The Old Monks Race 2016

It was cool grey and wet morning as I drove through the Tyne Tunnel. Both lanes of the tunnel were empty save for some red and green lights giving it a vaguely post-apocalyptic feel. I was off to the Old Monks Race just outside Hartlepool.
I ran this race for the first time last year and felt I could have done better.
As I passed Seaham and Peterlee, the murk was down and a west coast drizzle was trying hard but seemed to be fizzling out. By the time I got to Hart Village where Race HQ was, the road surface was drying and it was 8 degrees.
I paid my £9 willingly... Thought it was less last year. As a result of all the rain, the course had been changed, so there was no chance of trying to crack last years time. I walked back to the car. With nearly an hour to kill, I opened my new read, the Dubliners, a James Joyce affair having just finished with an offering from Bernard Cornwell. The cars started to arrive and runners began milling around. I like the air of anticipation that surrounds the start of a race and having been at this game for a while, still smile when I observe the odd little pre-race warm up dances and rituals that some adopt. I had a good look around, but failed to see any monks. Not a sign of William of Baschkerville.

Around 300 hardy souls occupied the road and after a brief explanation of the course change, we were off. Half the field tanked down the road before hanging a left. I read once that it was best for athletes to try and get into their pace as early as possible, so I resisted the herd mentality and looked down to check that my sandals were strapped up and my cloak wasn't flapping around too much. That cowl is a right nuisance. It doesn't half catch the wind.
I passed a few slowing bodies as the road clipped up but there were still plenty ahead. We hung another left and it was off along an old muddy track bordered by a row of hawthorn on either side. Having spent all December training off road I assured myself this sort of splodge was right up my street and I almost ran into one or two as they dilly-dallied at gates and steps. If you had been wearing road shoes, you'd have a job on your hands today.
The route took us across a couple of fields and I was looking for the good ground, but everything was wet and soft.  Soon enough we were back on a wide track and I made a vow to catch the short string of 5 who were just ahead, but I could make no headway on them. Then we dropped into the woods and, back on home ground, was immediately on top of two. I recalled from last years run that the next half mile included a couple of sharp rises so I passed one and tucked in behind the other lad who began to pick the pace up again. There was only one grey haired bloke that passed us. On another day, I might have tried to go with him, but today I had no illusions and, in any case, no more go-juice.  The short route was well marshalled and before I knew it we were back on the road and the village was in sight. One lad came up fast just before the finish, but apart from that everyone remained in order and around 4 miles or so after the start was the finish line.

I warmed down around the old church, established in 675AD and was tempted to look in but heard the organ playing, so resisted my first temptation.
Didn't wait for the results as it seemed to take an age last year.  Finished 30th and 2nd v50. A low key but enjoyable event. Given my training I obviously need to look for some more woodland races. I have a few ideas about perhaps organizing one locally, but we'll see. As I got back into the car I changed into some dry clothes. That hair shirt really chaffs.

Portobello Promathon 2016

(photo from Bob Marshall - see link to his site and collection
on the right of the page)

After a sober Hogmanay and having to put up with 15 minutes of fireworks intruding into my beauty sleep, we had a big day out (in an understated way) yesterday, when 3 runners, a supporter and a black lab made the long journey from Northumberland to Portobello seafront for the New Years day Promathon. The event is well organised and well attended. It appears to demand minimal marshalling and route planning, taking the runners up and down the seafront. Its flat and its a toughie. If you accidentally go left, you'll end up in shadows of the urban hinterland and you could inadvertently be talked into buying a car where the avenue of car showrooms and eager salesmen occupy the high ground. If you take a right you'll' find yourself on the beach with the seaweed or even ankle deep in the lapping waters of the Firth of Forth. The water was a glassy calm when we arrived, which meant that the wind was down and we were in for a fastish day.

Around 300 runners had entered in advance. Many looked trim and motivated, some sporting new trainers and coordinated gear. I was neither. I decided on the flats rather than the Hoka trainers and took up a position on the line a little way back and behind the youngster. At the gun, she took off like a rocket and it took me a mile at the first u-turn to pass her, clocking in a 5.50 something for the first mile. Far too fast. The extra ballast I was carrying was soon beginning to tell, however.
I was going well enough and feeling fine for the first 3 miles. Then I felt a drop of speed, like a little pilot light going out and from then on I had to hang on in there to the end. Much pain was felt. I felt the energy dissipating, frittering away, a result of an overindulgence over Christmas and a lack of miles. I waited for the avalanche of runners to come past, but it was more like a trickle, some runners whom I had passed a minute previously.

