North East Harrier XC League Wrekenton

 

There was slight concern expressed by the Club hierarchy that the turnout at the Wrekenton Harrier League Cross Country fixture today might be less than adequate. In the 1960’s if this had been Gotham City running club, a yellow image of a bat would appear in the night sky. These days its more a case of a message appearing on the Club group chat of Whatsup. As it was, I needed 6 miles to achieve my 40 miles for the week, so it was no effort to combine a bit of work on the Sunday Morning with an appearance in the Gateshead badlands to ensure the club men didn’t fall short of the 6 counters needed to finish a team. 

After a site visit to Sunderland, I arrived at the race field in good time as the rain began to stop. The course is a large swathe of rough grass and shrubs dominated in one corner by a poorly concealed colliery pit heap. Dog walking country.

There is plenty of parking in the estate nearby, although I percieved a slight air of menace never far away, the loud throaty growl of cross motor bikes being ridden by a few of the locals echoing off the houses and shuttered shops from time to time. 

After a park run the day before, and seeing that we had probably eight runners in attendance, I was happy to start toward the back of the slow group and plod around the 8k mile course. It’s a 3 lapper and a run around the grass would do me no harm at all. 

The women, who had run earlier, recommended spikes and I was pleased I had taken their advice on board. There was no particular dramas to report other than my lace came loose at the start of the 2^nd lap and I had then to spend another 5 minutes re-catching the runners I had spent 10 minutes, previously, passing.   

I was predictably passed by 4 or 5 on the finishing straight.  This included a south shields or sedgefield runner who was clearly vintage and had no place trying to beat me to the line. If I see him again, I shall attempt a reversal. As it was, I happily met my 40 miles for the week and nipped into the Ridley Arms for a Guiness with my laptop by the fire to record my thoughts  before the images of the days visual spectacle began to fade. 

Gibside Fruitbowl

 

I spent the weekend considering doing the Brampton to Carlisle 10 miler. There were nearly 900 already entered. The forecast looked increasingly promising, dry with a slight tailwind for this point to point and slightly above average temperatures for November. However, by the time I had made up my mind and got on the site to enter, it was full. This left me at a loose end. 

In my efforts to cram in as much plodding as I can manage (I’m not capable of running sufficiently fast these days that there’s any reasonable risk of me injuring myself), I scanned the race websites to see what the options were. 

Gibside Fruitbowl. Located around 40 minutes drive from me, it’s a seven miler around a Country Estate on tarmac and gravel tracks. Speedy is out injured at the moment, but she said she’d come along and we were nearly first to arrive armed with 2 dogs.  

I picked up my number and spotted Redman of Sunderland Harriers as I pinned on my number. He nodded acknowledgment. We’ve had some good ding-dongs in the past years and I thought he wouldn’t be far from me at some point in the race. 

Around 200 lined up for the race and we set off, the day calm and the sky a heavy grey. The tarmac was heavily pitted and rutted in places so I had to watch where I was placing my feet. ‘Feet, feet’ I repeated to myself. I was wearing the Asics trail shoes I had worn when I broke my foot in late April, so I was wary. Suspecting the carbon plate and thickened sole for exacerbating a foot rotation that bit worse, I had to ensure there was no repeat. /

After around a mile, the field thinned out and I found the Sunderland runner about 50 metres in front. I was feeling good and decided to sit behind him. On one or two of the inclines (and, on this course, they certainly were proper uppy-downy affairs) the gap reduced to a few seconds, but he was effective on the descents and I knew I had a race on my hands. He picked off a few runners. I picked off a few runners. I was still behind him at 6 miles and fancied my chances with a final sprint, but at the top of a short, sharp incline, I heaved and had to slow to regain my composure. He had looked back a few times and so there was no chance of the element of surprise.  He pulled a good few metres out of me after 'heavegate'. Ever the competitor, I had half a mile to make an impression, and it was 10 seconds on the line, but still 5 seconds behind by chip timing. An excellent race and nice shoe bag and sweeties at the end.            

Templeton 10 miler

We drove up from Tinto to Dundee and spent the late Saturday evening walking around the shops. I bought some Homer Simpson socks from Primark. We got to the hotel and found out that there were no dinner slots until 8.15. Far too late. Speedy went out for a jog and I googled various eateries in the area. However, I concluded that we could be wandering around the town for ages and so plodded down to the restaurant to see if we could get in any earlier. I approached the affable young lady at the lectern beside the bar and dining room. I inquired when was the earliest we could get in. As I waited for an answer I glanced round to see only 3 tables occupied. 'Well,' she said 'we could fit you in now if you like?'. Yes, indeedy. 'Ten minutes will be great'. This gave me time to lop back to the room and gave Speedy the heads up. We were dined and done by 7.30. Nice. 

