DribbleValley 10k

I had a very pleasant Christmas, Thank you. Pressies all over the shop. Including a crisp pair of bamboo socks. Turquoise in colour. 

I indulged somewhat, as you do, but with the Ribble Valley 10k creeping over the horizon, I didn't overdo it.  

Sunday duly arrived and we were off sharpish, making our way down past Skipton and Gisburn to Clitheroe. I had planned to try and crack 40 mins for 10 kilometres before the end of the year and I identified this race as the likely vehicle for my attempt at this lung busting, misguided feat of endurance. The course had a reputation for fast times and a stellar field, so surely I could do something there. Anyway, as it was, I ran sub40 last month at Heaton, so the trip to Lancashire's best known 10k was a no-pressure event. Supposedly. Fifty quid in diesel and a 6am start said otherwise.

Speedy and Ant were in attendance and arriving in good time, we parked up around half a mile up the road from the race HQ. The toilets were clean when I paid a visit which was nice. The field of around 1200 were soon in evidence, the closed roads and abundance of weaving athletes warming up causing some mild road rage among the locals. As the field assembled at the start I began making may way toward the front of the crowd. However, I met clubmate Rob coming back from the front and we chatted before the off. I thought there were about 100 or so ahead of me, but as the gun went bang, it took me around half a minute to get over the line; we were still jogging/shuffling after a minute or so. There was no room to get round, the pavement was busy with punters and I realised I had made a fundamental mistake. As we descended into a dip and over the bridge, I caught sight of the field ahead, a mass of humanity in running vests climbing the drag in front. There must have been around five or six hundred in front. It took well over a mile to find some space to settle into my pace. The first mile over the snaking country roads was in excess of 7 minutes, the second a shade below that. There was a breeze ahead, but plenty of groups of runners to skip between as I worked away and I certainly had my work cut out.

I caught sight of Rob around 20 seconds ahead and thought he must have had a similarly baulked start. 

After halfway, I was waiting for the long slow downhill, but it never materialised. It was like running in Cumbria - short descents and short rises. I missed the 9k marker and was pleased to find myself on the finishing straight. I crossed the line, glancing at the digital clock at the side. 41minutes. Pants. My last 4 miles had averaged 6.26's/mile, But I had paid for the poor start. As I lay on a low wall by the side of the road wiping the slaver off my face and trying to recover, I mused that I had lost perhaps 40 seconds or so fannying about early doors. No matter. It was a decent 10k that, perhaps next time, should have an A and B race. My turquoise socks hadn't done it for me this time around. Even though I thought I'd worked them off.

Speedy delivered a 37 minuter, so not a disaster, but it was evident that we hadn't perhaps responded well to the course, our expectations had been a little high and the wind wasn't kind to us. 

We repaired to the car and made a quick getaway, stopping at the Gisburn Cafe and Deli for coffee and tasty warmed buttered scones. 

Meanwhile, back home, there's plenty of washing to do and I've just hung a load of washing out on the line. But a bit of bad news. Only one turquoise sock made it out of the washing machine. I suspect there is a hub of borrower sized sock freedom fighters around here and the close knit highly trained network spirits away socks to who-knows-where at any opportunity. Its either that, or its the old urban myth; that socks in a washing machine induced swirl can create their own black hole. What an enigma.

On the Book Report: Carl Hiaasens 'Skin Tight' was very good. Its my first foray into the world of Inspector McAdam in Last Man Standing by Dalgleish. Wonder if his socks disappear        

  

  

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.