During the run I tried not to look at the runners coming back, the gymnastic undeniable power of the front runners or the seemingly effortless technique that Kate Avery (women's winner) employed to cover the ground at speed.

I recognised a couple of the V50's up front and while I was some way back, I wasn't an embarrassing distance behind, not too far away and around a minute or so down.  Overhauled by about 5 or 6 runners in the last mile, I finished in tolerable shape in 51st position and collected some raisins and a carton of juice. The youngster landed 30 seconds behind me in 8th place, a very handy run.

Its probably not best to drink concentrate after a race, so after a cool down we cracked open the flask to celebrate the new year with tea. Some runners took a dip afterwards and the cameras from the local news were present to cover the event.

We got back home to catch the end of the local 11k and I was pleased to have made the effort to do something different for the new year.  The pub was heaving in the afternoon and after a couple of hours, I appreciated the stew and tatties that were ready at home. Proper athlete scran.

Exit from the Abyss

A review of the sporting highlights of the year? Well, how short can I make a blog....
Its been a big year in many ways, but a thin year for sports fans. Its been as thin as hair on the baldy mans heid. Injury early doors. Boring.
I think I ran the Signal road relays in Houghton in February and we might have snaffled a bronze in the V50's, but then the season dropped off a modest and poorly lit abyss and it took me till June to think about racing again.
That said, the Sportive Caledonia in May was good fun.
Windy Gyle in June and the Coastal run in July were both run at a canter. A bike crash in August, a hilly sportive and a monster (not in a good way) 10 miler on the new Tynedale course made for a forgettable Autumn.
The Allendale 2 stage hill climb in October and a team medal for the Sherman cup for the cross country made for an improved end of year, although the cross country at Druridge Bay was worth noting just for the sheer quantity of phlegm that it brought up. You've got to laugh. If you don't laugh, you'll cough...
Seriously, though, I've spent December getting out more and more often and just keeping the old legs ticking-tocking over with typically 5 or 6 miles, mainly through the woods. A-coaxing and a-teasing. Pushed the boat out this week with a couple of 7 milers.
So what for 2016? Well, I intend to start as I mean to go on. Surrounding myself with Jaffa Cakes and stroking my new Salomons. If Luke Skywalker can make a come back, so can I. Now that the shoes have arrived (bargain), I'll have to give them a bit of stick.
So, instead of running the local 11k on New Years Day, me and a handful of the family are off abit further afield. Its been a while since I had the Hawkhill vest on and if the rain manages to keep off for a wee while, by this time tomorrow I'll have chalked up my first of the year along the Porty seafront, not far from where my mother's shopping trolley, full of shopping, flew off the back of the bus all those years ago. Trolleygate. They are still finding processed peas in the verge.
The result tomorrow is incidental... its just the 2009 state of mind that I am trying to retrieve, but I'll settle for any year;  Then the Monks race at Hartlepool and the Feel the Burns later in the month all being well...why?....just because I'm worth it. Have a great new year. .

