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! 

Capitulation at Manor Water Hill Race

I think I've ran the Manor Water Hill Race twice. I'm sure I could check if I was bothered. Certainly, I recall arriving late one time and seeing the back of the pack disappear over the ridge. 

My abiding memory of this race is of a 'moor' run, a long ascent, a nice long descent and spending an inordinate amount of time during both trying to find good ground dodging around patches of peaty mud, mats of rushy grass and mattresses of spongy sphagnum. 

 This time, as we drove up past Gala, we were hampered by axes of foreign lorries, shuffling grimbles in their old cars and regiments of horsey people and their steeds on the road. I swear that the many sets of temporary traffic lights were slung off the wagon the night before to slow us down. It took us over two hours to get to Kirkton Manor up by Peebles and a wee bit longer to find the new race HQ. 

They parked us in a field, which, in my book, is a recipe for trouble when the claggs in, and the rain is out. 

We had our kit checked and I remarked how thin the field was. There were 60 pre-entered. The pre-race count made it 49. or was that 46? In the M60 category Gilmore from Carnethy was there. He's had a good season and I had my work cut out for me on this 9.3 mile, 2000ft affair. I also spied Plummer from Hartfell who is also handy. I've had a passable one and my weights dropping, so it could be interesting. 

There had been some rain an hour before and the sky promised more at any time. But the sun made an appearance at the pre-race briefing. We were advised to 'stick close to the wall and fence'. Its an out and back affair. 'Not too much of a navigational challenge' I mused.

I had had a decent breakfast of porridge and a banana in the car, but little else. I bumped knuckles with Speedy and off we went. We kicked off up along the path and within five hundred yards I was already falling behind Gilmore. Not a great start. I sat in with two younger runners as we turned left and began the ascent proper and stuck to my task for a mile or two. But Gilmore, who like me, slowed to a walk on the ascents, began a slow advance. My wee posse split and I invited myself out the back. It was a slow death. Death by slog. Grassy, boggy slog. I counted 40 seconds at the next feature as I ran-walked. I entertained myself with thoughts of a death defying descent after the turn to snatch V60 victory. But I was deluded. In the low sun, all I could see were disappearing silhouettes making their way up and over the difficult boggy ground.

I spent the third and fourth mile alone in the wind, picking my way through the sinuous field of broken dry heather roots, a brittle forest of calf high jagged sticks that had been exposed by a farmers hedge cutter. They stuck up just high enough to force everyone to lift their legs just that little bit higher with every step. I adopted a 10 second walk, 10 second run strategy to keep my sanity. This seemed to work for a while as I overtook the runner ahead. But, like a kid in a car, all I could hear in my mind was 'are we nearly there, yet?'

Near the turn, at a hill top called 'The Scrape', the runners in front started to come back down and with the path being so narrow, I was nearly mashed twice by the faster path-huggers descending at speed. Speedy looked relaxed as she passed me and shortly after the tall Carnethy vet came past with 3 or 4 behind him. I realised the game was up. To add insult to injury, it had began to hail at the top. Horizontal hail. We love that shit. The lone marshall at the top must have been brassicks and I thanked him. Upon turning, I realised that there were about 10 runners within a minute of me and quite the coachload.  Better get my skates on.

I wish I could tell you that I careered downhill like a runaway juggernaut, but I lost a place immediately to the lad I had passed near the top and he made effective use of gravity. After 7 miles I realised that I was slowing badly. At 8 miles I wasn't even sure I was going the right way. I seemed to have been running downhill for a long time. The landscape was unfamiliar. There was no one is sight. All the hills ahead looked the same. 

I glanced back and saw that I was about to be overhauled by a women runner. As she glided past, she gave me some encouragement; which was nice. 

She was descending with some certainty. I tried to up my game, but my body was an empty larder. I had become a shuffling grimble. The reserves had gone and the last packet of biscuits had been snaffled. I was running on empty. Low blood sugar is a bummer. You begin to feel a bit light headed and I was going all daffy duck. I was completely daffy ducked.

