News...what News?

 Crikey. What a hiatus between blog posts.  It might reflect, in part, the Governments insistence (yet again) that we all stay home and stop doing stuff except when we're out doing other stuff that's permissible. No pubs, no restaurants, no races, no concerts, no meeting, no touching; its like being in a Puritan England of the past. In Northumberland the questionable decision by the Council to lump us all together with the rest of the North East is ensuring local oppression is thriving.  I have fought back against this tyranny by ordering a couple of second hand books and some new running shoes and after a week of no exercise, I enjoyed, yesterday, a modest 5 miler around the town once the rain that has dogged the last 2 days finally came to an end. A couple of sub 7 miles on the flat ground was encouraging, but I really must learn to reign it in.  My mileage over the last month has been meagre as I try to stave off the niggles. 

What with all this apparent spare time I have sped through Frederick Forsyths 1974 classic 'the Odessa File', Hanif Kureishi's short 1994 novel 'Intimacy' and I am currently stop-starting Sebastian Faulks 2010 effort 'A week in December'.  

Work has been busy and I have a back log of reports to prepare.  The work in the back garden has ground to a halt but I hope my effort to create a permanent pond will attract the frogs in the Spring. I haven't seen our resident hedgehog recently and hope its just hibernating and not come to any grief. 

The various reports of vaccines as the saviour of our freedom has been doing the rounds, but I hear we are to have identification cards on the back of it. What a strange world we occupy.  Being stuck at home, I missed the first snow of this winter and looked on enviously as much of Scotland was bathed in the crisp white stuff.  However, if I can nurse my temperamental calf through the next month,  I should be able to get out and about on the trails. At least we can get out training together so I can resume our mid-week jaunts around the lanes with a couple of the lads. 

While considering the virtual racing scene, the Dark Destroyer came up with a well meaning but hair brained idea of running 100miles in 24 hours around the time for charity. She set off at lunchtime last week and completed the challenge in 20 hours supported by family and friends in part. I singularly failed to make an appearance till early morning. Excluding stopping for food and change of clothes etc her time was a remarkable 16 hours. The charity is St Oswalds hospice in Gosforth and the just giving link is here (should you wish to give to a good cause) : Lorna Macdonald is fundraising for St Oswald's Hospice Limited (justgiving.com)  www.justgiving.com/fundraising/lornamac13

I hear the RunNation bloke is organising a 5 mile race on the 27th at Whalton over the circuit that I organised the Whalton Classic race 10 years ago. We'll see if it actually happens. Anyway, best get up and get some work done. 

Wobble, Wobble.

I am sitting with the early day sun seeping into my wee room with a cooling brew nestling in a William Morris decorated mug. We lost one of the set last week. It happens. Tom Morton’s weekly offering on the Beatcroft Social is on the Mixcloud. Gary Moore's on at the mo. 🙋

I eventually dispensed with Madame Bovary 3 weeks ago. Flaubert’s effort is, regrettably, not a classic now. Was it ever? No more salacious than Armchair Theatre or Tales of the Unexpected, both of which  are being replayed on a tele near you. More interesting, perhaps as a piece of social commentary of late 19th Century provincial France. It took me an age to read. In comparison I hurried through William Boyd’s spy novel 'Waiting for Sunrise'. When he writes well he delivers quality fiction. I found his novel Bethany Melmoth very disappointing however, but I guess everyone is allowed a wobble or two every now and again. I am now onto Ian McEwan’s Black Dogs. All charity shop buys I should point out. 😉

We have booked a couple of days in the Borders and a week, later this year, in Aberfoyle. Its all touch and go whether Scotland will be open and quite frankly I have ran out of patience with the whole thing; graphs and selective statistics; All this at the expense of every other ailment? 'phooey' as Nero Woolf would say. My dentists practice also appears to be having a having a wobble and its taken some persistent detective work to get a date for an appointment for a replacement filling 😓. In the meantime I have had to lay off the bike (cycling and cavities don’t mix well), but strangely not the chocolate. I have found myself handing over a tenner every week at the local gym. This is in order for me to throw around a couple of dumbells, squat like I was Jagger and strut around catching my reflection out the corner of my eye in one of the many full height mirrors. In the process I can also get closer to any number of similar intumescent musclebound humans. Value for money in my book, he said in a whimsical manner. Lockdown lockup. He's playing Georgie Fame now. 

I have been out tentatively in trainers once or twice this week. It seems my calf is not quite ready for more than 3 miles. When catechized, it says it's because of Covid and under today’s guidelines, regulations, statutory instruments and heresay it's not allowed to go any further. I am also running rather bow-legged as the calves say they have to be no less than a metre apart. They seem perfectly happy, however, on the bike or taking part in leg presses. They even enjoy watching their fellow quads on the adductor machine, although I think that there’s an unhealthy touch of shadenfreude there. 

The running club have hosted a couple of track meetings in the last month or two. These have drawn in athletes from all over the place desperate for a race and including a fair few athletes from up north. Not the Diamond league but some impressive performers out there. Chef Linds and Speedy Joe took part in a 800m and a 3000m and both managed pb's. The club is muttering about another meeting in October. I found myself mulling it over, but what with all this muscle I am building, I reckon its the 100m for me. Either that or Mr Olympiad with my budgies on 💪. I was offered a place at the late running Larig Ghru which was frustrating, but I had to decline it. The race went ahead, though, which I thought was laudable.