Operation Druridge Bay XC: Lost in translation

Gordon Bleu. It's been a while, but I'm committed to not letting the 2015 season slip away like a piece of flotsam in an ebbing tide. More like something rather more organic floating aimlessly from a sewage outfall.
Funny that, tide is an old german word for 'hurry', but after 2 weeks off with the lurgy and matching hacky cough, there was no hurry at the Druridge Bay Country Park Cross Country. It was blowing a hoolie (hooligan), or as we say in Bohemia, 'der rowdy'. The club tent floor was a wash with a film of muddy waters, not the musician bloke, and there was a huddle of around 10 or 12 in there, although I didn't do a head count. I was outside shouting at them to 'man up'
Eventually around 530 heads lined up for one long lap and 2 very long laps of the course. Not too hilly, but softened up very nicely by the young ones and women. I was so cold, I couldn't be bothered changing to my spikes and just tightened up the Salomons.
I pegged a few runners and plugged along the first lap coming past the finish in 85th from the slow pack. The runners whom Id caught toward the end of the first lap, however, began to come past and after the second lap, the rip current was sucking at my ankles and even though I was making all the right movements, I was going backward, drowning and not waving and was 95th by the second lap. I'm not sure where it was, but not long after there, my misfiring lungs and spindly legs gave way and the engine reverted to emergency mode (from the latin 'emergere' meaning to dip or plunge) and plunge I did, where most of the rest of the club came past in among the other 90 runners and I trotted in 186th or somewhere.
Some of the club runners I didn't even recognise. Has it been that long!?
The cheek of it was I was happy to have cracked the top 200. Well, that sort of performance is not going to stand me in good stead for a run in the Hexham Hobble Hill Race next weekend, but we'll just concentrate on getting a few nights training and see how we get on. I've just about warmed up now, but the running kit and shoes took some scrubbing outside, I'll say.         

old humpy back

Blimey, the cross country season's got off to a right good start. I was on site working in Blaydon last week talking to a couple of lads. When I rolled up in my Ron Hills and Inov top, one said ' fancy yourself as a runner then?..'. Of course I couldn't help myself, puffing out my chest and straightening my old humpy back after walking around like him out of Wolf Hall,  I let it be known that I was 'the north east fell running champion....paused, then added '2 years ago'.....then looked at my nails, scuffled my feet awkwardly and mumbled ' over 50's, that is'.  He wasn't to know there aren't any proper hills in the north east!

But yes, I still do fancy myself as a runner. I understand that as you age, things become less elastic, things, like ligaments and muscle tissue. Bless you.

I do a bit of cycling, but really, I like the raw burn that running gives. Plus you can burn off double the calories in the same time compared to cycling.
The first cross country for me was Tanfield at the North East England Cross Country League. I felt fine for two or the three laps, and still held it together on the 3rd lap to finish in the top 100. There's no joe public running in these events, so top 100 (6th v50) is fine for an old duffer like me.

that hair restorers just not doing it.. 

Last weekend it was the Sherman Cup; A rolling course around the South Shields leisure centre, what it lacks in landscape value is made up in dog sheit around the place. I didn't make the top 100 but that was a result of a tight hamstring (don't get me started) and there being loads of other guys who can run faster than me. I still contributed to the overall team and club performance though, so confidence is good. On the other hand, however, I have plodded, jogged and minced out a (Ron) weasly 4 miles every day this week just to try and ease the tightness. It would probably be a good idea to do some stretching. Over the weekend I've been out through the woods, an hour on both Saturday and Sunday, so not too bad. Four hours of training over the week is not going to help, but you've just got to grin a bear it. Catchy monkeys and all that.
I made myself available for the Scottish Cross Country Relays next weekend for the Hawks 3 weeks ago when I was feeling tip-top, so I need to have a sensible week this week. Do enough, but no more than that.   

Its nice to be out wit the youngsters though who now have caught me up and cruise along on their selfish little upward trajectory of form.....I'm not bitter.....Good to see them running well.
We'll see what next weekend brings. Hopefully, we'll have a team.

Appetite for Elevation

Whitfield. Yes; whose heard of it. Located in a remote corner of hilly and mystical Northumberland the Whitfield community hall was the HQ for the Allen Valley 2 stage hill climb. For those unacquainted with such a cycling event, a hill climb is a time trial up a steep hill....this weekend on the edge of the Pennines.... from bottom to top; no rest; no picnicking.... straight up in parallel with your heart rate and your pre-hired team of paramedics.





The hill climbing season is short and full of woe; about 2 months, September and October. The events are probably akin to a 50m freestyle for a swimmer. I enter one or two events a year to show off the SC Gothic kit and remind myself why defibrillators were invented.  If you are unfamiliar with the joys of rapid lactic acid build up, this is where you need to be.

I arrived around 9ish in the thick Northumbrian mist. The plethora of dead pheasants on the road was a crime. A crime against pheasants. They really need to get this car thing sorted out.

Around 65 had entered the event, a big field for your average hill climb.  You can't ride these events as joe public; you need to be in a registered cycling club.