We turned right and passed the last marshall. I had already fallen about 20 seconds behind the young lady. It was back along the gravel path, pockmarked with cattle hooves. More rain. More puddles. Would this ever end?  With four hundred to go, I looked back and saw Hartfell bloke tracking me. I could feel his laser eyes. That was just enough of a 'kick up the erse' I needed to find the last vestige of a spark and I just got to the line before another place was lost.  

The hail had returned and it was blowing a hooly outside the finish tent. All I could think about was getting a pie from Greggs. Saddo. That, and managing to get the car out of the wet field. Depriving Speedy of her moment of glory at the presentation, we left immediately to run along the wet road to the field to retrieve the car. Thankfully we got it out onto the road. Relief. Speedy remarked that she had begun to get concerned at how long it was taking for me to get to the finish. 

During my laboured descent, it had dawned on me that this sort of affair was a great long grassy slog, like Sedbergh in many ways and that my short fast-twitch muscles were lost on these type of affairs. They are designed for something more dynamic, like the sharp twisty turns of a rocky Goatfell or Lomond. Maybe I should stick to that type of course. 

We made it to Greggs in Peebles. I am ashamed to admit to succumbing to greasy pie and tea. Shortly afterwards, I couldn't stop myself turning right at the Metropolis that is Galashiels for a box of salty chips and a hamburger smelling of fish at McDonalds. No wonder I can't get up the hills!                   

Pacey at Thropton & Blyth

I was fair delighted with my parkrun a fortnight ago. I don't like to commit before I have to, but when I awoke on the Saturday, there wasnt a breath of wind and the sun was stretching. I dug out the fancy trainers and headphones and took off to Blyth. I had enjoyed the Thropton Show Race near Rothbury the weekend before and wanted to check my form. I havent been sub-20 for 2 years, though I've got close a couple of times. 

At Thropton, there were the usual suspects. No McCall, but I did see the Murray of Teviotdale. He got the better of me at Eildon, and I thought, what with this being my local training hill-range, I fancied my chances. 

I skulked away at the back of the pack as the organiser said whatever they say, and we were piped out by the wee band. For some odd reason, I ended up in front of Teviot man as we left the show field and my presence was no longer a surprise.  More skulking practice required. I shouldn't have been too concerned, however, as the bridge and road began to rise after a mile, I pulled away and latched onto 2 leggy types who, being larger, were making comparatively slow work of the hill. At the top of the crag I got away from one, the other took a better line through the heather and it took me a mile to catch him. As we came out of the forest, a NFR runner appeared from nowhere 80 yards ahead  - he had clearly taken a short-cut. Somewhat irked, I encouraged my running buddy to speed up, but he mumbled that he was tired. 'So is the guy in front', I yelled, and tried to appeal to his sense of justice. He had ran out of juice tho.

I cracked on, weaving through the gorse and got the farmhouse road turning at Tosson where suddenly there were 4 in front. It turned out that 3 had taken a wrong turn and had only just got back on the course. The last mile is across a field and along the river, then across another field, down the road and back into the showfield, and with no-one around me, I could have jogged in, but I still beat myself up like a dolt. It was a good run and I'd enjoyed it. 

Speedy did well and was 3rd behind Mens winner Nick Swinburn. Teviot man came back a few minutes later after I'd finished - he said he'd lost his mojo recently and couldn't find top gear. We've all been there.  No prize other than a shared tray of 4 quid chips - its not a good show unless you're getting mercilessly fleeced for hot food. 

Anyway, I digress. Last Saturday. Blyth. All I needed was a pacer and low and behold, there was a 20 minute pacer present with a 20 in big numerals on his bib. Around 400 lined up. 

After the start around 6 were close to Pacer Chris, including me and a leggy 14 year old. He cranked out a good first 2km, then apologised for going a little fast and slowed, at which point I felt better. After 3km, there was only the youngster and me clinging to him like flailing limpets. At 4km he started talking again but my brain was in neutral and the frothy slaaver was coming out of the mouth as the lung department struggled.  I wanted to slow, but my head said no. My headphones made me look like some hate figure out of Doctor Who.