The blue Condor is in the charity bike workshop (Watbike) for a check-up before it goes on the road for the first time since its re-spray. It looks the biz. Can't wait to get my filling sorted and get out on it. I guess one benefit of all this business is that the Pro Cycling UCI calendar has all been shoe-horned into the autumn months and I have enjoyed watching race after race on whatever screen I can find. Anyway, best be off. The new backyard patio slabs won't lay themselves. Lets hope I'm up to the job. If its crap, its ok. I'll just blame the virus and todays guidelines.

 

Barnesbury 10m TT - More Quad anguish.

 ‘As I flew down the slip road of the Spine Road, out the corner of my eye I caught the cars in both lanes below me seemingly passing in slow motion even as the passengers turned and gasped at the two wheeled comet dropping out of the skies to meet them, their dawning fear breaking slowly across their unbelieving eyes. The frightening speed, bulletlike, forced the rider’s face into a contortion reminiscent of a pink translucent balloon pulled tight across a distorted mannequins face. He struggled to hold on ...and then….and then I woke up.

It was the Barnesbury 10 this morning, ten miles of unhinged and unfettered lunacy wrapped up in a twelve quid entry fee. I was off 13^th at 8:13am. Oh, how I love early morning competition. I was still in a dream state at 6.30am as Mrs M left for her shift. Aunt Aggie was still snoring, the windows rattling on each exhalation.

At race HQ, the procedure was the same as last time; arrive not too early, have your temperature taken and get your number. No warming up on the course and make your way to the start in good time. As this event was on my doorstep, I felt compelled to enter, even though my training has been uber-patchy as I wrestle with a dodgy left knee. Aunt Aggie questioned my sanity yesterday. I argued that if I could spend half the day on my knees laying the new path at the side of the house, twenty five minutes of pedalling wasn’t going to make much difference. She simply tutted, pulled down her swimming goggles and carried on trying to strap herself to the neighbours lawnmower.

It was nearly a full field with 100 riders. The weather was overcast and mild; ideal really. I did a couple of miles warm-up on the empty roads of this New Town, not short of mini roundabouts and stretches of dual carriageway. I had dispensed with some of the more fancy trimmings associated with time trialling like the skinsuit and rubber overshoes, but I did buy a new pair of Pringle type socks yesterday and thought I looked ‘the dogs’.

It took me a mile or so to get into my rhythm, my heart caught unawares and frantically sending s.o.s messages to my brain to no avail. I was wearing my wrist Garmin (rather than using the one that perches on the handlebar stem) so I had no idea of my speed, but mentally, I was treating this as an exercise with the slack aim to go sub-26, so I just rode as hard as I could.

It was out and back and I could see some of the riders who had set off earlier on the return across the carriageway. At 5 miles I was passed by No15, banging out an impossible level of wattage.  At 7 miles another rider came past but, by then, the sweat had begun to drip down my clear visor and the world began fogging up as I retreated into my own wee pain bubble.  As always my posture on the bike was woeful, jiggling around like a loon, but it was just enough to get me over the line in 25:40 and a heroic 80^th place. I swear my quads inflate to match the tyre pressures at the end of events like these.

Happy enough with the result, I packed up and cleared off. Strangely my knee was absolutely fine and I took great pleasure in letting Aunt Aggie know as she glided around next doors lawn in effortless if slightly noisy fashion.  

The Quad-Boiler 25

(Photo by G Dixon)

I’ve been nursing my dodgy knee all week. This followed my running niggle, recently  aggravated by an ill-advised but enjoyable 50 mile ride with buddy Steve, previously an outstanding runner (so he tells me!, No, really) but who has, I suspect, worn himself out in athletics, and latterly became a bikie with some relish. 

Today was the first event for several months and I was one of one hundred cyclists who had succeeded in landing a place in the Barnesbury 25 mile time trial. A competitive event is big news these days. The organisers were duly cautious. 

Based from Cramlington, the course is two laps of an ‘out and back’ dual carriageway affair. Last Monday I had emailed the organiser to advise that I might not make it after my knee ligament starting rebelling. I think they used to call it tendonitis. After an excellent massage on Thursday, however, by the North Shields shamen, Sean, I felt immediately more lucid in the knee department. This manifest itself  yesterday in me spending all day digging out a gate post, replacing it and then hanging a new gate. It was a triumph, I tell you. Monty Don would have been welling up with pride. Anyway, today, I was off number 34. The weather was fine with a light crosswind. I was fuelled by a bowl of shredded wheat, a slice of toast, raspberry jam and a coffee. I was riding the Planet X bike, its proper racing debut since I bought it off a sporty chap in Selkirk last year. He was making more space for his daughters horse. I didn’t think the house looked that big. I did ride the bike in a hill climb at Elsdon last September, but that wasn’t so much of a race rather than a chance for me pose in front of the one or two accomplished paparazzi who periodically turn up at these events. Rising majestically in slow motion up the Gibbet at Elsdon, I looked the part, pouting hard, even if I was nearly last.

