The light fades and the town below begins to light up with pinpricks of neon glow that to my tired mind seem to connect with the flowering gorse.

Showers come and go and when the line of stones at the top number twelve, I go home for my tea.

Saturday night - Chipping Campden to Cleeve 24.5 miles.

I remember wet clay - lots of it. The ground was at run off. We were surrounded by sodden air.

This was Mike and I rehearsing for his all-in-one Cotswold Way attempt. It is coming up the first weekend in May. Special dispensation has been granted by the missis to enable me to help out by pacing the first section - we'll be going on holiday a day late!!

Six glowing green points in the night become a ewe and her lambs. At the Broadway tower, I reflect with surprise at how normal it feels to be doing this. Other side of Broadway we lose the path but quickly realise our mistake. Move on. Steady away.

An old oak recently blown over, its rootplate totally cooked and decayed.

Through the impossibly twee village of Stanton, the smell of woodsmoke and the cosy sight of warm rooms through lit windows.

Hot cross bun at Stanway and my legs are feeling less springy. Walk up through the sloppy clart and into the cloud as the temperature drops away.

I get an insight into the dynamic of long-distance family drives in Mike's family when he begins the game of:

"Name me five new romantic bands.." There's bugger all visibility, a couple of metres at best.

"Duran, Spandau, Blue Rondo a la Turk, erm.... Ok: 5 motown artists..."

We squelch down the fields and into Winchcombe. Water is running off across the track in many places. The pubs have been shut an hour. I eat a banana by the war memorial.

Out through the other side and up the filthiest quagmire of an apology for a field that I have ever been in. People will move to the country and buy too many horses...

I go in over my knees and treat the night to all the profanities I can muster up. Mike falls over and joins in. We're laughing like idiots.

At the road at the bottom of Belas Knap Mike changes his headtorch batteries (i don't have any spares). The new batteries are flat by the time we get half way up the next hill so we run on with one beam.

"Hey Bungalow Bill, what did you kill Bungalow Bill...?" My thought processes are in a loop.

Run past the deserted barn and surprise some stoners. Pick up the Gallops. Down through the wood, slip-sliding our way. Mike falls on his arse.

And then back to Mike's, into the van to pick up my car in Chipping Campden. Home at 2.30 and crashed out in my sleeping bag on the sofa so's not to wake up the family.

A good adventure, and necessary miles in the legs for the 3 peaks. Home improvements the following day were fuelled by ibuprofen and a couple of stong coffees!

Cleevewold 2010

2010-03-30T14:10:00.002+01:00

Was disappointed not to be able to run in this race this year. Well, disappointed is a bit of an understatement. I'd been laid low with a mystery illness that might have had something to do with eating some past-sell-by date pate. Half a stone lighter, I was in no fit state to have a go so I gave my number to Nick and felt sorry for myself.

On the day I took the boys out to spectate and really enjoyed the experience. I enjoyed it so much from my viewpoint on top of Cleeve Hill that I raced round to watch everyone later in the course below Belas Knap.

I had a go at doing an Al Tye - and now have a much better appreciation of what a good job he does (to see Al's website, follow the link under 'Well worth a look' over on the RHS.

So: illness, apathy and general lack of motivation on the running front.

On Saturday, I shuddered a slow three miles up and down the road outside our house, sweating and generally having to put in a lot of effort. On sunday, I switched on my funky new Garmin thingy and ran for an hour (6.5m). Tonight I'll join Mike for a brisk one around the top of Cleev Hill.

Corrie

2010-03-16T22:00:00.005Z

Peter and Rob did Corination Street last week. Five and a half hours of cold, showers and hanging belays. Well done!

Always wanted to do this route but now, post kids, am sure I will never again have the balls to try.

Paddy power

2010-03-16T20:30:00.005Z

Men wearing high viz and helmets were erecting some kind of high pylon things on the hill under the glare of floodlights as Mike and I headed up Cleeve for a 'brisk' ten miler.

Legs felt strong but heavy and in need of a rest. The stars were so clear in the cold night sky...

"What're they doing?"

"Don't know, but it's a right ****ing eyesore. If it was up to me I'd get my chainsaw and cut the lot down..."

Let me explain:

Every year approximately half the population of Eire pop over to watch some flea bitten nags run around in a big circle, occasionally jumping over some artificial hedges. They drink a lot, spend a lot and generally have a great, if somewhat alcomessy, time. I quite like the shoggle that their arrival gives to the town. The races: a legacy of the days when there was serious competition between spa towns to draw in the punters. Nowadays there is no spa but the races remain.

St Patrick's day coincides with the event. During the day, I'd bumped into Chris (a man proud of his Irish heritage) who'd sourced Irish crisps ('Tayto') and bonafide "orange lemonade" (now there's an oxymoron). The crisps were good.

...up the hill we go breathing hard, working hard.

Mike's saying little which is uncharacteristic. I'm putting this down to his recent run with Nick whose good nature and humour can contain a degree of brevity.

I rabbit on about watching Eddie Izzard's marathon running tour of the UK on the i-player. For me, it has to be the most inspirational high profile account of a runner's journey. He had a cause to champion and heartfelt memories to reconcile himself with. No training to speak of, just immovable determination and a little bit of help from his back up team: 1% fitness, 99% mental strength.

We run over to the gate to the butterfly meadow reserve and then cut accross the common and descend to the sheep dip. Head on past the farm near Postlip Hall, looking out for the sheepdogs that can roam untethered, looking in on the cows and enjoying the sweet smell of the sileage.

Over the stream and up the climb. Pass a stable where I hunt unsuccessfuly for a tap to get a drink.

Up the zig zag climb and onto the top again.

We push it hard all the way. Every time I start daydreaming, Mike begins to draw ahead.

A good brisk run... Drove home listening to 5Live broadcasting from a pub not two minutes away.

Then, the next day, the mobile rings.

"Those pylons? They've only gone and put a great big ****ing sign that says, Paddy Power."

Weekender

2010-03-14T20:02:00.009Z

With Mike upping his mileage for his Cotswold Way ultra attempt and myself conscious of the need to listen to my body, I decided to pass on the very early start he had planned and head out on my own.

Mike and Nick, an accomplished ultra runner himself, were heading south on the Cotswold Way. I decided to head northwards and meet up with them.

Left the house at six and made the old familiar way up to the top of Lecky Hill. It promised to be a good day - bands of cloud like raised eyebrows in the dawn sky - it was good to be out.

Spring was springing and it felt good to be out alone, poddling along listening to the birdsong: magpie chattering away, wood pigeon cooing warmth into the first rays of sunshine, robins, blackbird. Spring: like a sigh of relief. And about bloody time too..

At the trig, the rump of a deer disapparing into the scrub echoed the white backsides of the bunnies. There were Yellowhammers: I took a pic on the crap argos camera.

I had been hoping to meet Mike and Nick after about an hour and a half so that I could turn round and run back with them, but here they were already... They'd met up at 5.30 and had covered getting on for ten miles. In contrast to my dawdling, they were looking keen, fit and driven. We stopped to catch up for a bit and then went on our ways.

I ran on for another twenty mins or so and then turned round and headed back (meeting up with the guys again).

Was back home for 8.30 and a busy day...

...Not as busy as Mike who, after his early morning marathon, spent the rest of the day shifting mixed cement up the incline of his back garden. I went round to borrow a wheelbarrow at 6.30 and he was still going strong; albeit with a jaded look about him.

Sunday's training involved digging a big hole in the back garden and barrowing everything out.

Gentleman Gym

2010-03-11T21:20:00.002Z

Mike had a cold and pulled out of the hill reps we had planned so rather than going up and down Lecky Hill I headed for the gym instead. Put the running machine on maximum incline (not very steep) and did an hour of 5 mins brisk 5 mins steady to the strains of Dance TV. All a bit hectic really. Then some long stretches and core work. Then showered me legs with cold water with a view to combatting stiffness.

Three Peaks is beginning to become my motivation...

Midweek training

2010-03-09T21:44:00.002Z

In the gym: half an hour on the cross trainer, legs only. Set the machine on 3/4 full resistance on the funky dunky 'Kilimanjaro' setting which imitates a convex slope. Pull ups 12,10, 8, pushing dumbells above my head 12, 10, 8, more pull ups 12, 10, 8, crunches 12, 10, 8, core work with a big plastic ball until I got bored. Loads of good leisurely stretching.

This week's running

2010-03-04T21:16:00.015Z

Wednesday I went to the gym - half an hour on the cross trainer without any hands, some core excercises and lots of stretching.

Thursday - hour and a half of steady hill reps on Lecky Hill above Sandy Lane with mike

Saturday - a two car day. Met mike at 6am in Winch and drove to Chippy in my car to run the Cotswold Way back to Winch again - 18m.

We came across a sheep caught by the neck in a wire fence a drool of spit hanging from its mouth - we went to free it but it must have strangled itself a short time before our arrival.

Later, we passed within a few feet of a roe deer. It couldn't get away from us over a fence and into the woodland so went to ground under a hawthorn.

On lower fields, lambs were butting their mothers' undersides. Higher up, the sheep gnawed away in a field of turnips.

We took a steady pace, but I found the last few miles hard.

Sunday's run made me appreciate the need for a lot of hard work before the Cleevewold 14 at the end of March and then the Three Peaks a month later.

Back to it

2010-03-01T20:35:00.005Z

Felt very tired for a long time after the may hill. I managed an insipid hour and a half on Cleeve in the week following the race and then family, Rach's work, intensive DIY all combined to put a stop to running.

Good old Mikey broke me back in gently with a 6.30am start and a two and a half hour run from Winch up to Stancombe along the Cotswold Way. The weather was great, it was thoroughly chucking it down and low cloud. Mike wore his strangulator neck-slung map case. He's going for the ultra distance, Cotswold Way-in-one attempt this May

Siezed-up, sodden and covered in clart, I eventually gurned my way back to my wreck of a motor. Was back at home for 9.30 and energetic toddlers.