With 400m to go he peeled off and the young lady launched herself. This was fine as the final bit is flat and it gave me a new target and I crossed the line in 19.29 - Wowza; chicken dinner. With that in the back pocket, I've put my name down for the Ribble Valley 10k in December - supposed to be a flat course. 

In the meantime, its back to normal with a run out this weekend at Manor Water. It'll be boggy, given the blidy weather over the last 2 days, but that's showbiz.

    

Giants Causeway Trail Half Marathon

Well, as I sit nursing the gap in my gum that used to house my favourite molar, I have time to reflect on last weekends activity. The tooth extraction should have happened last Tuesday, but the dentist checked my running schedule and postponed the delight. Armed with that news, I positively bounced out the door feeling like I'd won the pools and treated myself to chips and curry sauce. Oh yes, I know a celebration when I see one. The postponement was chiefly down to our trip to Portrush at the north end of Northern Ireland to take part in the Giants Causeway off-road half marathon (https://www.26extreme.com/take-part/causeway-coast-marathon-events2024/) . Originally, I had planned to do a European event this year, but with one thing and another, this was as far as I had got. 

The flights from Newcastle to Belfast were a tenner each, but with baggage of more than a snuff-box in size, it was gonna cost twenty grand for Me and Marg. The ferry was an extra ton, but offered us more flexibility, albeit that we would have to suffer the A75 to Stranraer. Twice.  Speedy decided to come along and also dipped her hand into her pocket for fifty notes for the entry - I know, pretty steep. That's the price of running tourism, however. 

We arrived at the ferry port with 15 minutes to spare, the A75 having been shut for a 2 lorry smash. It was plain sailing to Belfast and a quick getaway to Portrush, only an hours drive up the dual carriageway. We were in our digs by six and had time for a jog around the town. The Friday saw us out for a longer run then brunch and Bert n' Bobs in Port Stewart. We nipped across to Coleraine around lunchtime for a poke around and coffee and returned later in the afternoon to Portrush for a pint in the toetie Harbour Bar, moving to the back room with the fire on and 4 tables occupied in a room no bigger than your kitchen. Class. I could have stayed there all evening. The promise of pasta and apple tart beckoned though, and it was an early night as the wind began to pick up.  

The Causeway Events include an Ultra, a Marathon, a Half and a 10k. The aim is to set them off at staggered times so that everyone crosses the line at around 3-4pm. We saw the 100 or so Ultra-runners first thing running along the promenade having left Port Stewart at 7am. The weather was blustery but mild. Speedy said it was warm. 

We took the car to Portballintrae and after a coffee in the Bayview Hotel (nice toilets; recommended), we jogged down to the race HQ where the 8 double deckers were waiting for the 400 or so half marathoners (21k for you metric types). There were plenty of tourists, but mostly irish runners. We were bussed to Balintoy. As the buses arrived and spewed their eager cargo onto the cliffs, the faces of the folk who were set to leave the place fell and they were stuck for 15 minutes. 

The coastline here is mega. Its where some of Game of Thrones was filmed. The Iron Islands, I am reliably informed. 

Soon enough we were off. The route follows the coastline and there were early stretches of sandy beach, a small seaweed covered boulder field under the cliffs and some narrow gravel and grassy paths that hugged the cliff edge. The field began to thin and I was making some progress, feeling too warm as the wind eased and the sun emerged from behind the clouds. I stopped too often to snap and video the route with Marg's go-pro. However, there was an old gadgie ahead and I didn't want to lose him. After 3 miles I passed him and fell in with a wee group ahead. However, the ability needed to take short drops and rises at speed seemed to be lacking with many and I cracked on, dropping in then behind a tall leggy bloke who looked like Andy Murray, at least from behind. He set a good steady pace.

At the 6 mile mark, we encountered the 10k runners who had just started. There were significant bottle necks in places with kissing gates and styles, but I had decided early on that it was best just to crack on, so I ditched etiquette as I hurdled fences and gingerly eased my tackle over barbed wire where it was ready to pounce. I lost Andy Murray in the melee. 

