A fat lads Sunderland 5k

The lurgy has been hanging on since my holiday. My achilles has also been playing up, but my mantra these days is ‘do what you can’. I had pre-entered the Sunderland 5k in mid June when I was ‘on the up’. However, I haven’t shifted the weight and since my cold, not managed the miles. The evening race on the Thursday night looked uninviting, but the £12 or whatever had been spent, so I was committed.  I had also entered a local 10m time trial at Cramlington on the Wednesday, the night before Sunderland. I knew I was pushing my luck. 

It took me 20 minutes to track down the Race HQ near Cramlington. Armed with my new skinsuit I signed up and took my number to the toilets to pin on. This is no easy feat given the tightness of the garment and its stretchiness. I made some sort of job of it, but as my torso cannot yet manage a 360 degree revolution, I accepted defeat and asked for assistance from a fellow rider as I made my way out of the gents.

I really wasn’t in the mood for 25 minutes of grief, but it could only be better than the debacle that was Newton Mearns (see earlier blog). I was off 2^nd last and it was well after 8pm when I galloped downhill from the start to commence the 2 laps of the circuit. I had no illusions that I was in good shape; However, crossing the line in 24:50min I was pretty happy with the result, my second fastest time of the year.  I warmed down with another couple of miles and made my way home to a shower and a bottle of beer. The skinsuit was fine and in the search for a faster time, I find myself browsing the web for carbon wheels. Crazy prices for what….a handful of seconds?

I felt fine the next day and I drove Marg, Speedy joe and Ant to Sunderland. We were joined by the loz and the dark horse (linds), so all 3 daughters were running. Good to see them all getting stuck in. The Sunderland 5k starts with a ski-slope hill and it’s a 400m giveaway. 

However, it was super-muggy and hot and after 1k I realised I was going to struggle. I saw the back of many runners who, normally I would have expected to beat, but not this evening. It was a PW of 21:02 and I have rarely enjoyed a race less.  None of the others did well and this we put down to the remnants of the cold bug and the recent excesses of our continental trip. While Speedy joe still hasn’t found her mojo, loz appears to have put the bug to the sword with her win the following weekend at the Hamsterley trail half marathon. I totted up 12 miles running over the week but the achilles is easing off, thankfully. I have managed 100 on the bike, however in readiness for the two short time trial events that I have entered in August.  If I get in, it’s a trip back to Irvine and then one to Wigan. To what lengths will I go to deliver a PB on the bike? Quite a way, apparently.

Chamonix Furnace

I have been in dire straits in the last 10 days. Recently my running was on the up and I had clocked 30 running miles in the week mid-June. What I didn’t know on the Sunday long run was that my system was already incubating a virus. A virial cold with some added flu for the craic. By Monday morning my throat was razors and my head was pounding. Take it from me, by Saturday I knew it was the cold from hell. I was talked into going on Holiday on the following Wednesday and kept myself to myself on the plane to Geneva. Once we arrived in Chamonix, I took to my bed, later spending much of the next two days sunbathing under a large open window in the apartment. The flat looked directly onto the main square. There was a row of pizza restaurants underneath us and the buzz of continental late night dining and the clashing of plates and cutlery took a little getting used to. As my condition improved, I took to hanging out the window, people watching. So many people on the move.

There was a running festival on. Fifty nationalities. Seven events including two over the night-time. All of my flat sharers had variously entered the KMV (a vertical 3km up to one of the cable car stations), the Mont Blanc half marathon and the 10k. What with my various ailments, I hadn’t entered any events, and looking out over the balcony through the incredible heat, I felt no pressure and a great deal of relief. We were opposite the post office which had a digital thingy on the wall which made announcements and also signalled the time and temperature every minute. It read 40 degrees on the Friday afternoon. It was like a furnace. Everyone else had had the lurgy to some degree and all were coughing and feeling out of sorts. 

The first event was a 90k run and the runners had set off at 6am. By 3pm they started to re-appear in dribs and drabs through the town and their appearance was marked by sporadic outburst of whooping and cheering by the pizza punters.  

The start of the KMV was from the square behind our block. It was a time trial with runners setting off at 20 second intervals. The paths were impossibly steep and narrow in places. We could hear the clapping and the microphone from the flat…the windows were all wide open to try and keep us cool. We walked past the square and as the dark destroyer (loz) set off and we clapped her on her way, a daft mission to altitude and glory. It took her an hour. She was followed shortly afterwards by Nicola Duncan who I recognised and I told her to work harder. She shouted that she’d done 170 miles the previous week. 