The last time I did a mid-distance time trial like this was in Stirling three years ago. I had just purchased the Focus and hammered my way up and down some flat potholed piece of road in the drizzle with all the purpose of a apathetic sloth to finish just off the podium for the wooden spoon. It was a 30 miler. It took me a couple of hours before I could walk properly. I think that holding the same position for an hour focuses all the induced stress on a small group of muscles and joints around the thighs, pelvis and glutes. You definitely need to train for this malarkey. Your shoulders, arms and fingers spend their time talking about old times, shuffling cards, pointing and being generally garrulous. The result of this effort is the development of an unwelcome crippling of my central torso; I kid you not. I didn't notice anyone else struggling to stand or walk, so it must just be me. 

The sun was up and I was quite relaxed this morning as I dug the bike out of the car, realising that I had forgotten my pump; but it wasn’t a disaster if I rode on flabby 40psi tyres. There was a doctor at the start to take our temperatures. I thought it odd that anyone feeling dodgy might still elect to turn out to thrash themselves for an hour, but hey-ho. Even though we had to bring our own pens to sign on with we still all had to use the same plunger of the bottle of the sanitiser beforehand.  I got my disposable number and then spent a good 10 minutes doing the dance of the diddy as I tried to pin the number on the back of my skinsuit, which I was already wearing.  

After an unconvincing 3 mile warm up I rode the 1.5 miles to the start and before you could say ‘get your masks on’ I was under starters orders and was dispatched. There was a slight tailwind on the way to Ashington which was worth having. The lad behind me, Daniel Dixon, passed me after 6 minutes. I could have tucked in, but apparently it’s not allowed.  There was then a long spell when no one else came past. However, I was fully committed to my cause and tried to remember to keep in an aerodynamic pose as my quads began to boil. I passed the 10 mile mark in 26 minutes and cracked on as the occasional bead of sweat wandered down my visor and the traffic increased markedly. In decades gone by and on a narrower road, a build-up of traffic was inevitable as riders hogged the lane. There are a myriad of stories of top riders deliberately backing the traffic up in order to reap the benefit of the draught once the traffic starts to come through. Spotters were frequently posted by organisers trying to monitor this in the 70’s.

After 20 miles or so my upper and inner thighs confirmed that they were having a visit from the friction police and by 24 miles my attention had moved from the road to my gusset and a mile later I was relieved to sit up as I passed the line after 1:06:10 of relentless graft. The last 25 time trial I rode was in Ayrshire when I was 18. David Hannah won it. I recall the time might have been 1:04.

Its evident that I can improve, but the objective this time round was to get a couple of competitive events under my belt before the season finishes. This year the only winner has been Covid.  If I remember to bring my pump next time, I might at least look like I mean business.  I’ll wait to see if I’ve got into the 10 mile event next month.  In the meantime, remind me to train.             

Can I come out now?

Ok, lets get something down here or folks in the future will think that Aunt Aggie got the better of me. Looking back through earlier blog entries this year, I can’t really believe I managed 5 races or so before it all imploded. I never really envisaged that the Government would crash the economy in order to control transmission, but here we are 100 days later. As March gave way to 'Lockdownmania' and we all towed the line, my running continued on an upward trajectory and well into June during which I was churning out several fifty mile weeks. I was regularly delivering 70 minute x 10 mile runs and was quite perky. It was a little off-putting seeing people diving into hedges and holding their breath or grabbing their scarfs when I careered round the corners, and for a while there was a real fear that runners were the enemy with all their extravagant breathing, huffing and puffing. 'Nothing personal', I thought.

As this state of economic and social torpor dragged on, my earlier enthusiasm appeared misplaced and my training runs slowed markedly. This culminated a fortnight ago during an eight miler in the heat of a Wednesday morning running along the by-pass when my left calf tightened. I was on the bike the next day, the first ride since January.  Over a thousand miles running this year and only seventy on the bike said Strava. It was possibly the longest period of continuous uninterrupted running I have had for ages. A day or two later I developed a swollen knee and have rested all this week, succumbing to that wee voice in my head this morning to nip out for 25 miles on the bike. There was a ferocious westerly and as I cut along through the lanes of Duddo, Belsay and Whalton the crosswinds were waiting to pounce, an ambush on the unprepared rider with huge gusts funnelling through any breach in the hedgerow. The swelling has gone from the knee and I assume it’s a ligament thing. Since I blogged last, I am a year older and in celebration I have entered two local time trials. We’ll see if they go ahead or not. This years Lairig Ghru, my running target for the year, is an ancient memory that never was. 

The running club have been organising a virtual grand prix, but I’ve not managed to register any times for the various events. Mrs Mac and the flying chef (Linds) have been burning up the calories though and Linds has really come on with a recent sub-20 5k. Let’s hope the running calendar resurrects itself at the same time as my knee makes a full recovery.  It’s not only a means of competing, but there is also a social element to racing and, of course, if you are a runner, its partly who you are, part of your fabric.

On the book front I eventually ground my way through ‘Papillon’ and finished it yesterday. This followed 'Conclave' (Robert Harris) which I whizzed through in May and is highly recommended. I have dropped straight into Falkner's 'Moonfleet' which I recall reading when I was 12 or so.  It’s quite a welcome contrast to ingesting the trials and tribulations of a serial escapee in the French penal system.  Anyway, I hope it not another 2 months before I blog again. Lets hope its worth me ordering some new trainers shortly and that the lectern-hugging first minister gives us a break or I’ll be demanding a rebate from Scottish Athletics.