May Hill Massacre 2010

2010-02-12T20:41:00.028Z

Snowdrops were beginning to poke delicate heads into the blanched indifference of yet another winter's day as I made my way along hedgerow and through fields to the sawmill. Indulging my introspection, I stood taking in their detail whilst others hurried on by.

I was feeling an unaccustomed sense of detachment from my usual pre-race apprehensions. There was a belief that I had no alternative but to try my hardest - to give it my best shot. I was tapping into the strongly felt affinity with the motivation to organise the event...

Queue for loos. Lace up shoes - tight. Apply half a tube of deep heat to legs that have been maxed out on a cross trainer perhaps a little too much of late. Realise that I stink.

The Almosts are out in force today and Graham's in his element acting as master of ceremonies on the PA. Spend time trying to convince Duncan that a pork pie and a pickled onion is the best food for pre-race fuel, but he's not having it.

Mike's friend Megan blows the whistle to set us off - a pale, pretty face framed by coat collars and hat - and I'm pulled out of myself caught up within the surge of brightly coloured runners that streams away.

Finding focus, measuring my pace to that of the lead women. Championship fell funner and local, Helen Fines, is tactically tucked in behind Cheltenham's Laura Kent for what looks to be a tightly contested race.

The rush of the start gives way and evens out as the hill continues. There's a leaden feeling to my legs and the remains of cold make it hard to gather enough breath. Upwards through wet clay, brushing past conifer branches that reach out over the path edges where the traction is better.

"Hemlock," my mind says to distract me from the effort. "Western or Eastern? Look at the way the leaves lie along the top of the twigs. Tsuga heterophylla or canadensis? Can't remember. Which one is which?" And then,

"C.o.n.c.e.n.t.r.a.t.e." I try to level with my rambling mind and swing up some momentum with my arms to get back into the here and now.

Across the top of gorse clumped, grazed turf we run in diluted sunlight. Cheered on by vocal spectators waving pom poms of shredded newspapers.

On past the trig and throught he clump of pine trees that identifies the profle of the hill from afar. I'm beginning to feel as though I have gone off too fast, but a long downhill is coming up and a race plan is beginning to form in my head. It's not very subtle, or original:

"Brakes off, brain off as soon as you get to that gate..."

But it's hard to overtake the more cautious runner in front as his line wavers. Fell ethics prevail as I chop the corner off a hairpin to get ahead. I pass another, maybe one more, before the gradient levels off.

Another downhill, and I pass another, then overtake a veteran with a running style similar to the scarecrow out of Wizard of Oz.

"Go on Matt!!" Nick and Ed are marshalling at the road crossing before the drinks station. I manage a wave, but I'm watching where I put my feet.

Take cup, other hand over top. Get mouthful. Drop and then kick on, puny arms trying to accellarate myself back up to pace. Into the soggy clart beneath the trees. I pass Laura Kent who is trying to retrieve a shoe. I pass another runner.

Along beside the lake through more orange clay and then a further descent. Fifty metres ahead there's a distinctive red and white striped vest with matching headband: Helen Fines! Jeepers creepers, must be doing ok.

Push it a bit harder over the ploughed field that comes next. I know what's to come. I don't want to lose ground.

At the road crossing someone says, "Go on Matt," and then I'm back on the muddy extraction tracks and footpaths. I choose my lines and persevere through the sloppier bits and manage to make places on those who have slowed to a walk.

Someone overtakes me wearing road shoes!

The climb steepens, but I'm still running, drawn along by the pom pom wavers at the top. I've just run the whole of the second hill...

Take cup, hand over the top. Get mouthful. Drop it. Pick the pace up again feeling very close to throwing up.

I pace off the two guys in front, but I'm holding back because I know that this descent goes on for a long while. Then Laura Kent comes past not holding back at all. I gasp out some encouragement and try to stay apace but it's not happening.

Gravity assisted momentum makes my feet slap the ground, I'm beginning to hold off the effort again when someone else comes past. Copy his running style for a moment and my quads take a pounding. Things are beginning to get grim...

Back onto the road for the final slightly uphill section. It's a killer, but I dig in. Arjo the Almost's speedwork coach tells me I'm looking good and to keep going. I'm burning out whatever remnants of energy are left.

Sharp turn back upto the finish. Gurning now. Maximum effort. Mike's voice says, "Well done," but I barely see him.

There follows an epic struggle with shoe laces and shivering hands while I try to hold a conversation with Richard, a fellow tree man who's over from Swindon.

Later, I'm talking race plans with a scrawny, fit-looking runner with a measured northern accent when he asks if I write a blog. It's a small world indeed: good to meet you Si!

So, for me, the run went very well. I hope that I did it justice. At 1.03.38 for the 8.5m route, I was more than five minutes up on my time of two years previous and first home for the Almosts.

Race website

Cystic Fibrosis Trust

Mayhill recce

2010-01-17T14:20:00.004Z

I met Mike at the sawmill at 7am on Sunday morning to run the route of the Mayhill Massacre. It's Mike's race. He used to cut timber in the woods of the Mayhill and saw the potential. Proceeds are in aid of the Cystic Fibrosis Trust, a charity that he has good cause to be involved with.

The thaw had frozen overnight and the ground was slippery with black ice as we made our way up the extraction tracks into the wood by the light of headtorches. The initial climb up is a consistent pull of about a mile and a half and includes short sections on roads.

From the trig on the top, we descended footpaths and extraction tracks, teetering over the ice as the dawn came up.

"Why so you call this bit The Somme?", I asked as I slid into freezing mud over my knees...

The second climb up to the top is muddy and probably best power walked in places. I found it just as fast and much more efficient.

Definitely one to pace carefully in the early stages.

Although, I'm looking forward to this race I'm disappointed that the Long Mynd Valleys race is on the same day. It will be Shropshire in 2011, however.

Night run in slush

2010-01-15T22:18:00.003Z

Friday night. MIke, Duncan, Chris and I did the Sandy Lane loop in reverse. 9 miles. The plastic bags didn't work to keep out the meltwater so it was numb feet from the outset. The windy conditions lowered the temperature as we ran over the top behind Coberley.

Night run on Lecky Hill

2010-01-14T20:54:00.006Z

The almost athletes cancelled the wednesday night road run due to dangerous pavements, so ten of us headed out from the Old Pats rugby club for some risky running up on Leckhampton Hill. Great to run with a larger group: Chris, Marek, Duncan, Paul M, Paul, Tim, Simon, Nick, Mike and me.

There had been a fresh dollop and along the top, the drifts snaked out like linear dunes, some of them thigh deep.

A smaller group of us picked up the Sandy Lane loop.

Coming out of Upper Coberley wood and onto a field of unbroken snow, there were no visual cues. We went spectacularly off route and had to follow the field edge to get back on track.

Broke out the emergency Kendal mint cake towards the end - there some tired guys, myself included.

All this extra effort needed to run in snow should eventually do my legs a power of good and will hopefully be good training for Mike's race: the suggestively named Mayhill Massacre...

Cleeve Cloud snow run

2010-01-10T21:05:00.007Z

Duncan and Nick and Mike and I went for a ten mile circuit on Cleeve. Great company and a great run.

Night run in snow

2010-01-10T21:01:00.005Z

Sandy Lane loop with Mike. -6 C, colder in the wind. Brrrrrr. Thousands of ice crystals sparkling in the torch beams.

Ewes Top Moss

2010-01-10T20:33:00.007Z

I had a spare few hours so wrapped up warm and did a little circuit above Ingleton.

Headed out past the open air pool, up a road then a track and then onto Ewe's Top Moss a fine vantage point above the town.

The snow was just beginning to melt and when I realised I was heading into limestone pavement, I cut my planned route short and gingerly retraced my steps heading back down the way I had come. Picked up the waterfalls walk on the way back.

Crap snaps

Bowland night run

2010-01-05T13:41:00.004Z

There was a foot of snow on the edge of the Forest of Bowland where where the family and I went to spend Christmas with my parents this year.

With the memory of the Cardington Cracker receding, the boys in bed asleep and my stomach full of too much food I felt that I should get myself out. I left Rach in front of the fire with a good book and the promise of Gavin and Stacey to come and went out through the back gate and onto the moor.

There was a slight thaw and I was glad I'd taped my feet into plastic bags as my feet sank into the water between the tussocks.

Along the line of unmelted snow lining the centre of the road. A still night and moonlit enough to turn off the headtorch. Smoothed and wind-crusted snow in all directions. A curtain of mist away to the right. All very peaceful.

I dropped down past a farm and all hell broke loose as half a dozen chained up sheepdogs went ballistic.

Further ahead the snow was banked-up against the gritstone walls. A silhouette of a hawthorn bent over by the prevailing winds. Magic in the air. And then back, retracing my steps cockily this time past the farm.

Night running

2009-12-14T20:46:00.002Z

Cardington Cracker

2009-12-08T20:08:00.009Z

Picking Mike up at 7.30 felt no different from any other Sunday morning run - no fog of tiredness to contend with this time... The drive up to Church Stretton was getting familiar - anticipation and growing enthusiasms.

Tap back into the exitement of heading away for the day on another micro adventure.

I'd been banging on about the joys of this race for too long to Mike. Had I blown it out of proportion? I was nervous it wouldn't live up to the build up.

"Alright, away you go then." No frills from the starter.

Across the field, bottleneck through the stile, squelch up a soggy lane and then start to find some rhythm across the fields.

Drop down through the wood with its carpet of larch needles and come out the other side to get the first view of The Lawley, the lead runners already getting on for half way up the slope.

Hands on knees, steady away, plenty more to come yet. Here's the guy I staggered up the last long incline of the Stretton Skyline with. We say hellos then break off the conversation to go onto all fours and grab grass to deal with a steeper bit. A dozen or so spectators sit in a line on the skyline and I turn around to take in the view they're enjoying.

Touch the pole on the top and then force legs back into a running action along the ridge. It's a long and gradual descent and I trade a few places on the way down. Ahead an Eryri runner's feet slide out in front of him and he falls down full onto his back, but there's no harm done and he's up and moving again right away.

Through the dark field in the shadow of the Caradoc. An ancient oak tree becoming a ghost.

Up the side of Caradoc I manage a direct line and make a few places. The view over to the Long Mynd is particularly fine.