The following morning it was gloomy and grey, which is unusual in the land of the Silvery Tay. We were early at Clatto Reservoir race HQ. We watched folk coming and going from the car. Cheap entertainment, running sardonic commentary throughout from yours truly. It was then out and up to the start with the briefest of warm ups. 

Clad in green and white, Fotheringham from Perth was the one I thought I could track and within a mile of the start, I was sat  around ten seconds behind him. I was running with a tall younger chap in bandana, and I hid behind him sheltering from the side wind. 

As the side wind turned into a tailwind I was overdressed and feeling the previous days' exertions. At around 5 miles I slowed and bandana man moved up to the Perth runner and I found myself going all grumpy and muttering like Mutley as I saw the wee duo move ahead. It was a 30 second gap and I was on my lonesome, the gap lengthening with every mile. At 7 miles Perth put on a burst on a downhill stretch, leaving  his compatriot behind, but I was foundering and treading water. I was passed at 8 miles by a Carnegie and then just before the finish by a grey haired triathlete. 

It was 1: 14 for this hilly 10 miler and, with that time, I didn't have to stay for any presentation.  Instead we grabbed a cake and cuppa from the generous spread put on by the Dundee Roadrunners and cleared off south. Good mileage for the week. Get me that Mountjaro. Those Homer Simpson socks clearly didn't have the desired effect.

Lost Breakfast at Tinto

Crikey. Carpe Diem they say, though they don't know what it means. It means that if you have the energy and inclination, you can shoe horn in two races over the weekend, rather than one. Now I realise its foolish, only a dummy would think that this is a good idea, especially when you're in your later years. But if you accept that you've only got a single good run in your legs at any one time, you have options. You can race one, jog the other, you can ease your way through both, or simply jog both. The case for hammering yourself two days running is a poor one. As it was, I had a wizard idea. I would do the Tinto Hill Race on the Saturday and the Templeton 10 road race on Sunday. Both were pre-entry and I had put down good money for both. I had also booked a hotel in Biggar and then one in Dundee for what emerged as a wee misadventure. Speedy is abit laid up at the mo, but she was game and provided some company and the foties on this mad-cap foppery. 

After a wet 2 mile shake down (or is that shake up?) we cruised round Biggar window shopping early on Saturday. It was dreich but passable. We then nipped into a cafe for a modest breakfast. I asked for black pudding and fried egg and tea. This was to add to my earlier coffee. I reasoned that with 2 hours before the event I had ample time to digest the best of lowland scoff. We rocked up in the car park and I parked on the end of the row to avoid a bog-down scenario of team Volvo. With my number firmly pinned on, we joined the throng walking and jogging to the base of Tinto. I couldn't find my iRocs, so went with a pair of old Salomon speedcross with worn studs, so a fast descent was going to be unlikely. No matter.

There were may 180 or so warming up and down the red gravelled lower slope. I went with 2 layers. We set off and I thought I'd play it be ear. As it was I was walking quite soon after the start with Murray from Teviotdale and Crowe just ahead. Alan Smith was just behind, so as we ascended, I was under the misapprehension that I was, maybe, 3rd. There was no sight of Gilmore or the Hartfell Chap who frequently finishes close to me. Smith got past near the top and then Dark Peaks Joe Blackett came striding past. I have ran against him around Yorkshire previously and I stuck with him.  We rounded the cairn and trig point and the decent came into view. I took it steady, sitting in behind Dark Peak as we descended. Toward the bottom of the steep section I caught Alan Smith in view and decided to go for it. Passing Dark Peak I was up and past Smith in double quick time; I presume he was jogging in. However, I generally adopt a no-looking back policy and envisioning 2 crusties in tandem behind me waiting to spring past, just before the line, I predictably hammered it. As I neared the finish line, the oily fusion that was breakfast conspired and the contents ejected themselves in 2 or 3 gushing dark brown mouthfuls as the line was crossed. It wasn't a good look. Its happened before in Glasgow.  

Was it all worth it? Apparently not, as there were at least 2 or 3 other M60's that I hadn't recognised and who were having a much better and faster day out than me, so it ended up around 7th. The price of a lost breakfast. 

This is, purportedly, what's happening now. The tight wee group of vets that used to fight it out for podium places has been usurped by youthful incomers; youngsters who have moved up from M55. What a brass neck. However, there's no doubt that my late breakfast buffoonery will have to stop.