Blubber Snojoke

Here's me, kicking back on a grey Sunday morning with a hard fought 40 miles in the jogging bank for the week and, according to Strava, 6000ft of climbing. This all sounds very laudable and could be the bold statement of an athlete, but that would be to delude yourself. The youngster took me to Blencathra yesterday and ascending that particular piece of magisterial Lake District nobility, the sweat was pouring off me. First, the gilet came off, then the t-shirt. Bare skin. Not a pretty sight. Even the horse flies were slipping off as they tried to cling to my clammy blubber, their bladed gob-scissors failing to find any purchase. From the look of some of the walkers I passed, some wondered where my carer was. So did I.

I have been pretty good in the last few weeks trying to live the life of the emaciated, but the body is proving a tenacious customer. Truly resilient at holding onto what it took 3 months to accumulate when I was laid-off. 

A flat park run last weekend delivered a slow 21, which was acceptable, but the struggle is real. Apparently, these weight loss injections result in you entertaining a meal, but then pushing the plate away after a couple of mouthfuls. I, myself, am living, what I imagine is an 'oozempic-lite' type experience: playing with my fork, eyeing up the warm chicken and rice, or bacon and eggs in front of me. Modest portions. Small plate. Sometimes only armed with a tea-spoon. I delicately slip my utensil into the side of the meal with surgeon stealth. I lift the fork up and take a mouthful. I slowly chew, even closing my eyes, sometimes, to make it last, to maximise the taste sensation. But, to date, I don't seem to be getting the semaglutide sweat, the rapid urge to reject whats on the plate. What the eff is wrong with me (I shouldn't tell you about stopping at Sallys Cafe at Warwick Bridge after the run for a baked potato and scone, or the visit to a local hostelry for a surreptitious pint of ale, but bear with me!).

With the Ben Nevis 'race' on the horizon, my new concern is trying to avoid being timed out.  If so, I comfort myself with the thought that, at least, I could float slowly down the Red Burn.  

I had threatened a fortnight ago or so to chart my progress, but it hasn't merited anything more than a slow shake of the head and disapproving pursing of the lips. I am aware that the increased mileage has resulted in a general fatigue and my mobility is still affected by a periodic achey back. On the positive side, and god knows there has to be one, my foots now back in full service and that, at least, is appreciated. Sorry, this blog entry is so short, but I've hired myself out as a bouncy castle to a kids party round the corner and some folk have come round to carry me there.     

 

Go Forth

Well, we're into August already. The summer continues to be dry and I am pleased to report progress on the running scene and, on more than one front. Double bubble.

I clocked up nearly 30 miles last week. Granted, they were delivered in a shilly-shallying, loafing gut-bouncing dribble, but this exertion has had a second benefit. One of weight reduction. My weights now  plummeted from 71kg to 69.8kg, measured after today's sweaty 6 miler through the woods and before lunch. Ok, I accept its probably all water and not much in a week, but looked at optimistically, I could be back to a diminutive 65 kg in 6 weeks time and, by then, if things continue, I'll be feeling much more like I did in April before my fifth meta-tarsal decided to split on me.  You've heard of the carnivore diet? well, I'm on the carnival diet which involves making an exhibition of yourself. arf, arf.  I can almost get the buttons on my breeks fastened. After 2 weeks at the local Parkrun, I'll be looking for another 4% improvement in time this weekend, unless I go off and do some off-road malarkey.  

I've been considering running in Italy or in the Alps somewhere later this year and, at least, in Italy, it's all a little involved. You need to get a Runcard and a medical certificate. Not the case in Switzerland. What a faff. There's a whole world of road and off-road races to run and I need to be getting out a bit more before the formal arrival of decrepitude and senility, both of which are lingering with quiet menace on the fringes of my future plans. 

When checking my surname on the world trail running association website (https://itra.run), not to be mixed up with (https://www.wmra.info) for mountain running and which is different again, there's boatloads of Mac's with the same surname, and almost all of whom I have never heard of. 

None of the hundreds of races will ever appear on Power of 10. Its evident that there is a whole other parallel world of ultra and trail running out there which you're average club running Joe never encounters.  Close scrutiny suggests that the minimum credible distance is 21k, but several races take place over what I consider to be bonkers distances. 

Bless Me, Father...

 A bird and reeds

Well, its been around a month since my last update. I realise that you've been unable to restrain yourselves, checking every other day for some thin sliver of news, a driblet of reportage about the ongoing health issues of an ageing runner. 

The good news was that, by early July, my broken foot was mostly sorted and I started out on the bike, one day 18 miles, the second day 25, the third 30. Nice and flat and steeady away.