We were kept awake for most of the night by the clapping and the overly energised chap on the microphone. By Saturday morning we were all a heavily sleep deprived. There was an air of grumpiness in the air. Despite this, Speedy Joe was up for the half marathon and we clapped her off from the Park at 6am after a 1 mile walk from the flat. She was carrying enough water to refill Kielder.  The organisers had insisted on this and had initially rejected her jaunty suggestion that a small plastic bottle would suffice.I made my way to the finish up at the PlanPlaz. Ant who had decided not to take part in the ‘Half’ joined me after 15 minutes and the crowd swelled over the next half an hour. The first runner came in around 2:30hrs. The field soon followed and became increasingly ragged, with Cat arriving in 24^th place in a time of a 3:30hrs. Tough day out.    

The 10k was scheduled for 1pm. It also left from the Park. We wandered back to the Park just after lunch and sympathised with Marg and Loz for their impending furnace experience. If anything, it felt hotter than PlanPraz.  After the start, we wandered to the 9k mark and waited for the two to make an appearance. It took an age for the first runners to come through and both loz and marg were completely fried, like the rest of the field as they passed. I have never been so thankful to have passed on this dubious festival experience.

We ate out in the evening in the restaurant next door and it was a disappointing affair. We were hoping for a quiet night, but the muppet around the corner still had his microphone on and was whooping the thinning crowd to an inch of its life. I was generating very negative thoughts as I lay in bed in the evening heat.   It was the novices race and the disturbance extended well into the early hours. Sometime early on Monday morning the microphone torture trailed off and the weather broke with a spectacular electrical storm. 

My condition improved and the high point of the holiday was a walk up to PlanPraz followed by a run back down through the woods with Speedy joe. It was 40 minutes of gravity assisted technical descent and an experience that salvaged my holiday.  

St Christophers TT, Newton Mearns

I've managed a couple of Parkruns in the last month.That's progress. Parkruns are the litmus paper for my running form (and also the climate) at the mo.
There was a toasty humid 5k Parkrun in late May. I finished in 20:22. Not great; not bad. Yesterday, again at Blyth, I ran 21:29 in an adversarial northernly and a grim, driving, salty rainy deluge. True, one half was running with a huge tailwind, but running into rain like that reminded me of the Ben Nevis Hill race in 2009. That was awful. A proper test of application. It found me wanting...and not wanting more. 
What I really want to report in this blog is my mental 6 hour round trip to take part in a time trial in Newton Mearns on Wednesday to ride 10 miles on a course bathed in rough potholed tarmac, long challenging drags and piss poor weather. What was I thinking of? As a (delayed) reaction, I was booked in for another 10 mile test today near Thirsk, but I've come over all Mike and Bernie Winters and forfeited my £10 entry fee and cancelled. That said, Ive saved a 3 hour drive and £40 in fuel by not travelling. My heart wasn't in it. I've simply not being doing the miles. Not been doing the time.

Newton Mearns is a place I lived beside but never visited back in the day around the time when Radio Clyde were established, when Runrig were formed and when we were relative newbies in the EU. My spatial geography of Glasgow is very poor in spite of my two years as a young teenager living there.
I arrived at the Fairweather hall in good time. The sky had been looking ragged and angry for an hour or two and as I unpacked the bike I chatted on with a fellow rider, Lorna Sloan of the Fullerton Club, who was off two before me. She looked older and I wondered if I might catch her. I was glad for once to don my velotoze shoe covers; at least when it poured my feet would remain dry. I was off no. 32.
I rode the two miles in the light drizzle to the start and then spent 10 minutes doing a couple of efforts to try and get my heart rate up. It was unconvincing. Lorna appeared at the crest of the hill and gestured that she had punctured. No ride for her tonight. A portly looking bloke was making his way back from the startline as the rain began to come in. Another puncture victim. The rain was washing fresh gravel onto the road. Small streams appeared in places cutting across the tarmac. The potholes were filling up nicely.
I took off my training top and was counted down. It took around 3 miles before I caught sight of the chap in front, my minuteman, Alex McPhee of Dooleys. The occasional car or bus came past spraying us lightly as the rain continued. I thought I was catching the bloke McPhee, but it was a slow business.
I maintained my focus on the leg back but clocking 15 minutes for the outward leg, I knew the overall time would be slower than a snail on dope. Sure enough, a late 26 minutes was the result and as I collected my wet trackie top I reflected that at least I'd got a ride. I finished toward the top of the bottom of the field again 28th out of 40 odd who finished. I commiserated by stopping for a small fish supper from Hooks fish bar somewhere along a busy road and got home around 12:15am after negotiating a series of night time road closures.
On the positive side, I've entered July's Sunderland 5k which is always fast due to the first 800m being downhill and today I managed a slow and steady 12 miles in the sun taking my weekly mileage up to 24 miles.Happy with that, thank you very much. 
 
