Simonside Cairns Fell Race 2025

Its pure Pixar, innit.....?!

I had a good trawl through the results from the previous 10 years or so and couldn't find any with my name on. Later, Speedy advised me that we had run a re-scheduled Simonside, meant to be run in December 2021, in March 2022. Then I was 10th, finishing in 1:40. I vaguely remember the poor field (40) and relative unease after that race - I think we were just getting back to normality after the Covid debacle. Anyway, I was surprised at how few times I've ran this 11 mile race, especially as half of it takes in my Simonside, my training ground and the nearest location that offers topography which might provide some semblance of mountain running terrain. 

Speedy is still out of sorts, but still took time to accompany me to Rothbury with 2 marginally dysfunctional dogs. 

Around 80 had turned up at the hall including some Penecuiks, a Dark Peak and a sprinkling of Norhams and Teviotdales. No Carnethys that I could see this year, but plenty of Saltwells and Elvets from south of the Tyne and, of course, loads of NFR's, the local fell running club and in the ascent, members-wise, it would seem. I said hello to Adam from Wooler whom I hadn't seen for years. 

We set off out of Rothbury and after a mile I passed Teviots Murray and the Penecuik Runner, Ball. There were plenty ahead, but unlike last weeks Hexham Hobble, I felt good. 

As we made up and over Simonside past Lordenshaws, I hopscotched between runners, trying to keep out of the stiff headwind as much as possible. After 4 miles we changed direction and it became a sidewind. It was super-mild, though and I had only a thin white Tshirt on.  I continued to catch runners, passing perhaps 4 or 5 on the moors. The terrain, between mile 4 and mile 8, was testing, with a mix of heather tracks and wet reedy grass. The duck boards over the boggy ground were lethally slippy. The greasy hummocks of grass waiting to ambush you as you tired. 

I forged ahead, feeding on a gel at 4 miles and trying to continue to track down some of the runners ahead. I was tracked closely by Duff of NFR, so had to push hard and caught the first lady around 7 miles. At that point we hit the high ground and with 4 miles to go, I was on home territory. I reached for a second gel. However, my eagerness to gel-up coupled with some inattention was rewarded by a fall early once we were onto the slabs, but that was a result of me turning on the peat which I knew had been dry all year, but with recent rain was unusually yielding. I dusted myself down and fairly hammered back along the path and down the various sets of zig-zaggy sandstone steps, my wee legs going ten to the dozen and putting taller less certain runners to the sword. I was stoked. 

I moved up the rankings well in the last few miles, almost all of it downhill and although a young Elvet lad tried to overhaul me near the finish as we re-entered Rothbury, I told myself that it was important to apply myself - at the time, all I could hear were the footsteps padding on the tarmac behind me, and for all I knew, there could have been loads of the blighters waiting to pounce. In all my excitement I realised that Adam might be in my age group and that I hadn't seen him all race. He must have been well ahead and won the M60 cat. I was happy enough with 2nd finishing in 1:41 and realising that I had enjoyed the event and had had a good run.  Thanks to all the marshalls and Speedy for the foties. 

Some photos from yesterdays Simonside Cairns Fell Race (catmacd) link - https://photos.app.goo.gl/PHoLmeCMmtbZVnjP6

Hexham Hobble 2025

Another weekend, another race. This time around it was the Hexham Hobble, a 10 mile trail affair held in Allendale in deepest, rolling Northumberland.  The course is relatively tame once you get the initial ascent out of the way. 

I was accompanied by Missus Mac and Speedy and two dogs. The posse took off soon after arrival to take snaps while I fannied around in the toilet queue. There was no warm up for me, which was a bit of a mistake, as the steepest bit of the course is just after the start and it took me several minutes to get the old ticker going. By that time, many of the 150 field were somewhere up the lane, and no doubt some M60's with them.  I eventually got going and clawed probably ten or so places back.  

I had a gel at 5 miles and stopped to strip off a layer and my gloves. I am terrible at being over-dressed. However, I caught two more guys in the last 2 miles on the descent and I finished with a little in reserve, which was nice. 1:27, 43rd and snaffled 1st M60 by a commodious margin of 3 minutes. 

At race HQ, there was a one-cake per runner policy, but I thought this rather dogmatic. 'If you want cake, you simply have to run faster', I mused, so I had 3 cakes; but then, feeling a bit guilty (not really) I gave the nice tea ladies a fiver as an inducement and grabbed another cuppa before fleeing. Nearly another 40 miles this week. Getting a bit sick of the rain and dark nights though. 

KB 5 Mile Road Race 2025

 

It was another crazy mini-adventure. A couple of weeks ago I got the train up to Edinburgh. I left my change of clothes in a locker at the bus station and had myself a gallus wee 10 mile jog around the place picking up the old Meadowbank Velodrome (no longer there), Duddingston, Portobello and Leith. The rain fair pelted it down as I tried to make the best of it. Somewhere along the way I came across a big roundabout with an underpass. There were a couple of gents under one of the bridge decks and you could smell the exotic baccie before you saw the figures. I elected to go around the other way, but couldn't find a way out and ended up running past them. After that, strangely, my run became much more enjoyable. Anyway, I digress. 

This time around I did the same, taking the train north and lofting my wee bag into a locker. I jogged down the 2 kilometres to the Kings Buildings somewhere on Mayfield Road. It was pretty chilly and I had a new towel which I bought at Primark (£3.50), 2 lightweight tops and my Mizuno road shoes. 

It was quite a job to find the race HQ in the myriad of buildings. Once inside the correct building, we were directed through a series of corridors and down stairs, through doors and into the bowels of the intelligentia. The wee warm room in the Maths department served as race HQ. There were a couple of young people handing out numbers. The running variety, that is. I marveled at the various equations left on the white board. Complex and murderous algebra that I never dreamt existed.  Vectors and Eigen values. You know...all THAT stuff (raising eyebrow emoji). After a short time, I grew weary of the linear transformation business and sat down to put on my shoes and pin on my number. I kept my tights on. It was a 2 layer day. 

There was a slow stream of runners appearing, and as we amassed at the start, I estimated around 40. Quite a disappointing field, size wise. I wasn't feeling the love and started slowly. After a mile or so I warmed to my task and continued over the cracked slabs, dodging cars, dogs and loose wet leaves on the pavement. I passed a couple of guys from Lothian and, at the 3 mile mark, I caught a lone Forres runner. She looked like she'd started a bit too fast. 

I careered around the Braids and was feeling o.k., but around 4 miles I heard some heavy breathing behind me and it was one of the Lothian guys tracking me down. He passed me and I couldn't respond up the final long drag back into the University complex. He took 15 seconds out of me at the end. However, I was pleased to go sub-7 for the first time since I broke my foot, finishing in around 34 minutes. The top 3 got a box of Fox's biscuits.  

I jogged part way back toward the City Centre, then dived into a cafe for salad and chips, a cuppa and a warm-up. Later, I wandered down Broughton Road for a pint - once I'd changed my clothing and warmed up. I was still wearing my towel around my shoulders. They really are effective at keeping your neck warm and the heat in, but I believe its a look that's been left in the 70's. Do I care?  Probably not.

Got a busy train back at five in the evening.  No results yet. My pet hate; but we live in hope.          

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.