Newburn (Virtual) Relays

Running a leg of the (virtual) Newburn Relays was possibly my highlight of the week. Regarded as the biggest early season club affair of the season here in the North East of England, normally it involves 4 senior men (or vet men) to a team, or teams of 3 women. With all this ‘isolation’ going on and amid the climate of social distancing, we were keen to sign up for the event. It was organised by Simon Pryde of Tyne Bridge Harriers. His event was organised through Farcebook and involved teams of 3 running their own legs somewhere remotely and then submitting the results. Just a bit of fun. With the girls taking up my suggestion of forming their own team, Missus Mac et moi needed another body to complete our crack team. We thought about asking Jamie or Kris. Mo was unavailable; so we called upon the services of the Bellahouston Road Runners crack runner, Ant. He had, until recently, been training for the Manchester Marathon, but was seemingly thwarted at every turn; if it wasn’t a storm which resulted in the cancelling of his Wrexham Half, it was the arrival of the Andromeda strain which meant Manchester was also postponed.

There is almost exhaustive tv coverage of this business which is probably not healthy. I have been largely avoiding the news. Never have I seen so much of Nicola on the box. Does she do park-runs? I don’t know. Anyway, I digress. Thinking about where I would do my 2.2mile stint, my thoughts turned to the local track. Nice and flat.

Friday was a lovely day with warm spring sunshine and little wind. I jogged 3 miles to the track. As expected the main gate was locked so I had to ease my skinny torso under the other gate in a covert ‘Joe Wicks type’ stylee.  The Dark Destroyer had just finished her leg, clocking 12:30 something and had snuck out of the track by some other improvised exit. I jogged a lap around the track, then dropped my hat and pressed ‘start’ on my garmin. Nearly five laps or so later as the GPS clocked up 1.1 miles I turned and cracked on back around the outside lane, skipping over the melting track beneath my mercurial feet and creating my own speed vortex. The rabbits looked on agog. A nearby hedgehog looked bemused, but then continued knitting. My pacing was sound and running a steady heart rate of around 150bpm, I delivered a 5:50 first mile or so improving to somewhere nearer 5:38min/mile for the return.  The time-piece said 12m:59s for 2.25m. Very satisfactory. I wasn’t in any grief at the end and in no way worn out, puffed up or creaking like an old wreck dashed against the jagged cliffs of expectation. I wiped the slaver off my vest and jogged a further 2 miles home, waving at no-one as I proceeded down the empty High Street. I expect that the results should be out Late Monday or Tuesday.  

Clocking in another 50 mile training week, I probably need to start working on my diet and core.  My auntie, the one from Perth, keeps sending me video clips that she thinks I’ll find amusing. She’s over 70 and no doubt, bored. I am sure she would dearly love the chance to lace up her Hokas and bang out a mile or two along the leafy lanes of Dunkeld or wherever in her support tights.  It would certainly be a surprise to her husband. They, like many, are stuck indoors.

I have been supplementing my diet with multi-vits and have, at last, plucked up the courage to have a look at my under-siege pension which I had been mentally stroking in a smug and self-congratulatory manner only a month earlier.  I bet Casey Ryback hasn’t had the same problems. There’s alot to be said for a Government or Services pension arrangement. Maybe I should’ve joined the Argylls' all those years ago. Who knows. All I know is that there’s still work to be done to improve the running and hopefully find myself in good nic if and when races resume.  Easter Blessings, all. Pip, Pip.

Strange Times

Its been a funny old week. Funny, just without the humour. Another 50 miles of training shoe-horned into my allocated 7 hours a week.  I’ve averaged around 7:10 min/mile for the week and I’m in good shape. The weather is also on the up.  Several reasons to be grateful.

Last Sunday, we attempted to start our weeks ‘training’ camp in a cottage in a nowhere location about a mile outside Aberfoyle. I was really looking forward to a week running in the hills. However, we had barely unloaded the car when the owner put in a surprise appearance and advised us, apologetically, that the place was closed and we might consider re-packing the car and going home. She promised a refund. Having driven the 3 hours north via Glasgow, I sat on the rear bumper and surveyed the remote forest, the birds chirping, the squirrels jumping in the late afternoon sunshine. It was enough to make you weep. We returned home via a chip shop in Dalkeith.  I was thankful that at least we had had a meal out! Maybe the last for a good wee while. The inaugural Dunbar Multi-terrain half has, of course, been cancelled together with the Gartmorn 6 and the Hartlepool 5m at the end of March.

We’ve been given leave to take an hours exercise a day. So this week I have tried a new route up Whorral Bank and then along the bypass cutting up by Fairmoor and then down to Mitford before returning home. It’s exactly 8 miles door-to-door. After getting the hill out of the way at mile 2, it’s a flattish run where you can disengage your brain and take in the air. It’s true, there have been some new joggers out and the pavement has been peppered with older couples taking the air rather than the shops, so I’ve mostly been running on the road, taking the courtesy to give everyone plenty of space. With everything cancelled or closed, the scope of what I can report on the blog is, not surprisingly, severely curtailed.   I had to give myself a little illumination, so I pre-entered the Lairaig Ghru, the race I decided was this years target. That was before it all went tits-up.