Through the ancient ramparts on the top, Al Tye is there taking photographs...

... and then again, force the legs into a running action along the gradual drop that eventually steepens. The welsh guy who I finished the Cleevewold with comes flying past - not bad for a vet 60

Through the stream then a boggy bit and then onto the killer track, only a gradual incline but I know from experience that it can be sapping. Low gear. I run it all and overtake the Welsh guy again.

I'm closing the gap on the guys in front and catch them just below three fingers rock.

Over the next series of short climbs and descents on lovely springy turf I can see runners still coming down off Caradoc - at least I won't be last.

"36" "Thank you" voices called into the wind at the last checkpoint and then the last steep descent down through the muddy bracken.

Welsh guy comes flying past again.

I power walk the last long drag up through the fields and as a woman I passed ages ago comes past me again, I realise that I'm not really pushing myself as hard as I might. Somehow my brain is still telling me to pace myself.

Fields full of beet. Stiles. Sight of the church tower of Cardington.

Into the final field and someone says, "Now. Go!" So I do that, and really feel the disbenefits of missing all those sessions down the track with the Almosts.

The bloody finising line just never seems to get any nearer. But eventually I get there and feel like i've at least half earned the claps and the "well done"s. The plastic cup of water tastes great in the goodwill of post race chatter.

Mike's in a few minutes later, somwhat breathless after a balls-out sprint through the final fields.

There's a leg wash in a algenous cattle trough. There's a cup of delicious carrot and coriander soup and the warm ambience of the prizegiving in the village hall.

Mighty fine race. Mighty fine event. Mike liked it - but I don't think he would have had the heart to tell me if he hadn't!

52nd overall, 12th MV40 in a time of 1.34.19 - about three mins up on the previous year. Mike: 1.40.35.

Photos

Sodbury Slog

2009-11-14T11:15:00.004Z

The 'Slog'. It's a regional institution, and every year lots of members from our running cub take part in the 8.5mile run that is infamous for its muddy conditions. It's a multi-terrain race, but the emphasis is very much on the taking part and fun running.

The race is held on Rememberance Sunday, and the idea of getting over a thousand people together to enjoy a laugh and a healthy event is a fitting way to appreciate the sacrifice made by all those people. In a way, it reminded me of setting off early to walk up Great Gable on another Rememberance Snday too many years ago to calculate.

A two minute silence was observed and then, after a shuffle along the way for a bit, Mike, Nikki and I stood on the start line feeling the cold and breathing in the exhaust fumes of two Vespa mopeds that would lead the race along the road section of the run through the town. It didn't feel like fun running as I tried to keep up with Mike who had set off - shall we say - briskly in order to beat the bottlenecks that would form further back in the field.

The course wound its way across fields, through ditches, and along a purpose made slop trench before returning to the town.

The high volume support from the Almosts just before the finish line was a real spur to sprint over the line!

Mike and I were the first Almosts home - clearly a bad day for the club...

Easing back into it

2009-11-02T21:50:00.003Z

Post viral fatigue or something similar had struck me low. My whole body ached and a chest infection that was the legacy of a wet week in the lakes lingered on. I was short of breath and without drive.

The clocks went back and, as always seems to be the way, my enthusiasms waned.

Another 5.45am alarm call from the boys and as I blunder to their needs sounds of wind-lashed rain on windows permeate a soup of still half asleep thoughts.

Tentatively I ease my stiff limbs out through the sleeping estate and onto the fields, following the footpaths up to Lecky Hill.

On the top the rain comes in sheets, each stinging droplet travelling parallel to the ground. I take a photograph, just about touching the moment, before cutting the planned route short and running for home.

High Raise

2009-11-02T21:47:00.008Z

The best part of a week in the spiritual home that I share with several million others: the lakes. It rained a lot, but no matter, we had a fine family time in our rented house in Clappersgate.

One evening I had an hour to myself and headed up the footpath by the house for some gentle orienteering practice on the hummocky tops of Loughrigg.

Another morning I set off early to run out from the Dungeon Gill. I made my way up to angle tarn, failed to find a path that should have been very obvious according to the OS, and then, aiming off a little bit, followed a bearing to connect with the footpath at the top of High Raise. I cut my planned route short and headed back over Thunacar Knott on another bearing and got satisfyingly disorientated trying to find the summit. I remember the wind moaning with depth as it came up and over the top of Pavey Ark and later a party of schoolchildren emptying water out of their wellies whilst tired-looking teachers/instructors looked on.

Photos and route

Recent runs

2009-10-13T14:11:00.004+01:00

Duller than average post this one.

Have become concerned that my children will evolve extended lower lips from all the filtrum slurping they've been doing of late.

Last Thursday saw another visit to the track for awful speedwork. 6x800m:first 200 fast, next 400 slower/recovery, last 200 fast. Nasty medicine.

Saturday: didn't go to the Worcestershire Beacon Race due to ill children and demands of parenting. Mike put in a good performance, about four minutes faster than his time from last year.

Sunday eve: metMike for a run up and around Cleeve in the dark. He is going very well. I struggled to keep pace with him and he'd had a fast race the day before.

This week's running

2009-09-29T09:22:00.009+01:00

Monday - felt a little better after Sunday's tiring run and so headed up to Lecky Hill and back. Good to run alone with the headtorch on. Felt a little stronger but didn't push it. There was a nice sunset
and as I ran up the final steep bit to the top by breath came and went in time to the Munsters theme. On the top I stood enjoying the views out over the nightlit town. The sound of tyres on roads floated up to me on the breeze. The moon was out so I took a picture

Wednesday - drove to Daisybank for another headtorch run of about thre quarters of an hour hill reps.

Thursday - to the athletics track for speedwork with the Almosts. Great fun. Hard. Felt like part of the club. Pyramid of 400m, 800m, 1000m, 1000m, 800m, 400m. We aimed for 1:20/400m, adding 5 secs to the timesfor the longer distances. I nearly did a 'Paula' and had o run off to the toilets inbetween the laps!! Still, at least it wasn't as bad as this poor fella:

Sunday: an early morning 13miler out along the Cotswold Way with Mike. Route

Bude and Widemouth Bay

2009-09-28T16:04:00.007+01:00

Evening on the beach at Bude

Widemouth Bay

A couple of days and a night in Bude. Great to see The Williams get married. It was a fine time.

This week's running

2009-09-22T11:39:00.008+01:00

The after effects of the stretton skyline led to en enforced week off

Monday night I set off, headtorch in bum bag, to run up lecky hill and back.

View from leckhampton hill

Sunday I ran with mike off road from his place and then ran out of fuel by about mile ten. He looked after me well, holding the gates and talking me on. Kate gave me some juice and a doughnut when i got back which just about stopped me from keeling over.

I am not feeling very fit.

Stretton Skyline race

2009-09-22T11:36:00.014+01:00

It had fired the imagination as an achievement that might one day be attainable ever since the first drive up to the Shropshire hills with Guy Sabey a few years ago. It was spoken of as a classic. This was good - i like classics...

The 'Stretton Skyline' is also a benign name for a challenging route that if underestimated might render you into an undignified state.

The route leaves the Cardingmill Valley and follows incised valleys up onto the top of the Long Mynd from where it descends to the valley floor at Little Stretton. A well-marshalled crossing of the A46 followed by a steep climb up Ragleth Hill and some lovely running along the top before another descent into Church Stretton. Leaving the town, the course then heads up and over Caer Caradoc and then up to the top of the Lawley, retracing steps back down. A waymarked section across fields and another well-marshalled main road crossing give way to a long uphill section back up onto the tops of the Long Mynd. A final couple of downhill miles back through the popular Cardingmill Valley leads to the finish on the town playing fields.

It was hot and I went off too fast, following a friendly vet lady called Joan whose legs looked like - and I mean this as a compliment - knotted gristle. Leaving the road at Pole Cottage the slight breeze was welcome in the gathering heat of the day. We ran a strong pace over the cross dyke and around the side of Callow and down to the valley floor.

Ascending Ragleth, the dry turf felt like a crust underfoot. Trading places with a woman in a yellow Mercia vest.

Coming into Church Stretton other runners, benefiting from their local knowledge, appear out of side streets. Steady up Caer Caradoc and through the ancient summit earthworks, remembering colder conditions during the Cardington Cracker. Lose time and places by following another first timer instead of reading the map at the foot of Little Caradoc. Make places back climbing up the Lawley and enjoy running back down strongly.

View from Lawley summit, Caer Caradoc beyond

But then...

Cramp began to set in across the fields although I'd been drinking my nuun solution. I was beginning to feel 'out of it' at the second A46 road crossing. A gel helped a little at Dudgeley Farm and a chat with Craig from Amazing Feet through Gogbatch pulled me out of myself temporarily. The climb up to the top of the Long Mynd from here was hard and relentless and I was fast running out of fuel. I walked and chatted to the guy I'd taken the long cut with off of Caradoc. There were cramps down the outsides of both legs as I forced myself to shuffle into some kind of a run as the ground levelled out before the final check point.

"At last", I was thinking. "All downhill from here. Just get back to the start and then sit in the stream for half an hour. Ice baths. Mmm... Lovley ice baths."

Clearly delerious (i'm far too nesh for that) I forced my way on. I was going to do it. I was going to get there. "Mmm... lovely ice baths", my brain kept saying. "Just keep going..."

And then, there was the start. There was the promised stream. There was... no-one.

"Shit, I've just remembered the finish is down in the town", said my mind. So, I forced my way on until I just had to stop. My head went down, my hands went up to hold my head. My sudden stop sent a Calder Valley runner I hadn't known was there into a fall. The woman in the Mercia vest materialised also, and then the two of them were off, racing for the finish. I shuffled on, round a corner and followed them over the line.

An excellently organised race. The food in the goody bag at the end was so welcome. Spreadeagled on the grass watching the white cotton wool clouds morph their ways through the blue I realised that from now on I would know to treat BL races with the respect they demand.

I was 33rd overall in a time of 3:25. Photos.

