Bag O' Spanners

The Scottish Masters Cross Country was held last weekend in Dundee. I like Camperdown Park and thought rather than go 'tete a tete' (fnarr) with the youngsters in Falkirk, I would mix it with the oldies. My rationale was solid. I was old just like them, and am still wrestling with my competitive ego.  I just might not come last. Visoins of nearly making the the podium - laughable, I know. 

We had Master T, Marg and Lins up for the ride and after a sleety shower, the sun burst out of a grey leaden sky. It was still pretty cold. 

I got my number and bumped into 3 clubmates from the Bella club. They were all M40, so no use to me in my pursuit of Scottish Gold in the M60 team competition. The course was a 2 or 3 lapper and I was definitely not 'at the races'. I lined up. I had my hands in my pockets if I'd had any. I  commenced with faint vigour, tucking into the pack as they snaked up the first long grassy drag. There were isolated pockets of spectators, but otherwise we swept along and down one grassy bit and then grovelled up through the woods, stepping over the roots. 

I slowed and puttered:  idling mode. I was, not surprisingly, passed by a succession of folk keener than me. As we all had our age group labels on our backs, the first thing anyone does, is check out whose passing you (club) and then peer at their back with old eyes to see how old they are. If they're not in your age group, happy days. If they are, more heaps of misery.  On the second lap I let around five M60's past and had neither the interest nor energy to track them. Normally, I would have used each of them to tow me along for a good bit, but not today, no fight. I finished in 34 minutes for this 8 kilometre extravaganza and 12th M60, although the five that passed by were all within a minute of me at the end. 

We said goodbye to leafy Camperdown and we headed down to the Beinn Inn with the dog. It was dark when we arrived. We bathed, we dined and we crashed. 

More work on the core required. And perhaps a pep talk....!   

Free the (AXA) Raheny 5

I'm not a good flyer. I don't know whether to admire people who fly extensively and are impervious to the jeopardy of air turbulence, reverse thrust and the clandestine threat of the reinforced steel drinks trolley that they insist on wheeling out. I always feel I need to buy something from it to passify it, to appease the air gods. What is the Roman god of trolleys, anyway? 

So it was, last weekend, to be sure, as we took to the sky to Dublin to run the Raheny 5. The Irish National 5 mile Championships. A race that attracts 4000 competitors. A race that's got a reputation for fast times. A little bit of running tourism is what it was.

In fairness, our window of passage with Aer Lungburst was sandwiched between two low pressure systems, Eoywn and Herminia, so we had struck lucky. Cat had scouted out a small but perfectly serviced palatial next to Lansdowne Road on the south side of the City and I got a tad wet walking from the centre to the hotel.  I can add that I wasn't properly attired. We dumped the gear and the 3 of us ran four miles out along the dark, flat streets of the Suburbs for a shake-down before an evening meal in The Cow. From there we crossed the road and had a quick drink in the O'Shaugnessays. It was an early night. It was still raining outside. 

Come the morning we had a slap up breakfast and I helped myself to a pile of cheese to keep myself going until 3pm when the race was. We caught the Dart, the Dublin inner city train service to the centre. Wiping away the condensation with my sleeve, I sat peering out the window of the carriage. It was pouring. 

We had visions of spending an hour or two wandering around Dublin like the tourists we were, but the rain was so heavy, we repaired to cafe Nero. After coffee, I bit the bullet and took the gang to Primark to get a towel and umbrella. However, by this time the gear in my bag was already damp. After making a visit to Decathlon, where Ant made some purchases, we just hung around trying to keep warm. Shortly afterwards we grabbed a bus to Raheny on the north side, happy to be out of the rain again. 

We arrived very early and after picking up our numbers, we sat huddled in the corner of an old school hall trying to keep warm. As the crowd began to swell, folk were shaking the water off their winter jackets and dumping their wet bags all over the Hall. Behind us, on the low stage, was a wide assortment of housewares, such as sets of plastic plates, latte mugs and a toaster. I noticed the toaster was for the 1st F60. Crikey, I wondered if there was one for the 1st M60. If I was the lucky lad, would Michael O'Leary let me take it back across the Irish Sea without a 'extra baggage' surcharge? 