However, outwith my hours run, possibly the highlight of my day, I am reverting to trying to keep myself warm and rested. I have checked out how I might boost my immune system. Over-training is a no-no. It seems, also, that my hot baths, the small sanctuary where I read, are out. Ironically, there has been more than enough time to read. After completing William Boyds enjoyable ‘The New Confessions’, I have been making excellent progress with Dan Browns ‘The Da Vinci Code’. I am also ramping up the fruit and multi-vits.  I have been avoiding the shops. You can live on surprisingly little. I have been eating more since the lockdown started than I was beforehand. I have also run out of beer tonight. I probably shouldn’t be drinking any alcohol anyway; no marks on the ‘immunity charts’ and no marks on the ‘serious athlete chart’.  However, I have been getting plenty of kip, so if and when the lurgy comes knocking I’ll hopefully be ready for the contest, the only one that looks like it hasn’t yet been cancelled.  

Brough Law

(foties by Jill Bennett)

Als diary entry: Short entry - the Ides of March. 
This week has had little to commend itself. But today I found myself making the trip to the Brough Law Fell Race up at Ingram Valley not far away from Wooler with Missus Mac. I always thought Wooler should really be bigger in the hill running world than it is. Plenty of potential and great running around there.

Chef Linds', who had run the xc the day before, agreed to accompany Missus Mac round the 5 mile AS (short, steep) course.  I reckon there were around 100 in attendance and while the sun was out, the wind was definitely getting up. I ran to the car to add a Helly Hansen to my T-shirt. The race starts with a heart strangling ascent before the course plateau’s out . There is a tough long grassy climb at the far end before you turn and come back on yourself. It’s a lasso sort of route. Probably around 1000ft of climbing. I paid my £5 and was happy not to be paying the £4 parking charge levied on yesterdays North East cross country event in Sunderland.  
After a couple of notices from the organiser JB, we kicked off and I walked-ran-walked up the hill. I began to pick up a few places once we were at the top and continued picking off a couple of runners before the far end. I tracked Tim McCall  (Norham) up some climb into the gale force wind. I could see Keith Murray (Teviotdale) and Vaughan Hemy (N Shields) ahead. 
I drove on hard at the turn as we began a fast descent toward a burn. Hammering down the valley side to try and make some ground, I lost my footing on the wet grass and went for a skite along the wet surface. No injury, only mild embarrassment.  I had only just recovered crossing the burn and then stile, when I heard Tim (now behind) yell as he was blown onto the barbed wire. I caught a North Shields runner at the top of the steep climb with Robyn Bennett and the three of us ploughed back along the gently rising ridge fighting with the ridiculous crosswind. I imagine we might have been dealing with some serious wind chill if we had slowed down or the event had been longer. By this time Hemy and Murray were out of sight, but I wasn’t making any ground on them anyway, so next time perhaps. 
I came down the last descent at high speed almost making up the 100 yards that the runner in front of me had, but he pipped me at the post. Probably around 48 minutes and placed upper to mid table, I imagine. I dumped my bum bag at the car and re-ascended to see the Missus and Linds come back, but somehow they eluded me by taking the long way round a crag and were finished by the time I got back down with the Sweeper. A hard event in the wind, but very happy to have had another competitive run. It was JB's birthday and we were all given a generous slice of cake to celebrate. An enjoyable morning out.  

The Cupar 5 (2020)

I ran the Cupar 5 yesterday. Didn’t stop once. I weighed myself last week and it seems the weight loss has stuttered somewhat. However, at least the scales didn’t announce ‘no coach parties, please’ when I stood on them. If I manage a steady 10 today, it’ll be another 50 mile week. I have had a long uninterrupted spell of continuous running in the last 6 weeks. Its therefore frustrating that this virus business is threatening my salazaresque programme, the virus which goes under two names like a dark cloaked Dickensian figure with bent head, fag in mitted hand, smoking furtively around every corner. 

As I drove to Cupar I was disgusted at the amount of litter strewn along the A1. A national disgrace. I also fought to remind myself where the start was. Perhaps this was not surprising, considering I last ran Cupar perhaps 8 or 9 year ago. I ran it for the first time after the course had been re-measured and it was lengthened by 180 yards (so I read in an earlier blog). 
Arriving in good time there were various random runners jogging up and down the high street. I wandered to the YMCA on Bonnygate and collected my number. I used the facilities and ensured I washed my hands. However, opening lavatory doors afterwards is always a challenge. I sauntered back to the car and pinned on my number and went for a warm up to find the start-line.