Gloucester airport

2009-09-08T21:48:00.008+01:00

In-between home duties, I took the boys over to the airport on a blustery day watch the take-offs and landings.

This week's running

2009-09-08T21:23:00.003+01:00

Tuesday saw the start of the as yet unformed grand new regime. In other words, Mike was uber busy with family and work so wasn't coming out and the Stretton Skyline was getting uncomfortably near. Like a headless chicken, I did some random speedwork.

A mile at 6:15 and then a series of six fast minutes interspersed with a minute of fast walk in-between followed by a gentle jog over the next two miles. I aimed to do the last mile at about 7:30 pace, but it came in at 6:40.

As i finished the air was filling with a warm fine rain and Leckhampton Hill was just a grey outline in the gathering mist. I closed my eyes, and let the droplets on my face bring thoughts of Scotland.

Not really the ideal preparation for the...

Cotswold Farm Park

2009-09-08T09:24:00.008+01:00

A day out with wifey, children and grandparents that will be remembered for all the right reasons.

This week's running

2009-09-06T20:35:00.002+01:00

A poor show this week in terms of mileage. There are plans afoot to have a pop at doing the Stretton Skyline run next weekend - family committments permitting - so I hope that standards haven't been allowed to slide too far.

Weds, I joined the Almosts for a run in heavy rain and winds over the top of Cleeve Hill. About an hour of running in all.

Saturday early morning I took the dog up Leckhampton hill and repeatedly went up and along and down again. Wore the smelly helly and got too hot, but enjoyed the clear air and the views from the top of the scarp.

Then Midge managed to cut his hind leg quite badly on some glass and so it was straight back down and to the vet's for stitching and, later, an eye-watering bill. Again about an hour's running.

There's a lack of focus about the running at the moment and I am concious of the need to tap my self back into the core reasons for doing it.

... and still going strong

2009-09-01T14:07:00.001+01:00

Lounging in cafes

2009-09-01T09:58:00.010+01:00

Disgracefully, the more important aspects of life have been neglected on this blog of late in favour of the frank monotony of a running diary.

On a different slant, the best coffee bar in the world, on the basis of my so far less than extensive research, is the Midnight Espresso at 178 Cuba Street, Wellington, NZ. Sadly the practicalities of international travel stop me calling in that often so it's lucky that the second best coffee bar in the world, again on the basis of my less than extensive research, is called Mocca and it's just a half hour walk away. Newspapers, paintings, writings, good music and cool-looking people making steam from the big machine make it a fine place to hang out when the kids are dozing n the buggy.

This week's running

2009-09-01T09:27:00.003+01:00

Post Brecons, I joined the Almosts on their weds night run from the golf club at Cleeve Hill. It was good to see some familiar faces, and as someone who attends very irregularly, I also really appreciated the frendliness of the group that i ran with. It was raining on us before the set off so I had a chance to try out my very specialist-looking OMM rain top and attempt to look the part - as you would expect, sortly after setting off I was way too hot. Had some interesting conversations about how to get better at running - intervals and speedwork and fartleks seem to be the order of the day. Perhaps I should get more structured about how I run?

Friday, I joined Mike for a trot around Cleeve. It was a good, sunlight soaked and windy evening.
The evening shoe wash through the damp thistles on the lower fields was taken at high speed in the gathering dusk. The nights, as they say, are fairly drawing in.

No run on Sunday - the lie in was great.

Brecon Beacons race 2009

2009-08-25T21:17:00.007+01:00

After a wee holiday in the very fine Dordoigne region of France where the extent of my exercise was limited to leisurely lengths of the pool and interval training on the cheese board, I was in no fit state to have a go at this race.

Needless to say that it turned out to be my favourate hill run so far!

Any minor worries about forgetting my safety pins faded into a grin as the organiser drew race numbers onto the backs of hands. It would have been a nice deliberate touch at a very understated and low key event, except that nobody seemed to show signs of this being in any way unusual. Other concerns about my ability to navigate us across sections of fairly featureless bog weren't relevant - the sun was out and the clouds high in the sky as we set off at a steady trot.

The circular course heads out from just below the dam of the Talybont reservoir and is run in opposite directions year on year. This year was anti-clockwise.

Bracken and cropped turf sprinkled with a light dusting of pelleted sheep turds gave way to tussock and smooth curves of hillside horizons.

The cairn on top of Carn Pica - which is a fine piece of work - arrived after a couple of miles of ascent and the bog trot over Waun Rydd was unproblematic in the good visibility. We ran with a Welsh veteran along the crest above Cwm Oergwm and he told me that he'd done every one of the Beacons races, lamenting, "I used to manage under three hours but expect I'll barely get under four today." I told him I thought it was better to be slower because then there was the advantage of spending more time on the hill. "That's one way of looking at it, I suppose," he said. Ruefull.

The course bypasses Fan y Big ('no sniggering at the back Jenkins') but takes in Cribyn, Pen y Fan and Corn Du. There were many laden cadets and groups of young backpackers in evidence as well as families and other groups, all of us enjoying a fine day out in the hills.

I had pulled away from Mike over the Beacons so trotted slowly along the spittle-sprayingly monikered Rhiw yr Ysgyfarnog enjoying the views until he caught me up. The descent from the ridge to the valley floor was steep, muddy and hard on the legs.

Crossing the dam of the Lower Neuadd reservoir, I suggested to Mike that we could put on a spurt for the next mile or so as it flattened out. I was surprised when he just gave me a look.

Then I buggered up the map reading when we left the road and headed up to Pant y Creigiau. Climbing over a fence, the inside of my right thigh cramped up excruciatingly. Mike, who was going through a bad patch, struggled with a second fence at the top of the slope. By this point the Welsh veteran and his mate hove into view climbing steadily, watching our antics and making pointed comments about people taking unnecessary short cuts. Ah well, you live and learn...

There followed a grim process of digging deep and digging-in as Mike's bad patch continued to weigh him down. He hung in well though - I hope I manage as well as he did when my time comes to hit the wall. It was a case of, "run to that lump of horse crap then walk for a bit" etc etc.

The pull up the last hill, Tor y Foel, was probably pretty mirthless for Mike. I somehow managed an aesthetic appreciation of the lovely sound of the wind through the grasses.

The tall thin figure of the marshall at the final checkpoint stood out on the skyline. He had a wee radio on the cairn that was tuned-in to test match special. It was the penultimate day of the deciding test in the ashes series and he gave me a good update on how England were getting on. "Trott's doing well..."

Thankfully the race organiser had cleared and marked a way through the dense undergrowth on the lower slopes!

I followed a Walsh footprint into head high bracken and popped out onto the end of the dam. "Well done," said someone as he passed me on his warm down jog. I managed a fair pace for the last 50m or so. Called out "11" for the last time and headed for the water table to enjoy a drink and a complimentary Mr Kipling cake.

Mike came in after a couple more minutes, finishing strongly. A drink and a bite and he was right back on form!

More pictures courtesy of the crap argos camera can be viewed here.

We were 31st and 32nd out of 54 finishers. My time 4:09:55

This week's running

2009-07-26T10:44:00.004+01:00

Weds - Mike and I headed out from his house and up to Cleeve. We took a wrong turn off the top and came down through woods before picking up the cleevewold route back onto the common. I encouraged a slog up to the trig point and then we pushed it a bit too hard along the scarp before dropping back down through the woods to Southam. Both felt like we'd overdone it after the exertions of the weekend.

Over the next couple of days I experienced a real low which I think was just the effects of being worn out. Tired and thin skinned, Iwas not in the best of places to deal with various controversies that all reared up similtaneously at work. No run on friday.

Sunday - we did a bit of a different route. Mike still talking about the uber Cotswold Way run and hs roped in a few others. I've put my name down as a supporter/pacer!

The next race is we're aiming towards is the Brecon Beacons if it can be fitted in around family comittments.

Snowdon International Mountain Race

2009-07-20T09:36:00.023+01:00

A long car journey up through Wales. Heavy showers and scenery that becomes more and more removed from the sanitised tame boring prettiness of the Cotswolds. Streams of water mark white lines down hillsides, the cloudbase sags like a bloated underbelly.

Down through the Pass. Familiar looking crags bring back memories of camping holidays in the '90s. It's good to be back - older, balder, slightly wiser and definitely happier.

The new surroundings of the Beris youth hostel challenge my instincts to be self-contained, so it's good to be with Mike who is naturally enthusiastic and an experienced hosteler. Whereas I'm internalising what's coming and failing to attain a state of zen-like calm, Mike shares out the excitement of the anticipation with the new people we meet. Over breakfast the following morning, an Australian evangelist claiming the ability to speak in tongues matches Mike's enthusiasm with his own. The exchanges to an fro like a tennis rally as they good naturedly yet persistently power their respective interests backwards and forwards; attempting to find the angles and make the passing shot.

Warming up in the field behind the fairground where the race starts, the Welsh international runner, Math Roberts resembles my spaniel Midge when he ferrets at high speed through the rushes before circling to a halt and doing a wee.

The proud Welsh countdown to the start sets the adrenal glands to 'Flow' and, with a blast of a fire engine's siren, we're off between the cheering crowds up and out of Beris.

Over to one side the TV helicopter blaps away. I can't find a rhythm in the congestion so sometimes make my way along the larger stones marking the edge of the path. The air becomes clearer and cooler. The landscape opens up and is welcome after the confines of the town. The bulk of the hill appears into view.

I snap away on the crap argos camera [photos] and chat intermittently with other runners. The route is heavily populated with walkers and spectators, the train chuffs away. Numbers feel incongruous in the setting.

It's too steep to run so I power walk with hands hips, hands on knees up into the cloud.

The path narrows and the volume of users on it increases. It's cold enough for breath to come out in clouds.

Marshalls' whistles up ahead and the lead runner Andi Jones comes past. More whistles, more runners going at speeds you really wouldn't want to get in the way of. We're supposed to be keeping to the right, but it just isn't working. Laura Kent comes past totally focused and I shout encouragement in the moment before she's gone.

The summit comes and goes. People in hoods, the chip timer mat bleeping as we run over it.

