The Town Moor Half

 Picture (North East Marathon Club)

Can you listen to a loop of Def Leppard for an hour and a half? This is the question no one has bothered to ask themselves before now. Why should they? After hearing 'Armageddon it' , 'Photograph' or even the slightly unnerving 'gunter glieben glauten globen' nonsense at the start of 'Rock of Ages', you almost always will have the choice of playing something else.  And if 'Pyromania' is not your bag, you can always turn off your Walkman.
However, for me on a crisp Sunday morning at the start line of the Town Moor half marathon, it was just the job and I raced my way round three and a half of laps of the Newcastle course to an eventual 1:30:10 and 10th place. I admit it wasn't the best field I have ever raced against, but there were 150 of the little cogers and many of them were younger than me. It was a last  minute thing and I paid the £25 entry fee in a resigned and scroogelike fashion for an entry on the line. Tightwad. Given my track record, I should be getting appearance money. The event was organised by the North East Marathon Club.

I was well wrapped up, but there was very little wind and it was warming up. On the start line I explored the possibility of removing my t shirt which was under my club vest. However, one of the pins that held on my race number was sticking through it and with gloves on and the countdown underway, I abandoned the idea. Six miles later clipping along at 6:45 pace, I was looking to strip off. I was cooking in my own juices, slowly marinating in my trainers, stewing in the heat of my misguided exertions. I was too warm. As I rounded the boating pond and finish line for the second time I dis-robed, losing touch in the ungainly process with a small group in front whom I had been hoping to join since the start. A lad from some fell running outfit came past soon after and also went past the group. I knew it would be curtains for the happy band of four and, right enough, they split soon afterwards. Sad business. The good news for me was that one or two of them started to go backwards and I soon passed them and left them to eat my shorts.
We were running amongst those who had entered the marathon and set off an hour earlier, so it was difficult, nigh on impossible to work out where in the field you were. I thought by mile 10 that I was up to 15th. My pacing was fine. After all it was just another Sunday run; right? I had tucked in behind a lad with a tidy stride at around 8 miles and sat there, slowly dehydrating. At the start of the final lap I tried to be clever and grab 2 cups of juice, rather than 1. The cups were barely half full and I was putting in a bit of effort. I needed some liquid, and soon. However, I miscalculated the grab speed factor and missed the second cup. Not to be put off I stopped and cut back, grabbing a second cup and scrabbling my way back onto the course like a hapless version somewhere between Tommy Cooper and Louis Hamilton. My pacer had put 20 metres into me during this short lived juice debacle. They're already calling it 'juicegate': Me, utterly juiceless; the juicelessmeister. I would spend the next 3 miles or so slogging around trying to catch him as he glided high knee lifting his way around the exhausted marathoners. At mile eleven I had a spot of luck when I caught someone in a red and white club vest. He was more cooked than me. His shorts and vest were soaked. I wondered if he'd had a quick dip in the boating pond with the ducks. I subsequently managed to use him as a wind-shield before taking off and leaving him to smell the coffee. What am I like!? First v50 and as much pepsi as you could drink at the end.
At the finish a woman came up with bags around each wrist. She asked if I was vegan or not..it was a loaded question. Was there a right or wrong answer? Could this be the difference between getting a medal or not? I tentatively replied that 'I could be soon'....I've no idea what the difference in the bag contents were, but I obviously passed the test and enjoyed the sherbet fountain and opal fruits in my post race foamy bath... (I haven't found a use for the Cauliflower yet!)
With the Council and Police driving road racing off the road hereabouts, it looks like this event will continue to grow in popularity. Left the course feeling pretty smug with myself, but in a humble way you understand!  In a humble and vegany way, that is.   

Tinto: The Fiery One

Tinto. Sounds like a character from a 50's cowboy film. Far too exotic a name to associate with an anonymous heather smothered bulge that looks down on nearby Biggar. Its located somewhere between two Little Chefs off the M74. Apparently it means 'Fiery Hill'.

This late season hill race is a classic and straightforward 'up and down yon big hill' affair, measuring up to around 4.2 miles for the round trip. At 2300 ft, its a little way short of a Munro. A popular race, it is a pre-entry race and the £7 entry fee failed to put off the 240 who had pre-entered. Around 190 runners turned up in the early afternoon on the day. 'What a grey day' as Larry would say. Thankfully, very little wind.

The parking and race HQ had been changed from last year to a nearby farm. As congestion increased with numbers gathering, the car park set within a slurry coated farmyard, began to fill and it was a small miracle of fish and bread that the 120 or so cars all managed to squeeze in. I arrived in good time and formed my own row in front of the barn. I had brought my book, George Douglas's 'Through a Dark Eye', a Chrissie pressie I recall. I had lost interest in Jack Kerouac's 'On the Road' and binned it. Sometimes novels simply fail to hold your attention, regardless of how good the prose is. Douglas's novel started a little naively, but I'm well through it. Its set in the 18th Century.

I had brought my new Salomons as well as my old ones. I hoped to get away with the latter. The flock of turkeys adjacent to the farmyard provided the gobbling soundtrack for the day. Not for long, I mused.

With plenty of time for a warm-up, I cut across the wet field to the start. I clipped up the slowly rising gravel track which forms the early part of the course. I quickly surmised that old shoes with baldy soles would not do in this race. Not at all. A quick jog down confirmed that the path was highly runnable, but covered in gravel, I would need all the traction that I could get. As a result, I jogged back the mile to the car and changed into my new shoes. After all, while its nice to pose around the place with brand new shoes, running up and down hills was the reason I had bought them, and within 5 minutes they were covered in clag from the pock marked field.

I had a quick chat with Des Crowe and stood behind him at the start. Not much weight on the lad and I would be doing well to finish anywhere near him.

We set off at 2pm and there was soon mayhem at the kissing gate and fence around 500m from the start. It was carnage as a mass of souped-up runners looked to get over the fence. I had brought the little Samsung and took a few snaps as I ascended. Peter Simpson (Carnegie) came past early on but I couldn't go with him. Instead, I sat behind a girl from Kilmarnock and grafted up the track of red felsite.  I know this because I've done a bit of geology in my time. The track was a little technical in places with quite a few angular boulders peaking out from the scree and I noted this for the descent. Potential bloody knee conditions if you went down.

We got to the top and I had been passed by a few bodies. It was a slog and I couldn't wait for the trig point. The camera was put away.  With 2 miles of descent in front of me, I revved up immediately, passing some old codger as I got into my over-striding stride. Adrenalin filled, I couldn't wait to make some ground upon the many that had passed me going up and I hammered down the hill in a joint wobbling, ligament shredding descent, passing around 5 or 6 including the Kilmarnock runner. It was a hundred percent stuff. My torso struggled to keep up with my legs.

Near the bottom I could see the finish and passed a dark haired unattached runner, but gravity soon ran out and he came back round me easily with 100 metres or so to go before the finish. I thought I had crept into the top 50, but the results said 64th. Not too far back from Simpson, but Crowe was in a different league.

I was buzzing at the end of the race with my descent and made my way back to the car via the soup and burger gazebo which the farmer had put on.  The sole of my right foot was sore and I expected blood upon removal of my compression socks, but the skin was intact and I think it was the repeated high impact that caused the pain. I resisted the pull of the bright lights of Biggar and made my way back down the M74, pleased with how the vestiges of this years running season was shaping up.

I have been toying with the idea of Largo Law in a fortnight. We spent a week there in March 2014 on holiday and know the hill.  Can I be bothered with the 2 hour drive though?  Can I get rid of this cold? Will it stop raining? So many questions.....