There was a full field of 250 for this event. It is also apparently a counter in the Hawks annual handicap league thing.  With 10 minutes to go, I binned my trackies and top in the hedge and slipped the car key into my gloved hand. I wear kids knitted gloves when I run. They fit neatly and are cheap as chips to replace. I don't like wearing a matching pair, either. 
As I stood watching the field gather, a large group of Hawks spotted me and they all trooped up to shake my hand in welcome. Had the word about elbow tapping or the foot focused greeting not reached Tayside?  'What a cheery bunch' I mused as I switched gloves from left to right and stepped back another few paces.
A short announcement was made by the Fife A.C. organisers, but I couldn’t hear them, what with wearing my welders mask and ear muffs.  We were off soon afterwards and I spent the first mile trying to get my heart rate up to the requisite 155rpm. Dragging that oxygen bottle around was a bitch tho' and I soon ditched it.  I ran simply, inhaling the spent vapours of the 60 guys and gals ahead.   
I found myself in 'no mans' land after a mile, running into a brisk headwind. No good at all, so I put in a burst and tucked in behind a group with the 3^rd placed woman in. Half of them seemed to be from the PH running club. As the road stretched out, the rest of their club appeared ahead in a long string of black and red vests. A Kinross runner in green vest and headband came past and I tagged in with him, trying to find shelter. I glanced at my watch after 2 miles. I was doing 6:30’s. I told myself I only had another half mile to do before I turned and had the wind at my back. Kinross man pulled away just before the turn as a Hawk came by me and gave me some encouragement. ‘Come on you baldy old slapper’ he said’.   
I caught what looked like a Cambuslang runner near the turn. His gait was a little awkward, but it seemed to be working for him. We jockeyed hard for whatever position we were in and with 400m to go, the string snapped and I let him go. The last mile was around 6:10 pace, but that was fine given that we had a downhill and tailwind. Crossing the line I think it was about 32m:14s, (63rd) nicely under the 32:30 that I had previously planned as my target time. 
I warmed down jogging back up the course watching the rest of the field come home and then toggled back to the car. A quick cuppa in the hall afterwards (but drunk outside) and then a prompt drive home was the order of the day. The Fife Whisky festival was on in the town, but there was no chance of me making an appearance there. After all, I could probably have my own festival at home, given the various bottles salted around the kitchen. But a minute on the lips and all that…..not much whisky drinking going around these 'ere parts at the mo. 

Alnwick Cross Country 2020

After a solid weeks training I deigned to make an appearance at the nearby Alnwick Cross Country. I've been nursing my weight loss over the weeks with some modest success. Most of this is to do with eating prawn cocktail salads and cold smoked mackeral in place of the usual main meals of pie, pasta, chips and tatties. It's evident, however, that the war against snacking and beer is something more demanding. Snacking is well dug in on the high ground. It will probably require guerrilla tactics.
The cross country programme this season has been decimated by the wet weather. This disturbance in the XC Force has been due more to problems with car parking rather than the courses themselves. After all, there's nothing better than spending 45 minutes running through clagg and losing your shoes in the yielding bowels of the earth.
The forecast was windy but dry, and although there were one or two passing squalls, it was almost Springlike. Elsewhere, speedy joe was running (and winning) the Cambuslang 10k, but us lesser mortals had to make do with lacing up our 'hardly clean' spikes and warming up as best we could. I had to make a late dash to the chemist for some Compeed to protect my heels from my 'not-broken-in-yet' shoes. Other than that there were no dramas and the dark destroyer and chef linds finished top ten in the women's race with Mrs Mac some way behind. She made the point that she still beat 70.  I spent much of the time during the women's race entertaining Master T as he toddled around. We had a right good go at trying to find a mole in the molehills that were dotted around the field and between the caravan of tents.
I like this event. The course had been tinkered with from earlier years and its definitely an improvement. They have retained the run through the woods which is right up my street with a sizeable descent immediately afterwards. If you know how to descend you can easily make up a couple of places over those more timid types or folk that haven't got their spikes on and are a little more wary. I was off in the slow pack and with a backdrop of Alnwick Castle we clattered off down the field and up toward the wood. I had to stop for a few seconds on the first lap to re-tie my lace on my right shoe. I was 54th at the end of the first lap and moved up to 51st on the second. However, as its a handicap, there was a boatload of folk from the medium and fast pack who came through in a rapid and unseemly manner on the 3rd lap (during which my other lace worked loose). However, there was little chance of my shoe coming off and I just put up with it whipping my ankle as I came through the woods for the last time. I finished 68th (350 in the field) at the end and gulping in the air I had a repeated dose of dry wretching which in my book is a sign that you've over done it. Excellent. Confirmation of a good, committed run if one was required. 3rd counter for the club. I felt much better than I had at the Scottish Masters. My spikes arrived back later in the day and had been cleaned by Linds to an inch of their life. Finding your daughters doing stuff like that is a slippery slope. Next she'll be bringing me my slippers and cocoa and a little later booking me on a flight to Switzerland.
Anyway, next up Cupar. Best clean your own shoes.

Royal Signals: I've gotta get out of here...