We changed into our vests and put our tracksuits back on and ventured out for a warm-up. The wind was dying down. Was it my imagination or was the rain receding also? By this time, with 15 minutes to go, the streets were jumping with all colour of Irish running vests. The Garda had closed the roads and there were plenty of supporters mulling around. 

We got back to the hall suitably warmed up and I jogged to the portaloos before the start, as there were no handy bushes to hide behind. Such were the queues, that I began to time the folk in front to see if I was going to miss the start, and I only just made it, squeezing through the gates with around three or four hundred in front of me. Not ideal. Was this going to be another start like Dribble Valley last month, where I spent ages trying to get past folk? The gun went and we began to shuffle forward. It was almost a full minute before I crossed the line, but after that I never looked back and it was full gas for 5 miles. I passed a rake of folk - always a mystery why they would be up front near the start. 

My pace was good and I felt fine. Both the wind and rain had dropped and we were cracking on. The course was mostly around the houses, with one stretch along the waterside. Difficult to anticipate the wind, but where I found it, I tucked in (as you do). 

There was a long drag a mile before the finish where I toiled, but overall it was a 32:18 for 5 miles, around 6.30 pace and 5th M60 place. I had a good dry boak at the end, much to the disgust of some of the unfortunates standing at the railings, but other than that, I was right as rain and up for a pint of the wet stuff. 

Cat did a quick 29 minutes for 15th, but both of us could have been quicker, as Ant pointed out, him being the trip team manager and all. 

We got the bus back and celebrated our runs with a set of dry clothes and a couple in the pints in the Flowing Tide on Abbey Street. The Dublin Publopedia website states that 'one barman takes no nonsense, and has been seen ejecting undesirables with considerable gusto and foulmouthed alacrity'. I don't know about that, but we were on our best behaviour. It was a slap up feed at the Old Spot on the evening. Top grub. 

We flew back the next day on Ryanhair. I didn't have anything from the trolley, cause as it came past, we were having some turbulence. Flying, eh? who needs it. 

Falkland Yomp 2025

I ran the Falkland Yomp in 2023 (link:http://runnerwanderings.blogspot.com/2023/01/). I wasn't in the best state, but I enjoyed the event and the course had a bit of everything. The youngster set the course record, but then she does that shit.  So we entered it again last year, but I had a medical, so none of us went. The organiser (Ian), however, advised that he would defer our entry until this year. That was pretty good of him - The Lomond Club are a decent bunch, so this year, we rocked up eager and ready to go. It was Cat, Marg and moi. Ant came along to shepherd us. 

There were 2 starts. One for the slowies and one for the fasties. Marg decided she would do the early start. I fancied it, but my ego hasn't quite deflated sufficiently.  The event, a 7 miler around the Falkland Estate in Fife is an adventure through Scots Pine, heather moorland and forestry gravel paths. This year,  Ian had even put on a bit of snow at the top of the hill to spice things up. Hill races are a little thin on the ground in Scotland in January. This event was oversubscribed, but we were in. 

The race HQ this year was at the Covenanters Hotel. Warm toilets provided and a small crowd. Very civilised. We got our numbers and said goodbye to Marg as she set off. I warmed up by running back to the car and then back to the start. The clothing choice was 2 layers, hat, woollen gloves and the i-rocs. Around 60 or so set off in the second group. After around 200 metres I was passed by Adrian from the Lomies. He looked comfortable and was in my age group, so I took my cue and tucked in behind him. And there I sat.  For 3 miles. We passed a few in front of us. He passed them; I passed them. I was attached like a limpet. He's a better runner than me, but I was up for a challenge. As I sat there, I fully expected to have to sit in for the whole race and take my chances in the sprint at the end. However, just as we ascended the second climb, he slowed. I assumed that he wanted me to take the lead, and I did, but he didn't follow and, not looking back, I ploughed on without any idea where he was. I finished in just under the hour. First V60 and 30 notes. Ego intact. Very nice. 

We caught up for a chat in the hotel afterwards and had a good natter. This is an ace race, and no wonder its in demand. The Youngster took another chunk out of her course record, which was impressive, and Marg enjoyed herself, so a good day all round. Thanks to Peter Bracegirdle for the excellent photographs.

DribbleValley 10k

I had a very pleasant Christmas, Thank you. Pressies all over the shop. Including a crisp pair of bamboo socks. Turquoise in colour. 

I indulged somewhat, as you do, but with the Ribble Valley 10k creeping over the horizon, I didn't overdo it.  