 

Smooth(ie) Operator

There were no after effects after a tentative 2 mile outing yesterday and I added 4 miles today at noon in the warm sun. It was all good. It's the first bit of running I've done for 10 days and is a welcome alternative to the bike. Just round the block, you understand. Somedays, it's a bit of a bind to clack around the house in my shoes and plates rounding up my gear and various accessories.  I like the idea of alternating between running and cycling.
Anyway, summers here at last. Anybody else wondering where all our swallows have gone...? 
Galvanised by my new fad, a morning smoothie, I made my cycling time trial debut last weekend on the Sedgefield course in Durham. The course is an out and back dual carriageway affair. I have driven past it for years on my way to and from Teesside and it has never struck me as being that flat....and it was no different on a bike. In a modest field, I was Number 7 and was off just after 2pm. Number 4 was a woman riding for Swift.  Number 5 was a big bloke with all the kit riding for the police cycling club. However, at the start he got into all sorts of dramas as his chain came off 30 seconds before the off and he eventually pulled away half a minute late. This must have disturbed Number 6 who had barely time to get himself settled before he was dispatched. I watched this unfold in front of me, unruffled.
I was keen to do a sub-26. The conditions were reasonable but there seemed a wind creeping around. I couldnt quite establish in my warm-up what direction it was blowing. Regardless, I was counted down and was sent on my way and shortly after getting onto the dual carriageway I saw Number 4 pulling off the course. She looked like she'd had a mechanical.
Within 3 miles I caught Number 5. I then swallowed up Number 6. Passing riders ahead of you is always good for morale. However, having completed 5 races this year, I am under no illusions about my own ability - you just pass the slower riders and crack on. After 8 miles I heard the whirr of a disc wheel and number 8 came past. I was steaming up again in my own shades, but the drip-drip-drip of sweat from my cap never materialised. Was I not trying hard enough?
The return leg of the race involved a slow uphill drag and that, combined with a cool headwind and heavy sky made it a proper battle in the last 2 miles. Remarking to myself on a little taste of sick in the final mile, I tried in vain to stay in touch with Number 8 and finished in 25:22.
In a field of 47 and with 40 odd faster riders in front, I left before the presentation. I did have time for a chat with Number 4. She used to run 35 minute 10k's. I also took advantage of the tea and cake facilities at Cedarfield Hall, the race HQ.
I havent seen the results yet.
On my return Aunt Aggie demanded all the details and after digesting the data, has made it clear in no uncertain terms that I need to get hold of a disc wheel and skinsuit so that I can creep up on riders and whirr whirr them into submission. Maybe she's right.  Maybe she's nuts.
June sees me at Thirsk and Newton Mearns, continuing my quest to shave seconds off a two wheeled crusade that means nothing much to anyone in particular.  The good news is that I have pushed the smoothie boundaries from one to two a day and I'm now fully enjoying the fruits of my labours (get it...fruits, smoothies, yeh...maybe I'll just get my coat).