I'm gathering speed and momentum when the track narrows ahead. There's a big boulder in the middle, runners on the left and walkers on the right so i go over the boulder and through the gap between the bodies. "Good running," someone says as I pass. I'm tanking along, I see Mike working hard, coming up through the mist, he gives me a huge, "Go ON, Matt!" and I say something similar and then I'm coming down out of the cloud and trying to work the argos camera at the same time.

Eyes and mind and feet co-ordinate faster than I can process thought (which isn't saying much I suppose).

At the Clogwyn drink station I take a cup, get a mouthful and throw the rest to one side - unfortunately it goes over a watching kid. I hear the mother's instantaneous "Oh" and see her reach out to her child but I'm gone and all I can do is raise an arm by way of apology.

Still going flat out, I'm trading places with an Eryri runner, when karma strikes back. My shoe leaves a wet smear across the dust black plastic of a drainage pipe and I'm over, twisting and distorting, somehow rolling as I fall. I'm looking at the stones of the path in front of my face, my forearm has taken the worst. Immediately I'm up and going at the same speed as before, the Eryri runner ten metres ahead. I hear woman shout, "Well DONE!" and a marshall shouts to me that there's first aid just ahead, but I'm ok despite the the sudden cramping in my calves.

The steep road section back into the town is awful because it makes leg muscles go into reverse to slow down the momentum.

We're running down the street into town and everyone is out of their houses clapping all the runners as we pass. Turning the corner onto the high street and the cheering gets louder and my legs just dissolve. The Eryri guy goes away from me as if i'm stationary and I want this all to stop right now because I can't go on. But then we turn off into the park and I can see the finish and hear the crowds cheering us on either side.

I'm determined to smile as I finish and just about manage it. Someone presses a bottle of water into my hand and a cadet snips the timing chip off my shoe and then I just stand, looking up, pouring water over my head. Utterly, utterly knackered.

Then the melee of the end. Everyone euphoric, Laura (who managed 4th lady) and her husband are nearby and we wait for Mike to come in.

In Pete's Eats we gulped pints of sweet tea and wolfed a veggie breakfast each, high on the afterburn of the run and savouring the atmosphere of the place.

Postscript:
All of the above self-centredness falls into perspective with the news that one runner suffered a massive heart attack just below the summit. He was given first aid and airlifted off but very sadly died. RIP

Laura on her way to 4th position

Mike descending

This week's running

2009-07-08T22:31:00.004+01:00

Friday I went up Leck Hill and back. Needed to get back in time for the test match highlights so cut a few corners off my usual route. I climbed the gate at the top of the fields onto the road instead of going up and through the gate and also took a direct line up 'erosion groove' rather than the longer but less steep route beneath the cliff edges. I was at the top in about 27mins and back at the house in 52mins.
Filled in the questionairre for the Snowdon commentators this eve - well it was the third time that they'd emailed it to me - bet they don't use it!!
Friday, I ran out with Mike up Nottingham Hill and accross to Cleeve and back down to Southam through the woods (great descent).
No more running until the big race!

Runs like clockwork -

2009-07-05T21:17:00.006+01:00

Today Chris and Belinda and Paddy and Fergus came around and we ate some good food and hung out. Happy days...

This vid was taken on Tuesday earlier in the week.

Jen and Christian have had their baby

This week's running

2009-07-04T09:58:00.017+01:00

A heat wave sits over Britian. Andy Murray rises up through the Wimbledon tournament only to crash out, beaten by Roddick who was the better player on the day. The boys sleep in their nappies and run out of season colds and temperatures that encourage worries of swine flu. It is, in the words of David McComb, too hot to move and too hot to think.

On weds night I set out from the house to run up Lecky hill and back. Heavy legs, heavy heat. It was a real 'training' run. In other words, enjoyment was not the motivating factor. Still, the summer evening views from the top were as lovely as ever and I felt good when it was over. I'd mislaid my watch, so that was my excuse for not being able to work to hard. On the way past the church, I saw a group of scouts all out doing some kind of activity - looked like they were having fun and it reminded me of the Scouty phase of my youth...

Friday eve, Mike and I powered around the Sandy Lane loop. The idea was to push it, so the conversation was a bit limited. Being skinnier I make it up the hills quicker so I did a few 'gate waits' and slowed over a few sections. There wasn't much time for aethetics and the heat was a good incentive to get it over with as quickly as possible. End time 1:11:51.

Sunday morning, 6.30, Mike drove to ours and then we dropped my car at Daisybank Road before heading back up to Cleeve Hill. We ran the Cotswold Way from Mike's house Southam to Leckhampton Hill, which is apparently one of the finest sections of the path in terms of views. The flowers in the limestone grassland were little pinpricks of colour, the tree leaves - verdant. We made stops to enjoy the views and, all in all, had a good recovery run.

Mike, king of the ultras, is planning a run of the entire Cotswold Way and keeps trying to rope me into it too. Now whilst I don't want to feel left out, and while it's really nice to be asked, the thought of a 24 hour run of over 100 miles is about as attractive as, well... as it sounds.

Nearly time to begin the taper for Snowdon...

Coming up to the edge of Cleeve

Through Linover Woods

Getting hotter...

Looking north along the scarp

Beeches above Daisybank car park

Cotswolds in the summer

2009-07-02T21:27:00.006+01:00

Took these on my travels today...

Snowshill Manor and out for lunch

2009-06-28T21:24:00.006+01:00

A really good weekend, despite our uncertainty about Rachel's job simmering in the background.

We took a trip to the gardens of Snowshill Manor, a perfect place to enjoy a relaxing summer's day - perfect that is, unless you have a child buggy too wide for an arts and crafts design and two inquisitive todders keen on detailed investigation and independent travel.

In the evening, we chargrilled and barbequed and watched Neil Young make a fine big noise at Glastonbury on the TV.

After my philosophical jog, we went to the Pheasant and met up with Pete and Sian and Julie and had a fine time with the kids in the play area out back.

Life is good, just not quite so secure as it used to be...

This weeks running

2009-06-27T10:33:00.012+01:00

Took a trip on wednesday to joint the Almosts on an off road run from the Patesrugby club, except that when I got there - they weren't! Apparently they're currently running out from a car park up by the Air Balloon that's informally known as 'Doggers Central.' Uneasy about IT band pains in my left knee, I nearly just went home but after some relaxed stretching i decided to take a jog around the Devil's Chimney race route. It was a fine run on a hazy sunny evening and with a nice breeze on the top just to add to the enjoyment. The knee held out well and I trotted back into the rugby club a full ten minutes behind my race time! Had a fine laid back pint in the bar watching wimbledon and chatting with the squash players.

On friday, I hooked up with Mike and we did the old familiar Sandy Lane loop. The idea was to bez round and incorporate some speed work. We got a bit knackered by the second hill and speeded up and slowed down for the rest of the run. Close and sticky, running through long grass and nettles. Put on a bit of a spurt towards the end and then drank odd homemade isotonic whilst the steam rose up from us. We're getting exited about the Snowdon.

Sunday AM, we took two cars and, leaving mine at Stanton our previous northermost point on the Cotswold Way, drove on in Mike's car up to Chipping Campden and the start of the 'Way'. Half asleep, I'd managed to bring my platypus (looking like a colostomy bag fit to bust, it being filled with a homemade isotonic of apple juice water and salt) but not my bum bag, so ended up running with a wee rucksac for the first time.

It was a good run, but very hot and very humid. Sweat stang the eyes and we made no effort to push the pace.

The petrified heritage and exclusive affluence of Chipping Campden and Broadway seemed surreally English. The wider landscape that we moved through had a similar sense of neat proporton and assured charm. I'm not sure that avarice will ever let me love the Cotswolds but I am becoming more fond of them - time will tell, I suppose.

This week's running

2009-06-21T11:17:00.008+01:00

Monday evening I made a run from our house out across the fields and up to the top of Leckhampton Hill. It's a rewarding and familiar route andthat I hadn't done for quite a while. My challenge is to get up to the top in half an hour, spend a bit of time at the trig point admiring the expansive views and then loop back round and be back at the house within the hour. I was about four minutes behind at the top but made it back just five seconds shy of the target.

On Friday, after being cracked back into shape by Cheltenham's Oliver Twist osteopath, I met up with Mike at his new house beneath Cleeve Hill for an 8pm start. We did a good loop, runing up through the fields from his house and up to the trig, then over the top and down to postlip hall before picking up the Cleevewold route for a while and then up some recently made steep paths. We crossed the back of the common and picked up the gallops before coming back down through the woods.

Sunday. Fathers' Day. The 6.30am start was a real effort of will. We ran the Cotswold Way north from Winchcombe along to Stanton. It had rained the night before and the land was damply warming up to create sticky air. Cow parsley and elderflowers sometimes lined the way, tipped at odd angles like wobbling spinning plates on sticks. They filled the air with the heavy scent of honey. Atop the escarpment we came across a newly planted broad avenue of limes within metal tree guards - a recreation of an old vista from Stanway House off in the distance.

In the afternoon we headed over to Farringdon for a barbeque at Professor Tony's house. The garden was filled with PhD students and heavyweight professionals from the world of autism, all thoroughly nice. Ben and Sam toddled around and kept me busy whilst Rach did some catching up. The nosh was great, and when not stopping the boys from falling down steps/wandering out into the road, I managed to fall into conversation with a psychologist and we banged on happily about climbing until it was time to go.

Got a fine mug from the boys today...

Sunday Run

2009-06-14T19:51:00.002+01:00

Picked Mike up at 6.30 and we headed over to the Malverns for a bit of a change.

Ran from British Camp to North Hill and back via a few detours through less well-trodden ground. Got back to the car and then went up the old forts ramparts of the Herefordshire beacon. About nine miles in all. Dainty hills fringed with Victoriana.

A hot morning, the views cut short by the haze. Ruddy grass seed heads bent to the light breeze. Bracken unfurling, stinking sweetly in the bright heat. Cheery hellos to the early morning walkers.

The next run on the horizon is the Snowdon race so, as they say, the more you put into it the more you get out of it.