All was going well until a fortnight ago, when I decided to do 45 miles, but not on the flat. My chosen route was a pretty taxing hilly affair that took me to Rothbury, the Dunkeld of the Cheviots. 

I stopped halfway for a coffee and lemon drizzle and watched the cyclists who were riding the 'Cyclone', a Sportive that winds its way around the southern hills of Northumberland. It was a non-descript sort of day, weatherwise, and I began to make my way back catching 'puffing billys' up the hills. Clearly, my lumber regions hadn't had the memo and the bottom of my back began to tighten toward the end of the ride. Next morning I was a crippled mess. Steptoe with sciatica. 'Harold!'. When folk tell you they've got a bad back, it can be a 1 or a 9 on the pain scale. You listen and it doesnt mean much. Regrettably mine was a nine. I postponed my work related trip to the Hampshire, where, apparently, my services were in demand and I minced about in the most gingerly fashion, a doleful display of pain induced histrionics around the house for a week. Sleep was a struggle. 

The receipt of a back support belt, a simplified corset for thirty five notes, was an immediate hit and I wore it for the second week. Progress was made in Hampshire. 

Into week 3 of Backgate and things are on the up, but the pace of recovery has been glacial. On the positive side, its given my foot an extra fortnight of no stress and, as of today, I've knocked out a rather modest 6 miles since Monday.  

I haven't dared to weigh myself yet, and might wait till the weekend and put up a chart. I like a good chart. Gives me something to do, in a sad way.

Two runners flogging themselves up a welsh hill

I did manage to hike up Snowdon last weekend as the youngster was running for the third time and it was lovely to get back out and up a Mountain for the first time in nigh on 3 months. 

In the meantime, I bought a long lens for the camera to see if I could improve my sports photography. It was a cheap Chinese affair and using it manually will take some getting used to. However, it might offer the chance of providing a few options for some different snaps, rather than using the usual lense.    

Hello...This is Brian..

Sat here wearing a cheap pair of scratched reading glasses with only one arm,  the bridge balanced precariously halfway down my nose, I am pleased to report Progress with a capital 'P'. 'Most excellent' as Bill and Ted would say. 

Having spent everyday at the gym for the last month, my expanding shoulders and chest developed a label overnight which read 'do not inflate to more than 100psi'. Yes, I was becoming an inverted weeble. Its true for each hour I spent in the place a good fraction was leg work, but not being able to load your foot is a bummer and I was losing my neck to 16kg dumbells. 

I can now walk without a hobble and while there's no running on the horizon quite yet, I've been out on the bike for 3 consecutive days, and blidy windy it has been. 

Works been very quiet, but that's good practice for when I retire. I haven't felt too bad shilly-shallying. I've avoided planting myself in a dank corner and staring at the dusty phone, an apparatus that only used to ring with calls from some foreign exotic land; but now they don't even phone me. How I long for a flaky call from 'Brian' from 'Macrosoft' suggesting that there's a problem with my computer. 

It was the Eildon 3 Hills Race last weekend and we went up and had a good afternoon out.  I hope to be in one piece next year to run it. In the meantime, it'll be more biking, more distance punctuated with tea and cakes stops and a wee bit of elevation.  I should get back to the pool, but the weather is warm, so I like to be out and about. 

On the book front I found myself ditching John Banville's 'The Untouchables', a slow page turner that eventually slowed to a complete halt. I moved on rapidly to Denise Mina's 'Garnethill', only to find that I'd read it. Plonker. Thankfully it was a charity buy. Its now Val McDermids '1979' which is an easy read and allows me to wallow in a shallow and murky pond of nostalgia. All good. 

Blaydon Race 2025

Now that the surgical boot is off, I took a chance and moseyed into Newcastle last night with the camera. The light was poor, and there was a drizzle and breeze. Its always an issue where to stand, as the scenery is pants. The 5000 troopers managed to nail the 2025 Blaydon Race. It was a masterful display by Johnson of Gateshead, biding his time to strike just before the bridge. Sonia Samuels grafted for what was a comfortable win. Link to a few photos at the 4 mile mark here:

 Blaydon Race - batch 1 link : https://photos.app.goo.gl/xYv5ZSKxFBunfBKH9

 Blaydon Race - batch 2: https://photos.app.goo.gl/ySGhoA65jx7jwz2PA

 

 

 

 

 

Still Game in Das Boot

Howdy. My recovery from the broken bone in my foot is coming on a treat and I am getting quite adept at stomping down town in my ankle brace walker (or 'Darth Vader boot' as I like to refer to it as. Gives me a certain 'joie de vader' and looks ace when I've got my light sabre out)...I laugh like Methodone Mick out of Still Game....haar, haar. They are non returnable which is not good. However, I estimated their cost at rather more than the £30 they actually cost. I haven't even got a matching pair.

