Watergate 5k: Verdict - Misadventure

Spooling back in sepia history, I can regale you of the Watergate 5k trail race last Thursday night.  I have assiduously avoided these short events, all flat out and no prisoners. I have mainly been preferring to immerse myself in the fell and hill running scene this season tagging along with Speedy. In this theatre of running, if you slow down, or find a stretch of the course tiresome, you can slow down, you can even walk. Yes, you might lose a place or two, but frequently if you walk, the runners behind take this as a signal and they start walking. All very civilised.

I noticed a little while ago that the Scottish Vets Association was holding trials in Tollcross for the Home Nations vets cross country championships. Might I be considered? I realise that this is a fanciful notion, a dopey whim. After all, I reckon on the strength of parkruns alone, I figure around 20th or 30th in the M60 arena. I understand that if the selectors (on my radio) are undecided, they will refer to the Power of 10 website, the 'go to' website for all anorak runners; a website that likes UKA licenced events. A website that doesn’t report fell or hill running races, those soiled off-grid races I have been running all season. Well, 'running' in its loosest sense. 

My addled state of mind figured that maybe it would be an idea to populate my page with a couple of recent decent performances, should I make the radar of the Bo-selectors. I could see them sitting at their desks, pencils in their hair, adjusting their steamed up glasses as they gasp incredulously at my credentials and reach for another gin.

I lined up with Mrs Mac, the Dark Destroyer, a generous splattering of clubmates and another 200 around me. Watergate is a two lapper of a country park. Its not flat, but its not a bad course. It was a lovely night and I was confident that even though I still had Sedbergh in my legs, I could deliver a 19-minuter.  It could be ugly, but it would be my sort of ugly. There was just a suggestion of misplaced smugness as the whistle went and I pulled my cap down to its aero-position. 

A kilometre into the race and the bunch were still shaking out, thinning as we hit a left turn here, a short drag there. I found myself with Lizzie and Stephen sitting just behind Mr G, who was acting as pacer for the night. 

MizBen. arrived at the 2k mark and then there were 5 of the blue and white hoops. I felt ok and just had to 'hang-in there' I thought as I peered through the mist of sweat dripping from the end of my cap over my monobrow. 

I could see the Dark Destroyer just ahead with JJ, a target for those willing and able to move up a gear. However, my legs had other plans and promptly moved down a gear, the axles beginning to creak, the carburettors stuttering as I came over all jangly and heavy legged. I had diesel in the petrol tank and there was no way back. The 'Peth groupetto moved on and I began to lose places. The 4k marker came and went and I was still losing places. I shambled in a slow motion death march to the finish line. It was lined with a thin group of supporters, officials and helpers with groups of the already finished huddled into clans of their club colours, the post mortems already developing..  I glanced at my watch. 20.05. With a first mile of 6.15, I had capitulated to a 6.50 mile by the end of the affair. A sorry mess. But this is what happens when you spend your time avoiding interval training, track and road events. Lets hope that the selectors don't bother to look at the Power of 10 website. Best just pull on my crimplene shorts, refresh the insulating tape holding my glasses together and give it some. If nothing else I will be a target for the Neds, a stooge in a future Still Game episode.

This weekends training gig is Ben Nevis. Its been 2009 since I last ran it on a horrible wet day. Although there is little opportunity of me beating my previous 2:20 time. I was passed by around 40 coming down the hill. It was a poor run. So I have always felt that I needed to return to make a better fist of the race. If I can stay on my feet, I might even enjoy myself.  I will be joined by Speedy Joe.

After finishing Tim Moores Vuelta Skelter and Mr Cadmus by Peter Ackroyd, I am due a new read. Choices, choices. 

 

Sedbergh: Camber Hell

 

We entered the Sedbergh Fell Race a good while ago knowing that it would be busy. The race is the long distance counter for the English and British Championships. We thought we’d have a crack at the latter this year, but in a moment of weakness, or simply good judgement, we bailed out of running the Welsh Counter at Llanberis a fortnight ago. The entry on the wall calendar stood like a monolith among the other fixtures. I had heard of several folk that it was a tough. A ‘toughie’ they described it as in an attempt to informalise it, to infantilise 5000ft of climbing in the Howgills.  