A few steps in Montpellier Gardens

2009-06-12T09:51:00.003+01:00

Spoon feeding

2009-06-09T09:51:00.003+01:00

The days of spooning in each individiual mouthful may be beginning to draw to an end.

Cleeve Cloud Cuckoo 5.5m

2009-06-08T13:45:00.006+01:00

Being over 600m, the highest point of the Cleeve Hill common land above Cheltenham technically fulfills the definition of a 'mountain' as set out by the Countryside and Rights of Way Act (CROW). On this basis, the smashingly titled and charmingly set Cuckoo race might be defined by some as a 'fell run' although to be honest whether it is or it isn't is academic. Basically, it's a short little toughie with nice views - and it's only up the road!

Leaving Mike to network and catch up with old buddies, I left the pre-start gaggle for a nice warm up on the slopes above the golf club house. A wee in a gorse bush and five minutes sitting quietly on a disused tee helped to focus the mind.

The course forms a figure eight route across the top of Cleeve. On the outward leg, I slot in behind Jamie and decide that I'm going to give the race the best I've got. Mike's in there alongside. I'm not feeling tip top however, which is probably down to a lack of training, post-wedding tiredness and too much beer over the last week and a bit. Jamie leaves me behind quite quickly and then I'm struggling to keep up with two serious looking club runners who aren't up for conversation.

Down to the old sheep wash and out up the steep hill on the other side, the legs just aren't springy. I overtake a teeneage lass who has slowed to a walk, but otherwise I'm staying apace of others around me.

Onto the tops again and running towards the masts and then the turn back for the last diagonal back to the finish at the club house. I'm stretching out and working hard with my arms. The mouth is very dry. The teenager catches me up and I dig a bit deeper to try to keep up with her but I know that I'm not going to do it. She'd first to the last climb up to the trig point and this time she runs it all. Her Bourton clubmate is just ahead of her - another under 18!

Then it's the half mile downhill to the finish and I try to let my legs go and follow the momentum but I'm at my limit. I'm going as fast as I can and my breath comes and goes in loud gasps. I give up on catching the two in front, but I'm not going to be overtaken and I keep telling myself to keep going to try to come in under 40mins.

Over the line, shake the hands of the youths who'd beaten me and then spot another teen from cheltenham harriers who beat me in similar circumstances the year before - he's been home long enough to have got his breath back. I'm getting older and he's growing stronger!

Jamie comes over and sits beside me chattering while i come round. Mike powers in about a minute and a half later and then announces that he's going to run home. Jamie says, "I call him 'Diesel'", which is pretty accurate.

I've done a few races to date. So far the award for the most random race momento had gone to Cirencester AC for a hillybilly baseball cap with Chedworth Roman Trail on the front. The mantle has now definitely shifted to the Cheltenham Harriers for their stunningly random shot glass engraved with the logo of the race. I will treasure it.

I was 10th senior male and 25th overall in a time of 39:07. A fair improvement on last year's position of 41st and 41:55.

(Laura Kent 37:36 - rats!)

Hitched at last

2009-06-01T15:09:00.013+01:00

Rachel and I got married on the 23rd of May at Stroud registry office. A small do with just immediate family only, it enabled us to appreciate what was going on in ways that probably wouldn't have been possible if the choice had been to fill a church or similar. They let Mum and Dad bring Midge the dog in and the our boys crawled about on the floor as their parent's made their solemn vows.

We had a fancy meal at a posh hotel near to where we live and afterwards hung around on the grass on a fine sunny afternoon.

My mum and dad looked after the boys for a couple of nights while the wife and I repaired to the Randolph Hotel in Oxford in an attempt to remember what it's like being in a relationship without children permanently in tow. Saunters round the sites, a visit to the Pitt Rivers, couple of nice meals and some ice cream in the park.

We held a garden party at another posh place the next weekend for friends and family. Rachel's mum pulled out the stops and laid on a fantastic spread, the dads made two fine speeches and my mum designed a fine treasure hunt for the kids. Loads of other people helped out to make it a great and memorable day for us.

Astonishingly touching to be freely given so much goodwill from so many people.

Tom's Field and Dancing Ledge

2009-05-04T10:09:00.004+01:00

This weekend The Williams and I headed south to the Isle of Purbeck on the Dorset Coast for a so-called stag do - basically a hard-to-veto excuse to spend a weekend in great scenery clipping bolts by day and drinking beer by night.

Tom's Field is a great little family campsite and Dancing Ledge a safe place to wield a clip stick and enjoy working out some climbing moves. I'd like to say that since having kids my desire to lead climb suddenly disappeared - but in reality, I've always been a wuss. Peter and I climbed like we used to play cricket. In other words, what we lacked in talent we made up for with enthusiasm.

The Square and Compass at Worth Matravers is a very good pub. I'm going back in there.

Three Peaks and Buttermere

2009-04-28T20:44:00.011+01:00

I took Ben and Sam up to see Grandma and Grandad at Flannagill this weekend. We had a full and memorable time of it. ON the Saturday I competed in the Three Peaks race and was pleased to finish the 24 miles/1608m ascent/descent course in 4:15. I took some crap photos on the way around. A full recollection to follow.

A view of the climb up Wherneside with Ingleborough behind

On the Sunday, we drove up to the northern lakes for a wonderfully moving lovely walk around Buttermere. There is a strong emotional and spiritual resonnance about this place for me as it evokes many childhood recollections. So three generations of Reids made the familiar circuit of the lake. A full report, and hopefully movie, to follow.

Toddle Waddle

2009-04-21T15:41:00.002+01:00

At the weekend we did a sponsored walk with a difference at the Pitville park in Cheltenham. Harriet works for the Meningitis Trust and took the pics..

Easter weekend

2009-04-14T10:17:00.014+01:00

We had fine spring weather and a good combination of activities and quality relaxation when we spent Easter with Rachel's dad and mum, Fred and Gill - or Grandma and Grandad "Chudleigh" as they are becoming known - recently.

An early getaway on the friday got us to Devon by midmorning in time for the first of a series of Gill's excellent meals. In the afternoon I took the boys to Teignmouth for a buggy trundle along the sea front. Holiday makers were in evidence, the fair was in town and the ice cream sellers were doing a good trade as we made our leisurely path out onto the pier through the electrical noises and lights of the arcades. We returned to the car along the red sandy beach, through gaps in the groynes. I took ten minutes with my eyes closed listening to the waves before just making it back to the slipway ahead of the rising tide.

I was out at 6am the next morning to get a training run in in preparation for the three peaks race. My route followed the river Teign and the Templar Way, down to the sea. I had been looking forward to running along the banks of the estuary, but turned a corner and saw the path dissapearing off into the water! It's only a low tide option really... It was a lovely still sun shiny morning. The sailing club were out racing and I stopped to watch a familiar site from my past as the dingies crept along slowly in the calm. I took to the road and crossed the bridge at Shaldon taking the direct but steep route back to Chudleigh.

Fred made me brews and a sandwich and we spent the afternon watching Cardiff play Toulouse in the Heineken Cup until Rachel and Gill came back from the shops.

Next day, along with many other families, we took a trip to Pennywell Farm. Not entirely my cup of tea, but we had a really nice time - once Gill's excellent packed lunch had helped me to surmount a mild exitential crisis... Highlights were trying to take the double buggy through the willow maze.

Later in the afternoon, Fred and I took the boys out on a ramble through the lanes for a couple of miles. The wild flowers were emerging from the Devonshire hedgerows and the bluebells, wild garlic and dogs mercury covered the floors of the woodlands we passed through. Fred, who was the son of a gardener, has an extensive knowledge of wild flowers. He told me that his dad promised him a pound if he could bring him a flower that he couldn't identify, botanical name and all. Fred got his pound eventually, but as a consolation for ingenuity after designing a composite flower from a number of different plants.

On the Monday morning we went out for a walk at Hound Tor on Dartmoor before hitting the road back to Cheltenham.

Cleevewold 14 - by the power of brufen

2009-03-30T10:31:00.006+01:00

Ridge and furrow to the side of two lines of limes as we make our way from the road to the medieval tithe barn at the Postlip community. I was following two knarly-looking guys up ahead who turned out the be Mike and a Polish guy called Marcos who I used to occasionally meet up with for a run on Cleeve Hill.

Getting changed on the flags beneath cobwebbed oak beams, there's friendly chat with faces that are getting more familiar these days. Mike comes over. He's wearing a T shirt over his Almosts vest so as not to attract attention from the race organisers Cheltenham Harriers who he used to be a member of. He's been told that he should still technically be running for the Harriers and we wonder if it's maybe like the Hells Angels - once you join you'll never leave! I whack down a couple of brufen for my 'nappy changer's back' and see an old boy watching with suspicion - have I just done a Dwain Chambers without thinking about it?

There's good natured chattering at the start and lots of Almosts vests amongst the hundred or so runners. Off down the slope, joking with Mike that it looks different around here in the daylight and without a headtorch beam. Around the corner, don't follow the rest and go splashing across the dam at the sheep wash. Engaging low gear up the steep incline that follows - I know from experience that this race throws plenty more hills in yet.

On the top the sky is a clear blue expanse, sunlight makes the tussocks shine the colour of cotswold limestone. Past golfers, walkers, people out with their dogs. We all follow the wrong route and go too low at the Rising Sun before climbing back up to the trig point on Cleeve Cloud - never mind.

I'm running with a guy from Pewsey who's inclined to chat, but I'm trying to keep up with a stocky, fit bloke called Dave from Dursley who I remember disappearing away from me last year.

Off the common and bez downhill - I've lost the runners both ahead and behind me. It's like being out for a run on your own. A short section of climb and a level bit through the edge of a beech wood that reminds me somehow of the Cardington Cracker. Into the butterfly reserve, and then make the uphill slog towards the masts. Andy's marshalling up at the road ("Same place again!" "I'd get lost if they put me anywhere else!"). Push on up to the drinks station, grab a cup, get half a mouthful and put the rest down my front to the amusement of onlookers gathered with the aim of seeing this.

We run along to the trig point at the highest part of the common. Along the gallops, where the skylarks burble merrily away above (I notice later that the race T shirt takes a skylark as its symbol).