Sunday duly arrived and we were off sharpish, making our way down past Skipton and Gisburn to Clitheroe. I had planned to try and crack 40 mins for 10 kilometres before the end of the year and I identified this race as the likely vehicle for my attempt at this lung busting, misguided feat of endurance. The course had a reputation for fast times and a stellar field, so surely I could do something there. Anyway, as it was, I ran sub40 last month at Heaton, so the trip to Lancashire's best known 10k was a no-pressure event. Supposedly. Fifty quid in diesel and a 6am start said otherwise.

Speedy and Ant were in attendance and arriving in good time, we parked up around half a mile up the road from the race HQ. The toilets were clean when I paid a visit which was nice. The field of around 1200 were soon in evidence, the closed roads and abundance of weaving athletes warming up causing some mild road rage among the locals. As the field assembled at the start I began making may way toward the front of the crowd. However, I met clubmate Rob coming back from the front and we chatted before the off. I thought there were about 100 or so ahead of me, but as the gun went bang, it took me around half a minute to get over the line; we were still jogging/shuffling after a minute or so. There was no room to get round, the pavement was busy with punters and I realised I had made a fundamental mistake. As we descended into a dip and over the bridge, I caught sight of the field ahead, a mass of humanity in running vests climbing the drag in front. There must have been around five or six hundred in front. It took well over a mile to find some space to settle into my pace. The first mile over the snaking country roads was in excess of 7 minutes, the second a shade below that. There was a breeze ahead, but plenty of groups of runners to skip between as I worked away and I certainly had my work cut out.

I caught sight of Rob around 20 seconds ahead and thought he must have had a similarly baulked start. 

After halfway, I was waiting for the long slow downhill, but it never materialised. It was like running in Cumbria - short descents and short rises. I missed the 9k marker and was pleased to find myself on the finishing straight. I crossed the line, glancing at the digital clock at the side. 41minutes. Pants. My last 4 miles had averaged 6.26's/mile, But I had paid for the poor start. As I lay on a low wall by the side of the road wiping the slaver off my face and trying to recover, I mused that I had lost perhaps 40 seconds or so fannying about early doors. No matter. It was a decent 10k that, perhaps next time, should have an A and B race. My turquoise socks hadn't done it for me this time around. Even though I thought I'd worked them off.

Speedy delivered a 37 minuter, so not a disaster, but it was evident that we hadn't perhaps responded well to the course, our expectations had been a little high and the wind wasn't kind to us. 

We repaired to the car and made a quick getaway, stopping at the Gisburn Cafe and Deli for coffee and tasty warmed buttered scones. 

Meanwhile, back home, there's plenty of washing to do and I've just hung a load of washing out on the line. But a bit of bad news. Only one turquoise sock made it out of the washing machine. I suspect there is a hub of borrower sized sock freedom fighters around here and the close knit highly trained network spirits away socks to who-knows-where at any opportunity. Its either that, or its the old urban myth; that socks in a washing machine induced swirl can create their own black hole. What an enigma.

On the Book Report: Carl Hiaasens 'Skin Tight' was very good. Its my first foray into the world of Inspector McAdam in Last Man Standing by Dalgleish. Wonder if his socks disappear        

  

  

Irvine no more

Car trouble this week. The car itself was fine. It would have passed its MOT if it hadn't been for the fiendish array of fancy sensors that it carries. They failed. Its gonna be an arm and a leg again. Ouch. kerching. 

The immediate upshot of this, however, was that the Volvo team bus was grounded and I had to scrounge another car for the weekend trip to the West Coast. We had put our names down for the West of Scotland Cross Country on the Saturday at Erskine. This was followed by the Scottish National Cyclo-Cross Championships on Sunday to be held at Irvine. The borrowed car was, lets just say, 'modest', in the room department. We could fit 4 adults in. We could fit their bags and shoes in. We could even fit in the 2 dogs. However, there was no room for the cross bike or associated fittings, spare wheels and associated paraphernalia. Not, that is, without buying a roof rack. On the basis that I wasn't ever going to be in the top half of the field at the 'cross it wasn't such a big deal. A loss of twenty five notes. We still had the accommodation booked for the Saturday night in Irvine, not to mention an evening meal booked at the Ship (so I won't mention that). The Harbourside in the old town is surprisingly Bohemian; well, OK, some places might have visions of grandeur, but that's not a bad thing if it pulls the rest of the place up.  