I had ran the Blyth Park run the week earlier and crept under the 20 minute mark, so I knew I was in reasonable shape, but still a little off the pace.It was me and Speedy joe in the jalopy as we hit the M6 going south. We’d been to Sedbergh twice before this year both for middle distance runs. However, we’d never gone deep, never penetrated the backwaters of the range and we weren’t fully sure what to expect. 

 We got off to a sketchy start at the kit check where my checker was taking no prisoners and failed my jacket on the lack of taped seams. The flimsy orange jacket had been with me since thick and thin and seen me over the Stuc and the Ben. However, on a quiet Sunday morning in the Western Dales, it was consigned to the scrapheap. Luckily Speedy had two and I sailed through the 2^nd check, albeit with a different checker. We got our dibbers (to register our locations at checkpoints) and I decided on the backpack rather than the bumbag, adding a couple of flexible water flasks. I also added 3 gels and a packet of oatcakes. Yes, I know they’re about the most difficult food to masticate when running, but I have every confidence in the food choice of my ancestors, and I didn’t have enough space in the bag for a couple of cheese rolls and a hipflask of malt, although God knows, it might have made for a more pleasant run.  

A flat bit!

There were around 350 starters at the Peoples Hall, and off we hoofed. The first 2 miles are a long steep climb to get up the first hill. The paths are for the most part in this area are well trodden and it was a long line of runners I photographed in front of me. Soon afterwards we ascended into the mist. It was a little showery and noticeably cool when the drizzle swung by, but most runners had adopted a single layer strategy and for a change I was in singlet and shorts. I found myself largely with the same group through the early stages of the race, some passing on the up then dropping back on the down, others passing on the down….you get the idea.  We were faced with a river crossing after around 3 miles and my new trail shoes were baptized with full clear water immersion and then a boggy desert afterwards.  

As the miles clocked past I remembered to dip into my runners picnic, a gel here and an oatcake there.  I began to take on water from around 5 miles as we would our way around the slopes of the course. There was nothing flat in the middle stages of the race. We followed each other through the very narrow, hummocky, reedy sheep trails, the occasional peat washout giving way under the repeated pounding of earlier runners. The width of the paths, the irregular grassy surfaces but mostly the awful cambers were exhausting. Cross slopes designed to drain your reserves.  My mental fortitude began to crumple. As I tired, so my peripheral activities came to a halt: I stopped taking photos after a while, then hadn’t even the energy to wipe my legs or check for ticks after the sections through the rusty early autumnal ferns. I heard the occasional bleep from my garmin and after a while I glanced at it as it registered 8 miles. I thought this race was 16 miles and was ready to chuck it. However, even though I had a map, I hadn’t given it a look and presumed that we were at the farthest point away from the start. Our wee group ground on. There was another stream crossing. More squelchy feet. The two Keswick girls slowly moved on ahead and I was joined by some new faces and vests and some I’d been with at the start.  My mind wandered a few times but for the most part my eyes were fixed on the track and I tried to keep my mind empty, which these days is an easy task.

We began a long slow climb around the 10 mile mark and I sat sheltering behind a younger runner. It was a good move and I felt abit more upbeat as we crested the Calf and I hoped that we were on the last leg. Sure enough after a stretch of wide gravel followed by another plod around the side of another grassy knoll. We were in the sun 11 miles and I recognised where I was and it was all downhill from there. I upped my pace a little, finished my water and crushed up the remains of my oatcakes in my sweaty palm in celebration. I hoovered up an early scalp and then picked off another two old timers on the last slope before waving to Speedy as I hit the tarmac. 

It was all over at 3:14 and 14.5 miles and 5000ft of camber hell.  For a change I had run within myself and didn’t feel the need to collapse in a heap or take myself off to a quiet corner for a dry boak. Speedy was 5^th and I was 220nd and 11^th v60 which was adequate. I’ll continue my swimming this week and with a 5k on Thursday evening, It might be quite a low mileage week. We took off armed with a couple of hot rolls, pints of cool milk and hot drinks for the journey home.