A kissing gate and a marshall taking pics. Field edges and, as the mile markers come and go, I'm feeling surprised that I'm maintaining the pace. Opening up on the downhills but not losing control. Making up places - but Dursely Dave is still fifty metres out in front...

Down to the lowest point of the course - somewhere up to my right is a recently visited Roman mosaic - the crushed limestone of the made-up track is bright in the sun, like a cover of When I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning.

I'm up to Dursley Dave. Say, "C'mon. Keep it going." We chat for a bit and then I'm setting the pace. Past the farm where the children hand out jelly babies every year and begin the long, long incline up to Belas Knap burial mound. There are groups of hiking school groups who cheer on the runners. Up to the road where a marshall has two bottles of Newcastle Brown on the ground beside him. Get the arms going along the road section to work up a bit of momentum.

"C'mon Almosts!", they're shouting up ahead. "By God it hurts!" I say, which isn't true, but makes them laugh.

The climb up to Belas Knap is, by this stage of the race, a killer. I run nearly all of it, striding the steeper sections. On the top, caught sheeps wool backlit by the sun, hangs in the blackthorn suckers.

A welsh runner overtakes me and I go with him past another up front who has begun to fade. We leave a short section of road and run down a soily gully full of dead wood. The guy in front slows me up here - but he's only on a training run. Later I move ahead again running down a poached field that Mike and I had climbed up and through in the past. I'm ahead for a bit, but he overtakes me again on the next climb to a stile.

By this stage I'm astonished. There's no pain, I'm a bit knackered but it's nothing profound. Up ahead beyond the welsh guy I see a lady runner moving up the hill,

"Bloody hell, that's laura kent." I always have said that if I can keep apace of her I will be going well. She is usually the first lady in most local races.

The hill is hard, hard, hard - but if you keep going it's logical that you'll reach the top. So I just do that.

Another descent, which I hammer down. Laura and the Welsh guy take the bridge, but I just go through the stream and I've caught them easily.

Disappointingly for my ego, Laura says she's having a terrible day. She's holding a stitch in her side. We all stagger up the last field and then we're on the track to the finish. Through the farm, little lambs on the left and penned cattle on the right. The Welsh guy says we'll go in together, I say we've got 7 1/2 minutes to beat the two hours, Laura says we can do that. So we move on together apace.

As the finish appears at the front of the Postlip Community Hall I can't help sprinting. The calves are beginning to cramp and I hear them clapping us in.

Water. Handshakes. Big smiles all round. Surprise at the good result. Really, really buzzing.

Chat and watch people come in. There's Nick who's uber fit. There's the guy we helped carry towards the end of the Long Mynd Valleys. Marcos and I wander back down to the barn. I eat two very big slices of cake and have a tea.

By gum, what a run!

I came in 24th overall and was 12th senior male in a time of 1:55:31 (def beat the other two despite the official results), this was an improvement on the previous year's 42nd overall and 2:08:02.

Very pleased with the result - but it was still 5 1/2 mins slower than Laura's time last year :-)

Wednesday run

2009-03-04T21:57:00.002Z

Went out with the Almost Athletes tonight and we did 5 1/2 miles at about 7min pace. Nice to see some familiar faces as most wednesdays I'm putting the boys to bed. Ah the "bliss" of the pavements...

A fine weekend

2009-03-03T13:20:00.010Z

Ben and Sam experience their new wheels

Friday night after work, I ran with mike from Greenway Lane, over Crickley Hill and Birdlip (with its sinister gathering of doggers) and then along the Cotswold Way to Coopers Hill, venue of the world famous Cheese Rolling event:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/gloucestershire/cheese_rolling/

We went up the main slope, touched the pole at the top and then made a descent around the side - you would certainly need to have a screw or two loose to want to run down that slope. The views from the top were great, I could see out over the orange lights of Cheltenham and Gloucester as I watched Mike's headtorch as he made his way up.

It was quite a pacy run and I finished with a bit of a burst through the final section of woodland. It felt like about 16 miles, but MIke's Garmin spoke otherwise - just under 12.

Felt quite stiff about the legs afterwards.

I looked after the boys the next morning whilst Rachel had a lie in and sorted out wedding stuff. Then we took a family walk up to the Bath Road to buy a birthday present for dad but also to just spend some time together. The Bath Road is great because corporateness hasn't yet made significant inroads into the place. Small businesses, shops, pubs all seem to thrive and there is a sense of community encompassing locals and students that gives a sense of character that is often lacking in other parts of the town. We made a circuitous approach along cycleways and through The Park, which is where the university campus is. Nice to take the time to take a step back and enjoy the place.

After lunch and a bit of a snooze, I did some housework whilst Rachel went to buy some beer. I don't know what her father must have been like but when England are playing rugby it seems that i have carte blanche to lounge on the sofa a shout at the television. I must learn the rules of the game so that I can appreciate its finer points.

My bottles of black sheep and I enjoyed the game despite a poor England performance - but then mayber ireland were just better?

A nice evening with a meal and a DVD. I know it's my age, but every time a DVD finishes, I still automatically think that I need to press rewind!

Sunday, I dragged my protesting limbs out for a run. Mike was marshalling at some ultra event in the Forest of Dean so I was on my own and decided to try a new route.

Headed out of the town of Winchcombe to the north east of Cheltenham, past Sudley Castle, across fields...
...and up to Spoonley Wood to have a look at the mosaic.

Bill Bryson describes this place touchingly in 'Notes from a Small Island' and it truly is profound that here is something so old, that has been so permanent through Dark Ages, Civil Wars, World Wars, that just sits here beneath some plastic sheeting and a wriggly tin roof. Quietly visited, uncovered and contemplated, by ramblers over and over again. It has survived so far, protected only by the respect of those who know about it.

At the mosaic - note use of the bananarama-style "buff" wristband (a useful expenditure)

Close up

The run went on through a lovely clear morning. The kind of morning the deceives you into believing that it is warmer than it is.

I made my way across high wold landscape to Guiting Wood. I had been execting something ancient semi-natural but got a plantation (possibly on a ancient site) that had recently been subject to substantial extraction works. The footpath into the wood was unmanaged and giving way to blackthorn, and the route through the wood was 12" deep in tractor-quagmired clay. I would not recommend visiting this woodland although there is a nicer footpath along the northern boundary.

I followed the Wardens Way back down into Winch. A run of about 8 miles through lovely scenery for the main part. Legs felt achey - I wonder if i might be doing too much trying to keep up with Mike who as a background of ultra-marathoning.

After I got back, we went to check out a local hotel where we're going to have a meal after our wedding. The place got full marks - affordable, oak pannelled room and nice grounds for picture taking. And it's got a bar.

Running, Bath and Curry

2009-02-23T11:55:00.012Z

Friday night - Mike and I ran around the top of Cleeve HIll by headtorch. It was the first time I'd been out since the Long Mynd race.

Saturday - we all went to Bath to visit Christian and Jen who live in a house that's full of character on a steep hill on the edge of town. We had a nice long lingering lunch and then a saunter around some of the sites, Jen carrying her prenantness (if there is such a thing) with ease. The architcture contributed to an atmosphere that really appealed. The cotswold limestone was lit up by the winter sun. A relaxed drive back up the motorway with the sleeping boys in the back and a nice meal after.

Christian and Jen (with bump)

Sunday morning was running with Mike on Cleeve Hill again. We did a circuit from the masts over to the pre-historic burial mound of Belas Knap (including compulsory circuit of the streamlined monument) and then cut down along footpaths to Winchcombe before coming back up through the village cricket ground (scene of many a celebrity-laced game linked to the high society scene of Sudley Castle) and then up through an utterly poached field ("This is the Cotswold Way!" - he rants indignantly). I mean, just how many horses to people need - and then why stick them all in the same field - I ask you!!! We passed Postlip Hall and came back onto Cleeve Hill, following the lip of the escarpment back around to the masts. Good run about 14.

In the afternoon we went round to Peter, Helen and Harriet's for some quality eating and playing. The curries were excellent - peter really can cook - and the boys just about managed to charm their way through despite a couple of sore teeth moments from Sam... Peter had a good scar on his leg after having fallen off King Kong at Wintours Leap the day before.

Harriet and Ben

Sam shows Helen his latest trick

Long Mynd Valleys

2009-02-09T10:00:00.019Z

I have found that one of Mike's many good qualities is that he can be relied upon to go for it on the spur of the moment. We'd been preparing since before christmas, going out on footpaths in the evenings by headtorch, sliding around in slop or negotiating hard frozen ground. We'd got quite fit, I'd been up to recce the course a week beforehand and nothing could possibly get in the way - except for the weather.

The country was under the heaviest dollop of snow that it had had for a long time. Roads were ungritted becuase councils had run out of grit, severe weather warnings were in place and the forecast for Church Stretton on the night before the race said -8 degrees. We studied the regular updates on the Mercia fellrunners website. Mike rang to call it off - i talked him round. Next day I rang to call it off - he reluctantly agreed. Advice from the race organisers was 'come and start, you can always drop out.' Awoken by a small child at 4am, I changed my mind for the last time, realised I was going, texted Mike and got myself round to his place for 8. He got my text ten minutes before I got to his place, had a word with his (I suspect long-suffering) wife Kate, threw a bunch of kit into a bag, kissed his daughter goodbye and we hit the road. Then we came back because he'd forgotten a compass, and then we hit the road again.

Richard Askwith gives a brief account of his experience of this race in his inspirational book, "Feet in the Clouds". He begins by being told that the race is more or less the hardest that there is and ends, after vivid descriptions of incredibly steep ascents and descents, with the anti-climax of being told that there are plenty of events that are much harder. Either way, he makes it sound hard enough.

The course is an 11.5 mile figure eight that for the first part follows the spine of an area of the Shropshire hills called the Long Mynd. There is about four and a half thousand feet of ascent.The first section of the route is not particularly hard and follows the spine of the Mynd from north to south. But then it returns through a series of steep-sided valleys.

On my recce of a fortnight earlier, I had got back to the car and turned on the engine and heaters to warm up and then fallen asleep for an hour!