The Saturday trip up the M74 was only punctuated by a tea and scone stop at the Warwick Bridge Cafe. We arrived without drama at Erskine and parked up. The junior races were in full swing. It was strangely mild which was a bonus. Cat cleared off to get her number and warmed up. I wandered around with M and the dog, all of us stretching our legs. It looked a good course. Last year at Strathaven I had to pull out around halfway due to a tightening calf. This year I had my eye on an adversary in the same age group.  Cat was offski and I warmed up shouting encouragement. She finished 5th and had to work hard for it. 

I lined up with shorts, vest and spikes. I was near the front. Start as you mean to go on. After the gun, I settled into the middle of the lengthening pack. There was no sign of the target for the day, so I ploughed on ahead. It was a three lapper, 7.5k affair. 

Come the start of the second lap I was caught and passed by an old bloke. He didn't seem to be breathing hard, but I was certain he was in my age group. I stuck with him for the second lap, but the string snapped at the start of the 3rd and final lap and he drifted off ahead, but not very far ahead. I tucked in behind a tall young Ayr bloke and he towed me to the line. I was done in. Full gas and the bottle had been emptied; the gas purged. 

After catching my breath, I jogged back to the tent. The wind was picking up and it was time to change and make for the car. I said my goodbyes to the good folk at the Bella club and we took off, getting down the road to Irvine. The results service these days is pretty amazing what with live results and all. Not so long ago it could take days before a pdf or excel sheet of results appeared somewhere on the web. Turns out I was 1st M60 and the old bloke who passed me, whom I was sure was even older than me, was, in fact, quite a bit younger. Really? Well, blow me down with a feather. Nice to get a result, even if the competition wasn't all there. Then again, neither am I.

It was a slap up feed at the Ship and bed before 9pm. Cat took me on a splendid 9 miler on the Sunday Morning and we had a nice brunch at Go - also on the harbourside. All good. Thanks to A & M for the foties and support.

There's still time to do a couple of crosses. I finished one last weekend at Hetton Lyons and it was as daft and as good fun as I recall.

Gladiator too

Its been a fortnight since the Heaton Memorial 10k, a 2-lapper held in Heaton Park. When the wind behaves itself, its a decent course and has seen a handful of sub-30's in its long history. I'm doing in preparation for the Ribble Valley 10k late in December.

I did Heaton last year without commitment. Why? Because running performance depends on a number of key factors. Fitness is obviously one. Another one of these is psychological state. The third is 'where you are in your life and whats going on'. Factors 2 and 3 are closely linked, Factor 2 depending very much on Factor 3, unless you can separate your axons from your neurons and park your cerebrum well away from your cerebellum. Diet...that's another. 

Last year I was happy to finish and trotted in with a 41 minute effort. Although I cannot really recall it too vividly, I can read about it on my blog (runnerwanderings.blogspot.com/2023/12/winter-training-camp-23). Marvelous. 

This year, I was tentatively hoping to slide in a 40 minuter. The conditions were good and I had been super happy with Tinto a fortnight earlier (see earlier blog also!). I parked up and met A&C at race HQ - they had jogged the 14 miles in from 'Peth for a Sunday run and I had their change of clothing. 

I jogged abit before the start with Gav B and hid myself in the crowd at the start. The first lap was pretty good and I took it steady, working my way up slowly through the field and passing a few I recognised. There was a North Shields who looked my age and he was around 20 seconds ahead. However, I played it canny and as one or two came past me, I rode their wave and tucked in as best I could. Shameless, I know.

The second lap arrived and I sat in behind a strong looking Saltwell youngster. There was little wind, but I studiously avoided what there was of it. We caught the North Shields guy, who strangely began a little weave, trying to shake me. He should have known better. I wasn't waiting for him; I was with my new Saltwell buddy aka Windshield Willy. He dragged me all the way to the finish line and a 39:30. Deep joy. That's all I have for you today. 

Today's cross country has been cancelled due to everyone frightening themselves about possible insurance claims, parking problems and athlete well-being. I would too, if I was an organiser. So, instead, we have had to entertain ourselves with watching the Liverpool XC on youtube and going for a jog around the woods. We were going to see Gladiator 2, but strangely the movies were full.  I knew a man once who said, “Death smiles at us all. All a man can do is smile back." A toothless one, in my case. 