I began to feel tired around 10 miles. However, with plenty of bodies ahead and the nuances of the course to deal with, I had little time to think about fatigue and before I knew it, I was on the beach and down the gravel to the finish.  It was 20th for me and a pretty good result that means nothing to nobody. No world cup points here. Speedy managed a win against some very handy runners and finished 6th. Marg worked hard to come in a little later and we repaired to Larne for a slap up feed and a good nights kip. 

Sunday morning was a jog up the Antrim Coast in the early morning sunshine. Excellent work all. 

 

Border & Bridges Triathlon

Some time ago my cousin challenged me to a triathlon. Being in a jovial and lubricated mood, I was happy to thrust out my hand and accept. I thought he'd forgotten all about this, but last week he appeared out of the foggy abyss that's Whats-up and said he'd entered a half ironman in Shropshire. Its not until June next year.

Now, you should understand that I have never taken part in a Triathlon. True, I had a short lived duathlon career when I took part in the Morpeth Duathlon 10 years ago and took 2nd M50 place, which was nice. I also qualified for the World Age group thingy, but I had no intention of trying to repeat the run-bike-run affair in a tropical climate with strange food and insects with compound swiveling eyes and unknown intentions. 

Mulling over the Shropshire event and whether I actually, seriously, had the will to do a long swim-bike-run which would take around 6 hours or so, I thought that I should try a short event, at least, to see how my swimming has come on. 

I dusted off the time trial bike and spent 52 greenbacks on the entry for the Borders and Bridges Sprint Tri. I also paid eight quid for a day licence. The Tri', comprising a 500m swim, 22km bike and 5.7km run was centred on Berwick Leisure Centre. There were around 70 entrants and I guessed it would be worth a look. I know parts of the area quite well and knew that the bike course and run course weren't flat. 

I was up and about at 5.45am. Soon me and a eager band of groupies were off up the road at 6.30am. It was a grey still day, but not cold. Arriving at race HQ there was a distinct lack of shopper bike, mountain bike or anything that looked like it had previously belonged to Dorothy out of the Wizard of Oz, or for that matter, the wicked witch of the east. The competitors all looked pretty geared up. 

At the sign on, I was asked for my Licence. Apparently it was an attachment to the email from entry-central. Who knew? So Speedy had to liaise with Lornie back home to find passwords and what not. What a chew on. Anyway, I got in and got togged up. I had brought the naff bike pump so I had to make knew friends and scrounge a pump and fresh air for the tyres. After the briefing, I asked where my coloured cap for the swim was to be found. The marshall said it was in my bag that I received at the sign on. The bag was back in the car. So with 5 minutes before the swim I had to jog to the car to retrieve my white cap - I could have just tippexed my head, I guess - same effect. 

We had 5 or 6 in a lane and I was last off. I was concerned that I might be too slow for my fellow swimmers, but I need not have worried. The pace was all over the place. According to a source the duffers all go first, so that's good to know. I was out after 11 minutes and then spent nearly 3 minutes waving to the crowd and meeting and greeting at T1 (transition 1). Someone commented that this could be the most laid back transition they'd seen and I thought I'd better get a shifty on. 

Once on the bike I knew the routine and having been hardly on the bike in a good wee while, I had to apply myself. I was, however, positively looking forward to the steepish climb out of the Chainbridge and caught 2 riders at this point. The three of us jockeyed back and forth until the end when I pulled out some time on a short clip and arrived ahead, back at base. Taking just over the minute for my T2, I was off and gone down into Berwick where Speedy was just finishing her training session. The last kilometre was a slog back up the hill, but I crossed the line with no dramas other than a mild heave, which, by know I have come to expect when I'm in the red.  

Pleased to have finished in 24th spot and 1st vintage (whatever that means?). While I sort of enjoyed the new challenge and was pleased with the swim, I wasn't won over by the sport. If I do another it will also be a short distance sprint affair. However, no complaints to the organisers or marshalls - there's a lot of coming and going in one of these events. My brain and bod are frazzled.