Perusing the shelves in the mens department of M&S I happened upon some bottles of aftershave. Being the freeloader that I am, I removed the top of the sample bottle with casual nonchalance (is there any other type) and sprayed some on my wrist and proceeded to wipe it across my chin. I inhaled deeply all the heady perfume. I walked off in a fragrant cloud of volatiles. When the effect wore off and I came to, I realised that my old reliable bottle at home had lost all its pazzazz. I checked this when I returned home and having had my suspicions confirmed, I found myself back in said store buying the overpriced fragrance and binning my 14 month old half bottle of whatever it was called....something like Caddisfly....or Spinmonkey or something. Lee Mack does a great sketch about perfume adverts. Anyway, where is all this going?
It was the Royal Signals Relays on Saturday. Clubs only. 4 men to a m50 team. Probably the biggest event for North East clubs other than perhaps the Elswick Relays at Easter. It was wet. It was windy. I had shaved 'specially first thing to ensure my chin was as dynamic as possible, and not forgetting to 'splash it all over'. I was in the team and on the third leg. It's a two lap affair around a lake in a park. Just over a mile per lap. I was happy to be running and decided on the gloves and arm warmers, but no tights, just shorts below. I have some new trainers. They are a metrosexual pale blue. I was quite keen to get them mucky and had a lap or two warm up playing in the puddles.
Anyway, after the first lap (leg 1) of the race we were in 7th place and there was a one minute gap from our first leg runner to 3rd place and the dizzy heights of a podium place. After 2 laps the gap had widened. Paul W went off on the second leg and pulled one minute back on the runner from Crook AC who were 6th and within reach. I readied myself at the start knowing we were not in the medals, but that I needed to do something decent. As Paul finished, I set off into the headwind. It took ages for me to get into any sort of pace and my heart rate and breathing were all over the shop. I passed the lad from Crook at the end of the first lap, but regretted it when I realised he could spend the next lap tucked in behind me. Thankfully that didn't happen, and during the second lap I passed Mrs Mac who was in the womens vet team. With my initial hard effort out, I found myself dying on the way back and tried to look strong as I came in to hand over to the 4th runner Neil. I knew that I hadn't run very well, however. Catching my breath I did a couple more laps in reverse to support Neil before heading back to the tent. We finished 6th. My time was 14:09, almost a minute down on previous times. However, everyone else's times were also down, so no big deal. And as I got changed and wiped the slaver off my neck, I knew that even if I wasn't the fastest, at least I smelled the part. You won't , however, find me facing down a buffalo and burying bangles and jewellery in the desert with my shovel. In the words of Derek Zoolander, I am slow but happy to know that I'm still ridiculously, ridiculously good looking.  

Scottish Master XC Championships 2020

I thought I was well prepared for the Scottish Masters Cross Country competition, but I was deluding myself. The day before I had checked out the train times and cost rather than take the car. The Trainline website now shows the cheapest price. It was a fifty quid return to Glasgow and the venue at the McMaster Sports Centre in Johnstone was eminently walk-able from the rail station. The forecast wasn't the best with Storm Ciara sweeping in late afternoon, but I considered I would be well finished by then.
As it was the biggest race I've entered for a good wee while, I laid out all my stuff on Friday and with new spikes and shorts I was in business. An excellent massage from Sean Maley on Thursday and a rapid four mile 7 min/mile training run later in on the Friday was just the tonic to boost my confidence.
I got to Glasgow in good time and had soup in RBS in Argyle Street. Yes, soup and roll in a bank. crackers. Actually, it was carrot and coriander and the roll was warm. very nice indeedy.
There was a bus replacement from Paisley to Johnstone and a fair bit of muppetry was observed from those dis-organising the seam-filled transport arrangements. No matter, I arrived at Johnstone and began the mile walk to the venue. I was intercepted some way along the route by a car driver who turned out to be Susan Ridley. No slouch; a formidable runner.  She offered a lift and I accepted. Saving my wee legs..just the job. I thanked her and we tried to work out how to get to the hall from the car park.
Entering the hall, I  took my number from the envelope and changed my spikes from 12mm to 6mm. 'Nothing too arduous out there' I mused.  Just before the womens race I warmed up for a mile on the course and came off with a left heal that was cutting up badly with the new shoe. No-one in the Hawks had any Compeed and I kicked myself for not packing some. Utter buffoonery on my part. My only option was to find a chemist and buy some, or risk severing my heel over 5 miles.  I took off through the local housing estate and asked directions. The chemist was in a small group of shops a mile away. It was, of course, shut. I improvised and bought 3 large fabric plasters from the corner shop for the princely sum of 60p each and galloped the mile back to base and slapped them on under my sock. It was back on with the spikes and then up to the start.
Around 200 set off and I had to remind myself that I was one of the older types. There were, however, several m55's around me and I began the 5 mile run toward the back of the pack. I failed to move much more through the field and after 3 miles I was tiring, no longer making any ground on anyone. I looked at my garmin and realised I had failed to start it. More muppetry. I also realised that I hadn't bothered to check whether it was 3 or 4 laps of the tortuous and contrived course. Seeing the string of oldies around me, I wondered what joe public would make of the spectacle.  As we circled the football field (within which a game was taking place) I lost around 6 places as runners came by. It was all a little slow motion; the guys passing me didn't fly by, but crept past almost incrementally and minutes later they were still only 30 metres ahead. On a normal day I could have attempted to bridge the gap, but I was scunnered. Not so much the wheels 'falling off', more of a 'muffled slow puncture'. I was resigned to 4 laps when I was confronted by the finishing line as I came around a bend and shot off at high speed to fend off those that would seek to push me further down the rankings. Scoundrels. 'The results', I hear you ask....'the results?' 117th and 15th m55 and no cigar. I was a counter in the Hawks team, but as we finished 10th, it was all a little academic.
I met Susan at the end and we exchanged experiences. I suspected she did alright and turned out she won her age group. She was returning to the hall for the presentation.
As I walked back to the station I felt sanguine about the performance, but very happy that the impromptu plasters on my heel had worked and that a few beers awaited me in Glasgow. My train was booked for 7:45, so I had plenty of time to experience the delights of the Drum and Monkey and then Maxs Grill on Queen Street where I was joined in the best seats in the house by cat and ant. All in all a most enjoyable day out. 