On the reading front I finished Robert Harris's Act of Oblivion, plodded my way through the short novel The Geometer Lobachevsky by Adrian Duncan (mmmm..?), and I am now immersed in Carl Hiansen's 'Skin Tight'...ooh, sounds a bit racy! (unlike me).

'Tinto:Tell them about the Honey, Mommy'

I was keen to do Tinto this year; maybe finish the season with a flourish? 

I've always considered this the final major hill race of the Scottish Season; After Manor Water (see previous Blog) I wanted to test myself on something shorter and sharper. There is probably not a faster more intense descent than Tinto. A big lump of rock nestled close to Biggar, its a 2 mile up and 2 mile down affair with 1500ft of ascent. 

The on-line entry had swelled to over 250 when entries closed and there was a formidable M60 entry. I joked to Speedy and A. as we drove up the M74 that I would be doing well to get into the top 5. We arrived in good time and after some shenanigans with the entry system computer, I got my number and jogged the mile or so to the start. Speedy had asked about the course, and, from memory, I said it was all gravel and should suit her. 

Around 200 lined up. I had taken off a layer last minute and it was mild and dry, albeit a little grey at the foot of the hill. We cracked on to the first and only obstacle, a fence and narrow gate after 500 yards and soon everyone was vaulting over, being careful to avoid the string of fresh barbed wire the landowner had strung along the top of the wood. Nice touch.

Predictably, I had Carnethys Gilmore in my sights once more and without any planning, we came together as the field thinned. I sat on his heels, staying close for the first mile, covered in 11 minutes. The second mile was steeper and slower and he just got further and further ahead, so, instead, I concentrated on trying not to let too many get by me. I was tucked in trying to get some shelter behind a young guy, but eventually I moved ahead.

Soon the faster runners were careering down past us and I was hopeful we were nearing the top, the low cloud shrouding the Trig point and marshall. I could smell the turn. Speedy came past going downhill after about 20 runners shadowed closely by 2 Shettleston vests. I shouted encouragement. Des Crowe came past, descending, and was a good minute or two ahead of me. He looked determined. 

This was damage limitation. I think Pippa Dakin passed me near the top, but frankly, there were that many Carnethy vests coming and going, it was difficult to guess who was who. 

We got to the top and rounded the Trig point and off I went, lighting the after-burners. It was full gas all the way down. I had to change gear and shorten my stride two or three times when the route crossed patches of reedy grass and mud, but I wasn't taking prisoners and passed 4 or 5 runners carving out a 7 minute mile followed by a 6 minute mile. I regret to say that I nearly had to manhandle one chap out of the way, and I apologised as I passed, but he wasn't the strongest descender and I was on a mission. No time to spend dawdling. Harsh, I know.

Toward the bottom I could see my Carnethy target, and while I was cutting into his lead, it was just too little, too late and I collapsed in a heap over the line in 42 minutes, and 20 seconds behind him. 53rd or something overall. A bloke landed beside me immediately afterwards and spewed his fruity sports drink mixture across the grass. Charming, I'm sure. I was evidently not alone in giving it 110%. 

All was not lost, however. Lomond's Davis crossed the line just after me, as did the M60 bloke from Hartfell. It was a right wee charabanc of crusties to be sure. Looking at the results later, it turned out that Stewart Whitlie was also just behind me. Crikey.

We were treated to pies, cakes and soup after the race. I was chuffed and surprised to hear my name at the tea and medals ceremony. I accepted my prize, a pot of Galloway honey for 3rd M60. I was, however, mincing and wincing slowly around the car park, the soles of my feet were on fire and my big toe-nail was in some sort of private torment. 

It was a quiet drive back home, before a quick dip and trip to the pub. Speedy was 2nd and I had to accept some liability for omitting in my earlier description that there was patches of grass and mud up-top; She should have gone with the I-Rocs. I didn't recall any grass when I did the event 5 years ago. No matter, we'll know next time. 

Twenty four hours later and I am still hobbling and bathing the hobbit feet in saltwater and dettol. All worth it, of course. Thanks to Ant&giz. for the photos and support. Thanks also to the marshalls, the production team and my dance coach without whom all this would not be possible!