There was a higher than usual proportion of hard-looking, scrawney running types confidently and quietly chatting amongst themselves at the Church Stretton social club. At the start itself there were random kit checks and the organisers counted out the exact number of runners before setting us on our way. It was cold in the shadow of the hill, but the skys were clear blue. The slopes enclosing the lovely Carding Mill Valley, were bright whiteness. There was a serious tone to proceedings but, as the cliche goes, the fine weather gave spirits a lift. I was worried I'd put too many clothes on.

Off at last and up the first ridge out of the valley, compfortably fitting in towards the back of the field. The sun bright, the air clear. Colourful clothes and the sounds of breathing as our bodies adjusted to the new pace. Chugging along, enjoying the views and going way below optimum pace. Looking around for Mike to make sure we didn't get separated as we were doing the course as a pair.

Gallumphing down into Jonathen's Hollow through the bracken and snow I lost MIke who was sensibly being more cautious about the descent. Wait and watch runners coming through, passing a friendly word or two from time to time. We followed the stream up the valley, passed the checkpoint and climbed the side of the valley and out onto the top of the Mynd and a featureless plane of wind-crusted snow. Runners strung out in single file, all following the same trod.

We picked up some speed along an established ancient route of footpath called the Port Way. Mike comes into his own on the flat and powers along. Then we cut through heather and down through a boggy gully to follow another stream along the floor of another v-shaped valley. You could hear the stream, the calls of runners. Bright sunlight. Avoiding ice. A steady pace past another checkpoint followed by a long contouring climb upto the iron age Cross Dyke on Barrister's Plain. Give the thumbs up to a photographer to ruin what would have otherwise been a fine photograph and then - ye gods - the first steep descent.

It was covered in frozen hard snow and could easily have been a 'one in one' slope. You couldn't run it and some people were picking a slippery way down but without mch success. I started doing a sideways skid down the slope and then, when this became a bit precarious, crouching down on my left foot and with my right leg out in front of me propelling myself forward with my hands. Sledging without a sledge.

Past another checkpoint and then along the base of Callow Hollow, another stream valley. Waited for MIke to catch up and then we climbed up out of another tributory valley and out onto another heather top. I had been told the shortut here during my last visit - you aim for a small wood on a distant horizon and heather hop your way onto another check point.

It had started to snow.

We picked each other up again and descended again down Minton Batch, pausing to water a hawthorn tree along the way. Another checkpoint and then into Windy Batch with its decades old abandonned farm trailer adding character to the landscape. This was where the second half of the race began...

Windy Batch - I followed the contouring route shown to me on my last visit and cut off about twenty runners who were following the valley floor. Very snowy, very hard to keep your feet. Waited on the top for Mike who found the ascent awkward.

Over some undulating high ground and then more sledging, falling, running, sliding down into Sleekstonebank Hollow. I was getting good at this arse sledging technique and caught up 5o metres or so on the runner ahead. He looked at me and said, with enviable wryness,

"It's not every day you get a free wedgie thrown in at a fell race."

The snowfall got heavier as I waited and watched the runners (or sledgers) coming down the slope I'd just descended. A bizarre sight, and I wished I'd a camera. Then the steep ascent of Callow that follows a scrape up the hillside. It was slippery and just about steep enough to lean into the slope and go up on all fours. The checkpoint on the top of Callow was an orienteering punch that you had to use to mark your number. It was on a short garden cane pole. I punched my number and set the cane with its little red flag upright again in the summit cairn. I remember the sound of flapping cloth in the grey snow-filled quiet.

We headed on along a track that skirted around Grindle and back to the Cross Dyke. Another sliding descent of great steepness down into Ashes Hollow where, again, I stopped to watch the comically surreal sight of the other runners coming down.

Passage of three hundred or so feet pulped the snow into slush and blended it mud and sheep shit and chlorophyll - as a new flavour of slush puppy it would be unlikely to catch on..

The final ascent up the Yearlet involved going through 18" of banked-up snow in places.

Again, the summit was quiet as I waited by the clip checkpoint. A very special time and place to be. I had time to make a compass bearing for educational purposes.

There was some confusion over the final descent - some opted for the steep but shorter route, I was keen to do the slightly longer but easier way down.

We came across a collapsed runner on the final path to the finish. We gve him water and some mint cake and he leant on me and another as we helped him along the way until a marshall took over.

The final short steep drop down into the carding mill valley, through the stream and over the line. A plastic cup of soup back at the social club and then a euphoric drive back.

"A GR not a PB," said Mike - which is running jargon for getting round the course and not worrying about the time. A proper AM fell race in challenging conditions!

Me - note use of the Bananarama-style "buff" headwear (a useful expenditure)

Mike at the Cross Dyke on the outward leg

Uncle Tim and this week's running

2008-12-21T17:15:00.007Z

Today we had a visit from my brother Tim who drove over from London for the day. It was great to see him after what felt like a long time and we went for a walk to the swings - which is proving to be a popular location for photography... We had a big roast dinner and played with the boys while Rachel, who is off down to Devon for Christmas tomorrow, packed and packed and packed.

Ben and Sam are both a lot more mobile now. Sam has learned to crawl on hands and knees and they can both clap hands.

This week's running has been a bit hit and miss. I went out for a slow road jog with the Almost Athletes on wednesday night - about 5 miles - and did about 9.5 miles over Leckhampton Hill and round via Coberley on Friday night by headtorch. The momentum is wavering at the moment so I am hoping that the new zipplily entitled Inov8 Mudrocks that I ordered from Lakes Runner earlier this week will help to give me the incentive to get back out there - the old shoes are beginning to show signs of wear.

Bad news: this year's May Hill Massacre multi-terrain race clashes with the boys' first birthday party. Can't believe that I've already booked my number without realising, like the time when I couldn't remember their date of birth at the hospital and had to ring home to find out! This one may take quite a bit of negotiation...

Cardington Cracker

2008-12-08T20:02:00.007Z

Enjoyed running the event on my lonesome. This is my trail of recollection.

There's a strung out line of brightly coloured shirts up the side of the The Lawley. Incredibly steep. Bent double. Children calling 'well done' at the checkpoint on the top. Touch the tall wooden pole then lurch back into a running pace after that thigh-inflating ascent. Along the long backbone of the ridge, remembering the phenomenal winds last time. It's clear frozen blue skies today; still windy, but not mouth-inflating like last year.

Looking around to see the landscape below, the last traces of the morning's mist still lingering over toward the Long Mynd. Trade places as the decline gets steeper, frozen ground makes each slapping footfall a potential slip and it's hard work to hold back until the point it's ok to let go.

Manic legs carry the momentum down through a gate and into the frozen shadow of Caer Caradoc, everything frost encrusted. A stag headed oak - permanent. My feet break the ice in a bog poached by cows' feet and then small steps up centre of a lane, trying to use the gravel there for grip in the black ice. Over the gate and onto the main climb.

A group of us move upwards together taking turns to dog each other's footsteps. The voice in my head saying, "don't overdo it. Don't overdo it." Someone's got a mobile phone in their bum bag which keeps ringing. Someone else says we should dial a pizza, they'd have to get an all-terrain moped.

Onto the old fortress of the summit, through rocks and the race checkpoint, marshalls call out numbers and then descent again over the bright hard ground. I let my strides lengthen where the slope lets me and make a long zig-zag which feels easier than the fast short steps of directness that others are taking. Motoring now, I overtake again then hit a gravel slope and realise I'm going too fast. I grab at the nearest thing that might help to slow me down - it's a gorse bush.

Through another frost pocket. Feet don't feel cold as they splash through a stream. Opening up a bit on the section of tracks down to Gaertones farm before going back into low gear again up past Three Fingers Rock. Over a series of turfy high points, pacing up the hills against the runners ahead, striding, hands on knees when they do. Stretch out on the slopes and make ground again. It's possible to avoid the ice you can see, but it's the stuff you can't see that you've got to watch out for.

Wind-cropped turf. Elongated shadows cast by bleached fenceposts and the low winter sun.

Steep descent off Willstone Hill, through dead bracken that would be fiery orange if it could catch any light. The legs of the runner in front slide from under him. Tell myself to watch that patch then fall on my arse too. There's a crashing and behind and someone comes flying past.

Hardened mud and another field hung with chill. The Wilderness, (great name) where I overtake once, maybe twice, but keep telling myself not to blow it. Stride the last long incline.

A track with sunlight strobing through the hedgerow and then it's a series of fields and stiles that go on for too long. I've caught up the bloke with the mobile phone. Close to the end now, Cardington and the finish out of the corner of my eye. Pick it up a bit and then someone goes belting past at a pace I'll never match. Through the last gate and onto the level. Footsteps behind? Buggered if they're going to overtake so I end up grimacing over the line.

Cups of water, meet a guy called Craig last seen at the Cleevewold race in February. Watch people coming in.

Get carrot and coriander soup from the village hall and wander back to the car park, dunking roll.

Listen to MArmite on the drive home - sheer indulgence.

Results: I was the 37th Senior Male and 76th overall out of 250 with a time of 1.37.43. Last year's time was 1.47.13.

Sorry about the table bit below - can't work out how to delete it.

On the swings

2008-11-29T14:47:00.008Z

Rachel headed off to Bath to see Christian and Jenny and to go to the Christmas market. I gave the boys some lunch and then we went out for a buggy wander to the swings behind the library. It was a cold and nodescript day somewhere towards the end of November. Uninspiring, English, wintery, pinched and just generally unremarkable. The kind of days that remind me of being a student in Birmingham.

The boys did not seem to have inherited their father's pessimism and watched the world they were wheeled to with level impassiveness. We looked at a birch tree damply holding on to its autumn colour and accidently bggied through some dog dirt.

At the playground, we had a go on the swings.

They had such a good time that we made a little movie

Afterwards we stopped off at the library and got out Elmer the Elephant and them got the Saturday Guardian at Morrisons. The boys were quite tired by the time we got back

They had a snooze and we watched TV and Wales beat Australia at the Millenium Stadium. A great afternoon of bonding. Sam's just about clapping and both are waving - nearly 10 months old.