Lanzarote

Its been a good week with 55 miles clocked up. Most of these were in the sunny climes of Lanzarote; Club La Santa to be more accurate where we had got a good deal. Speedy Joe, Ant and the dark destroyer joined us. Five in an apartment with thin walls. An exercise in discretion.
A 4 hour flight to and from the resort for those with sporting inclinations was the only down side. I'm not a good flyer. Halfway through the holiday we discovered the trail north which took us off the familiar black sand and gravel onto burnished tan sands that extended  6 miles to the north to Caleta de Famara, all of it runnable.
We ate pasta or risotto on most nights. We were tucked up by 9:30pm. This had the distinct disadvantage of being rudely awoken by the shouting hoo-haas that echoed around the corridors of the hard surfaced complex. No matter, the sun was up every day and we did a bit of tennis and a bit of running most days with some yoga and aerial relaxation thrown in for good measure. We even got a morning out mountain biking. All of it was included in the facilities and they were very good. I booked myself in for a deep tissue massage with 'fingers' and he had me biting the towel as I peered down to the feet if the table through the peekaboo hole. Excruciating. I hope it was worth it and my performance next Saturday at Johnstone will be worth the pain.
We returned on Thursday to Blighty. The plane had two attempts at landing in the 50 mile an hour gusts and I can tell you I sat bolt upright trying to be brave, but mostly failing even as my bum got squeakier and squeakier and my palms damper and damper. There was a burst of applause when we landed, but were then subjected to 2 hours on the aircraft marooned on the tarmac in a wind too strong to allow the doors to be opened.
I've been doing a 7 mile route through the woods during the last few days. It used to be a sleepy wood strewn leafy path, but over the last 10 years it has become more and more frequently used and the romance of padding through an obscure trail has been partly lost.  Everything being well this week, I'm looking forward to wearing my new spikes and pulling on the Hawks vest for the first time in a long time.
I made very good progress through Gorky Park over the week and its been the best book I've read for some time. 550 pages for £2.50 from the charity shop. Now that's good value.

Me and Renko

I received another bound printed volume of my past blogs for crimbo from Missus Mac (now known as nana mac). I think this is the 4th or 5th volume I have received as a present. One evening I re-read a couple of these at random. Compelling stuff, as you can imagine! As I read, however, I didn't fully realise how every other entry refers to some sort of injury or niggle and it dawned on me how over the years my body has begun to fail to recover and my running schedule has been dictated by my health.  Indeed, the karate has been sidelined for more than a year now as a result.

I have been suffering from a lateral ligament injury that seems to originate somewhere in my left hamstring. This developed after a misguided attempt to run 20 miles from the metro-centre to my house. It was a steady run, no speed involved, but the wheels came off at Stannington after 16 miles and I hobbled home. Just goes to show that you cant do more than 10 miles on just an empire biscuit and a coffee from Greggs.

At the weekend I attended the Birtley xc relays in the capacity of chief babysitter. There were two vets teams entered. I caught up with a few of the guys and after chatting I realised that they were all crocked in some fashion or out of sorts as a result of some ailment. The penny then fully dropped that as a over 50's runner, injury is routine. Its your training partner. Sits at the end of your bed as you slumber. Gazes at the photos in the frames on the bedside table in the dim light cast by a sleepy moon.

I watched the old boys run around and thought I could do just as well. However, 'probably not' on reflection. This is a long winded way of saying that I subsequently decided to start running through my ligament grumble rather than nursing it. I haven't been doing any distance, but have succeeded in keeping off some of the blubber and I have returned comfortably into the mid 7:30's/mile for short runs. This was confirmed a fortnight ago when me and nana mac found ourselves in Perth on a wet Saturday morning after a very enjoyable and boozy soiree at the Bothy the night before.
We trogged the mile from the hotel to North Inch Park in the rain. Eventually around 250 or so were marshalled to the start of the Weekly Park Run. I set off at a decent pace and was enjoying the cool ionised air, open vista and watching the squirrels shelter from the rain under the leafy sycamores. There were around 7 or 8 ahead. Halfway through I fancied passing the lad I was tracking when I felt the ligament grumble. I pulled up initially and thought about jacking, but elected to shorten my stride a little and hung on for 8th in 20:11. The squirrels clapped heartily.
So this week I have parked the bike up again and have broken out the trainers. I am master of the Voltarol rub-on cream, although I doubt its efficacy extends to more than a mental crutch. Any reasonable medical person would advise against strenuous exercise, but what do they know about the receptivity of a backward and petulant runner.  I took an easy 7 miler yesterday through the woods and will do something similar today.
One of me buddies joked I was now 4th fastest in the house. This is true, but happily I am vying for 3rd spot with chef Linds; but she's coming on a treat. The dark destroyer is at altitude in foreign climes mixing it with olympians and speedy joe has been having a run of exceptionally good results, most recently at Stirling and then last week in Kilmarnock.  Its a funny thing being inspired by your kids, but there we go, Unexpected and as good a therapeutic break as you're likely to get. 
The 2 cross country fixtures that were cancelled in November down this way have been re-scheduled so I might get a chance to get my new spikes dirty. I'll miss the Devils Burden Relays but might have a crack at the Scottish Masters XC. 
On the reading front, after reading the novella 'My name is Lucy Barton' which despite all the blurb I found unremarkable, I plugged my way through the competent but uninspiring offering from Ian McEwans 'Solar' (I know I'm being deliberately critical for effect here). My holiday read is Cruz Smiths 'Gorky Park' and I am making good progress through this russian thriller.  Its just gonna be me and Renko at the edge of the pool!