Inna me khaki suit an' ting

I making good progress through 'Red Platoon'. Its subtitled '12 hours in hell', a story about the over-running of the Keating military base in Afghanistan.  Having recently finished Andy McNabs 'Bravo Two Zero' and 'Line of Fire' I have immersed myself of late in books with a military flavour. I almost finished Conrad's 'Heart Of Darkness', a novella very much of its time (1899) and a novella that is raw and reflects late Victorian attitudes to colonial Africa with all its warts. No wonder the human race is knackered.
Its a long weekend and I am not racing. I have a new floor to lay in the hall and will no doubt find anything and everything else to do rather than apply myself to the task. Its unseasonally cold out there with a northerly blowing the pink cherry blossoms off the trees in a swirling mass of colour and fragility. I might manage the club ride today. Better wrap up warmly.
I have only managed one run last week and will need to consult a physio about my defective calf. Moses had one; but it was golden. Like silence. They will do a bit of squeezing and kneading and suck their teeth as they weigh up my predicament like staring at the seized engine of an old car. They'll recommend a series of exercises. It's dull doing exercises. Maybe I should get back to the weights. Maybe I should just buy 32 inch waist trousers and enter the ballot for next years London marathon, run slowly and get shouted at for being at the back.  I do need to watch my weight if I'm going to make another trip to the Alps on the bike this summer. Not a good look wobbling up the Alpe d'Huez bulging out of my tight lycra with a sweat on. Blubbery Mass.
I had hopes last weekend of keeping the time trial momentum going on a course in Coxhoe, County Durham at the Houghton 10m TT, but it was a bleak day and the course wasn't a patch on the one I recently set new fast figures on in Irvine. My time crept just over the 26 minute mark. Thirty third out of sixty. Not too far down the list. I think a few riders found it a tough day out. At the end they gave me a time of 23:16, and it took me the drive home, wrestling with my conscience, before I emailed them to set the record straight; 23:16...that's like someone giving me a time of 32 minutes for a 10k. In my dreams. Can't believe I actually had a dilemma about doing the right thing. I initially viewed it as a victimless crime. No one was going to miss out on a prize, so whats the harm? The Time Trial organisation have a 'Power of Ten' type website where riders performances are listed and riders ranked, so I had to come clean. Uptown top time trial ranking. Althea and Donna. Wonder what theyre doing now. Nah pop, na style...
I left it late but entered the Cleveland Coureurs 10 mile event being held on the 11th May on a course in Sedgefield, Tony Blairs old stomping ground. I saw a picture of him last week and he looks old. I'm no spring chick myself, mind. I had considered paying the £79 for the Highland sportive Caledonia which is on later this month. I have a subscription to the Scots Magazine which reminds me of my roots while I'm down here in deepest England. The glossy wee magazine that puts a positive spin on all things scotteesh had an article on the event last month and it also contained a 20% off voucher, but its too pricey and with an early start on a Sunday morning, I would need to find some accommodation or sleep in the car.
Anyway, news is a bit thin on the sporting front, but I'll keep you posted. I had a look through all the related blogs and it seems many folk cannot maintain a blog for any length of time. Its a pity. I enjoy reading about all the comings and goings. Maybe I should start doing the twitter thing or instagram instead.

Velotoze Dramas

I have been reflecting on my blog since last weekends 2 part affair. My blog was originally a diary about my sporting life. It was, I suppose, to be about being a runner. A runner with something to say; some news to impart. But life is dynamic. We are all changing. All the time. Ageing. Some more than others. All of us have to adapt to changing circumstances. So the blog has to change accordingly. I'm not the same sporting personality I was 10 years ago. Not even a year ago. Don't take my word for it, just flick a couple of tabs and read my blog from 2009 or 2017.
At the moment, my physiology says 'you're struggling to run, so do what you can'. So I paid another twelve quid a month ago and entered the Stockton sporting course time trial.
I love cycle racing; always have. To a lad like me cycling was always much more glamorous than running...all that man stuff...gears, oil, kit. But the truth of it was (and is), is that I am a much better runner than I ever was a biker. Cycling just caught my imagination more.

I arrived in Bishopton at 8:30am. The sign said it was 8 miles to Darlington. I parked up in the quiet village main street and pulled the keys out. I opened the car door and sat there. The pigeons cooed. A paper-boy in a blue hoodie, hood up, trudged his way down the street wrestling with the various door arrangements and porch apparatus. Sunday papers are mega these days. All that Brexit shit. Most of the curtains were shut. A black cat sat on a low wall. It didn't move. It was either being pensive or was, I thought , a bit bored of Bishopton.  Which was a pity: Feline so disillusioned so early in the day. The main street was old, monied and the houses all different styles. In a courtyard a horse peered out of its stable door. 

I assembled the bike and then rode up to the village hall. The numbers for the event were laid out across a low table and I signed in and picked up my number.  It was a low key affair. As I rode back to the car, the misty damp and still conditions suggested that it might be a reasonable day for a ride.Not much wind.

Digging through my modest kit bag, I realised that I had left my club cycling vest hanging on the bedroom door. I had worn it yesterday for my easy 25 mile Saturday wander. However it never reached the washing machine as it didn't smell. Well, not too strongly. Dreadful personal hygiene, I accept.
As a result, I opted for my club tracksuit top. I was already resigned to wearing tights due to the cold, so no great drama. There was no chance of a personal best.
I put on my cycling shoes, then fannied about with my Velotoze overshoes. These things are impossible feet condoms. Fourteen pounds worth of prophylactic white latex that are supposed to give your feet an aerodynamic edge. They do my head in. I regret I thought I was even fast enough to need them. I tore one of them a little in pulling it on. Would this pin-hole rip slow me down???