We took off up to the Ben Lomond Race 10 days ago. Speedy was driving (obvs) and, even though we arrived early, the car park was full to brimming and yet we, somehow, managed to shoe horn in the car between two fir trees near the car park exit. It was truly parking mayhem. You might know that the Ben Lomond car park is right at the end of a 'B' Class road and a dead end, so if you don't get parked there, you're in for a 5 mile drive back to Balmaha. The overflow car park was closed (although later we found out that with our heady connections and my dodgy foot, we could have got in there with bags of space.. next time!)

There was a field of around 90 for this sun drenched jamboree of a race up yon big hill. Half an hour before the start I hopped along up behind Missus Mac and Ant, like Winston, with my camera and we settled ourselves for the ascent. It was warming up nicely as the compact field came past us and then they were gone in a cloud of brown powdery dust and we settled down for the hours wait among the ferns. 

My stress levels began to ease the longer I was away from the car, but I could still feel all the exasperation drifting up in the sun motes from the hordes down below still trying to slide, wedge and jam their cars and camper vans into places where there were no spaces. 

Soon enough the leader came by, a strong looking Keswick runner well ahead of anyone else. Eventually, Speedy came by. She had a slight mince on, and I knew immediately what it meant. She had turned her ankle. No matter, she only had 800m to ginger along the forest track and she hung on for a wee win, her 2nd in 3 years on this Mountain. I hung around until most or all the folk had got down. There were a boatload of folk who would have gone off-course had I not shouted them, and I felt pretty righteous, I can tell you. Camera-man and marshal.  Is there no end to this blokes skill? I awarded myself with a cup of lentil soup at the race HQ.  Afterwards, we found out that the car hadn't been boxed in and, celebrating after an ice cream at Balmaha, we zipped home via Dalkeith for a lack-lustre fish supper. 

Linds also won her 10k race in Alnwick at the weekend just gone, so its been jolly fruitful.

I've been back to the gym this week for upper body workouts only. I am hoping to shed the boot in a week or so. I've just seen on a physio website that its only supposed to be worn for 2 or 3 hours a day....oops...I've been living in mine to such an extent that I got a new fitted kitchen in it last week and have sub-let the lower half to a small family of rodents. Oh well, mustn't grumble.    

More Photos at https://photos.app.goo.gl/cc3durVgEqLWmcTj8

 

A new home for orphaned socks

I attended the running club AGM the other week. As 30 of us squeezed into the old wooden running club, now shared with the next door rugby club, the top table were telling us how good it would be to boost club funds. After I left, I thought I could contribute somehow, so I sought out some new off-road routes in the wider area for a possible series of future trail races.  I had been to Newbiggin the week before and found a perfectly formed course based around the golf course and beach. Parking and facilities are, of course, prerequisites for such events. 

The following weekend, I took a closer look at the popular country park near me called Plessey Woods. There looked like there were a network of paths that might add up to a 4 or 5 mile route. 

So it was that I rocked up to the park on the Saturday with my asics trail shoes. It was busy, but there was parking for 100 cars or more, an overflow car park and a mix of woody trails and wider open gravel paths along the river. Ideal. 

I jogged my way up to the far end of the estate. The wild garlic and hawthorn were in full bloom forming a tight corridor for the route along a right of way. The sun was up and it was warm and a little muggy. Not a breath of wind. As I ran back on the return, I was plugged into Simple Minds and, as I ran, I was taking in the shape and layout of the terrain ahead. I wasn't, however, taking much notice of the ground immediately beneath my feet and, as I ran across a shallow depression, I went over on my ankle and as I dropped, I heard the crack of a twig break. 

I lay on the ground and knew there was some serious damage in my left foot. After catching my breath, I knew I'd better get back to the car before the ankle came up too much precluding shoe removal. I hobbled the remaining mile or so to the car park, got home and iced the offending and swollen joints.  

Some days later, after little improvement and a whole lot of bruising, I took myself to the hospital and after 20 minutes, I was on my way out with a diagnosed broken foot, nestled snugly in a darth vader boot. With a minimum 6 week recovery period, it looks like I might have to find an alternative means of entertaining myself. So that's Lomond and Goatfell out the window and half of June. However, I have found a new life for all those single orphaned socks. I'm pretty sanguine about the whole affair. Its just life. 

In recent weeks I've finished Ernest Hemingway's 'Snows of Kilimanjaro' and Adrian Tchaikovsky's 'Children of Time'. The former was a collection of bleak, rather desolate stories. Thankfully a short book. However, Adrian's effort was a top drawer sci-fi adventure and suitably absorbing.  I've returned to George MacDonald Fraser and picked up a Flashman novel which will be all stout hearts and rakish misadventures...a bit like Plessey Woods.