The stages were two hours apart and I was on at 10.18 and 12.18 and I was number 18. A tidy symmetry that boded well for the day. If I had been 18, instead of someway over 50, it would have been that bit tidier, but you can't have everything.

The first stage was a 6.5k ride with 1000ft of ascent north up the A686. Probably the best part of 20 minutes. The second stage was 2km and 400ft from Whitfield to Keenley, a sharper but shorter affair. Whitfield was soon swamped with cars, marshals, lycra and a great turnout from the local host club.  As I looked around at the older riders, I realised I was disadvantaged. My legs weren't shiny or lathered in exotic oils. More work required on this.
 
I warmed up on the first climb and by the time I had climbed through the cold fog to the sun, I knew that this was not the right climb.  It still took me 20 minutes. As I came back down the hill, the valley below was cloaked in a silent cotton wool. The temperature dropped markedly once into its clammy grip.  Like London in the 1950's, but without the sulphurous bite.

At 10.18 I was off and riding up the right hill. It took me 15 minutes to get my breathing coordinated with my technique and by then I was nearly finished. A long steady drag rather than a hill.  If I had gone steadier early doors and found the right gear and pace, I would have performed better. The road surface was good, it was dry and glorious at the finish marked by the boundary sign between Cumbria and Northumbria. I might have been quicker running it.

The best bit is coming back down and shouting at the folk going up; instructing them to do what you couldn't do 5 minutes earlier.

There was cake and drinks in the hall at halftime, but I couldn't think of doing the cake thing on the basis that the extra weight might rob me of 10 seconds on the second stage. I needn't have worried.

The mist had lifted by noon, the changelings had changed and the green men watched silently from the trees as I struggled up the second climb, searching for the right gear, but really searching for a breather.  It was over before it began and I was soon cruising back down the hill, reflecting that with a bit of training and weight loss, I could do it better and faster.

I watched the last of the field set off at the bottom and heard the comment ' look at him, he's a great climber. Makes you sick when you can see his spine through his skin suit'. And yes, he was trim and super quick up the hill.

No prizes today, but I lapped up the event. Nice to be wearing a number again on a bike.  Well done to Allen Valley for a great club affair.







,

Looking after No 1

I dropped Mrs M. off yesterday morning, well before the start of the great north run. As I drove back in the low cloud I thought about watching the run on the BBC. However, I soon recalled the past coverage of the London marathon and some world triathlon championships. Lamentable. Its either exhaustive coverage on the 3 elites in the front, panning across a handful of fun runners at the back or they're busy interviewing their own so-called personalities. What's the point? Never seems to be any thought about leaving a camera rolling for a minute or two as the club runners come past.

So, after a half a grapefruit and a slice of toast I was off cycling, having missed the crowd down at the running club. The weather was improving and I was set on a couple of climbs. The Gibbet at Elsdon is apparently No.61 in the top 100 of UK hills to ride up. Not sure how they've ranked these, but I've got the handbook upstairs. I've been toying with the idea of entering a few (bike) hill climb competitions, but quite frankly these events are not good for your heart and when I think of the possibility of grabbing glory and skipping lightly onto the podium (an age group related podium, obviously), I bleach at the thought that swings into my head of getting carried off, instead, in the back of an anonymous ambulance. What's more, I suspect the ambulance wouldn't arrive on time. I could be on the pavement for a good while....Better to stick to the riding for pleasure for now.  

I caught up with a couple of lads for a few miles then tailed off right to Elsdon. It had turned out to be so nice, I carried on over Bilsmoor and then turned and came back up the other side of the hill and then stopped at the Elsdon impromptu cafe for a cuppa and slice of apple pie. That's two weekends in a row now and I have sat there chin wagging for 40 minutes or so on each occasion. Good therapy, especially when the September sun's giving it full-on overhead as you sit in the front garden watching the sparrows pecking on the dangling fat balls.

Last night I sat looking at the entry form on the screen for the Dumfries half. However, still no further forward on the fitness front, so, on reflection, more training required. My form can't justify the trip. I need to up my game from the current 30 miles a week. I think a trail race would probably fit the bill at the mo. But then , I wonder if they would have first aid facilities......maybe stick to blogging; safer (at least, in my head)!