All kitted out it was time to crack on. I pretended I wasn't 50 something.  Manning-up, I lined up with the minimal of warm ups and sat behind Nicola of the Boompods club, a top Women's amateur club.  She turned and apologised for her rear flashing light. I just nodded. I had the temerity to think it wouldn't be a problem for me:  I passed her after 3 miles and then passed another two riders. The clagg was down but I was pushing on, grafting. Full quad action. I passed another two riders after 5 miles.  That was five. WTF. The course was very country lane 'up and down'. I was working hard. I had my neoprene gloves on and some amber shades below my helmet and I was generating some heat. Another rider was caught and passed and it was all getting a little surreal. However, I was sufficiently well informed to know that (in relative terms) they put all the slower riders and duffers at the front of these events and I was one of them. Maybe one of the better duffers, that's all (harsh, I know).
The 10 miles came and went and I already had a bagful of scalps. However, from mile 10 to 16 things became a little shaky. I had evidently been writing cheques my legs couldn't cash and my field of vision began to reduce and my perception of the road became all Ken Russell. My amber shades began to fog and I pulled them down a little, peering out above the top of the rim like some Victorian School teacher. Trying to maintain an aero-dynamic position, my head was down, but my eyes needed to see the road and after 15 miles I was transfixed, staring ahead out of the top of my sockets. Was I holding on too tight (as they say)!!. 
Thankfully, reality dawned at 19 miles when number 30 ( a rider that started 8 minutes later than me) came past. He overtook me like I was Mrs Marple on a shopper. The final nail in the coffin was for me to realise that at 22 miles, with my brain reeling faster than a slot machine on auto-pilot, was that this wasn't a 21 mile time trial. How long was this event? I was in a bad-way. I don't even know why I put a hyphen there? The road was getting all wobbly. I had buried myself, my vision was fooked and, mentally, I was down to 10 pence and a packet of space invaders. At 23 miles the finish line arrived, announced by a small collection of fluorescent anoraks with clipboards and I was done. Completely.  Cream Crackered.
I rode back to the car and peeled off my gloves. They emanated small clouds of steam. The good news was I finished 23 miles in 1:04. Only 24th out of 30. The bad news was that I still had to extricate myself from the Velotoze bastard things wrapped around my shoes. The question was ' did they give me an edge?'. The answer was  'only if you're Geraint Thomas'.
Well done to Stockton Wheelers for putting on the event. I caught up with a proper cyclist and bygone star Paul Curran afterwards. He's got a bike shop in Stockton and he's looking at a couple of my wheel sets to sort them out. 

Spring Weekend Part 2: Tom Scott Road Race

We were happy to leave the sub-standard hotel in Glasgow on Sunday morning. The streets were quiet and the sun rising as we made our way to Strathclyde Park in the sleepy hollow that is Motherwell. Thankfully, there were no obvious after effects from my sporting achievements the previous day. We had met the dark destroyer and speedy joe for an Italian on Byres Road the night before. It was chocka. Plenty of disposable income and appetites in evidence.

We arrived at race HQ in good time and Missus Mac went in for the numbers. With a field of just over 350 athletes, the Tom Scott 10m road race is a high profile run. Broadly comprising 2 laps around the lake and with only 1 incline, it has the potential to deliver fast times. My recent training runs have, however, gone poorly. The work in the gym and on the bike have affected my legs somehow, perhaps tightening the ligaments. The flab has also been hard to shift. Nevertheless, I was keen to get my 2019 running (or jogging) account open and 10 miles seemed like a daft enough idea. It was make or break. Having finished Andy McNabs Bravo Two Zero in record time (a really enjoyable read), I was steely in my determination to see this test through.
We set off at 10am. A long line of runners stretched out in front of me. The wildlife in the lake seemed to take this rampage in their stride.  I noticed the presence of a few Hawks vests, but I've not renewed my membership this year and was wearing my Morpeth vest.
I plodded along for the first 3 miles clocking around 7:10min miles. I was aware of the seemingly inevitable tightening of my right calf after 4 miles and the pace dropped to around 7:40min miles. The very warm conditions brought out swarms of mayfly which at times were pretty unpleasant as we wound our way around the lake. I was surrounded by a couple of Perth runners, one from Dumfries and a local Motherwell runner, but I was losing speed as I prayed for the mile markers to come. My stamina was definitely in question, but my resolution wasn't.
At eight and a half miles I had a stabbing pain in the calf and walked it for a wee while, before resuming the final stretch of the race. To be honest, I probably didn't lose much time and finished in 1:12min. All in all, satisfactory.
As I sat on the grass eating my Tunnocks Log and swatting the flies away I mused how antithetical the experience had been compared to my ride yesterday. Maybe I'd best park the trainers for a while.
Next weekends hilly time trial at Darlington will, no doubt, bring me back down to earth. Maybe best to focus on what I can do. Better all round for the morale.  Happily the rest of the team did well and I retired late in the day when we got home to write a less than complimentary review on the hotel in Glasgow and, conversely, a glowing one for the hotel in East Kilbride.