Twist & Shake

Well, if you can't run, sing!  No one ever said that, but at least the breezy physio whom I saw yesterday gave me a few other options.  The swelling over my left knee which I twisted at Goatfell has taken an age to reduce. The first tentative short jogs I attempted 2 weeks ago failed within a mile. 

Last weeks easy biking around Feldy was welcome exercise, but Sunday saw a partial relapse when I pushed things a little more.  

 You can do these exercises, you can go to the gym, you can't run, not yet... 

You can swim, you can do the exercise bike, but maybe leave the real thing out for a bit...

Bin any ideas about running at Blencathra this weekend with all your other old cronies... 

And you probably won't manage the Kirkpatricks race early July... 

Apart from that, you're good to go....to the larder.  Its true I cleaned the bin on Monday. Does that count?.

More time to try and finesse my camera skills (teehee).  A trip to Eildon on Saturday was rewarded with a few great shots, several good ones and several blurry images that have become my trademark. Will try a different camera over the next week or so.

Link to photos at 

https://photos.app.goo.gl/WMSD48dpHxUroxEYA

  

    

Goatfell 2026

This is the third time we've made the pilgrimage to Arran for the Goatfell Mountain race. Organised this year by the new club on the block, Queens Park AC, the weather was ideal, dry, sunny and cool for the 10 mile affair with 2800ft of ascent. 

We stopped at Stevenston on the Friday night, thanks to Speedy who re-booked us after she noticed that we were booked in for the 8th May, and not the 15th. Doh! I might have as well chucked a pile of tenners out of the car window. Hotel accommodation that you don't show up for is profligate buffoonery. 

It was a tangerine and porridge pot for breakies and I stuck a couple of  gels in the bum bag. After Deesides Alan Smith;'s early withdrawal at the previous weeks Ben Lomond, he made an appearance at Brodick and my vision of an casual wander up yon big hill was torpedoed. I held him off for half an hour, but really it was a re-run of Nevis a couple of years ago.  More hill work required.

I ditched the two shoe strategy I had tried previously. It takes about fifteen seconds to change your shoes once you hit the mile run-in on the road and I stuck with the Salomons which have at least a little bounce. As it was, I grafted up the hill and got some snatched GoPro footage for my budding new career in the movies industry on the ascent. 

Soon the fast lads were descending past us, the rapid and diminutive Tom Spencer miles ahead of his Westerland pursuers at the front end. 

I dug out the 2nd gel near the summit and put the camera away for the descent, which was a pity because I might have banked some good footage, but probably of me taking a dive and smashing my recent dental work someway on the rocky tracks.  I must have twisted my knee somewhere on the way down where I managed to hurl myself past six or seven competitors with my pitter-patter stubby legs doing their thing, but three of them easily overhauled me on the last flat mile of tarmac. I hate that road bit! Another 2nd place M60 and 3 bottles of Arran Ale. Musn't grumble. 

Ninety ran. Speedy snaffled first woman, so she got the coffees in. The crisps, cakes and tea were plentiful and we got the ferry back, talking over two plates of something that resembled Chicken Tikka to three blokes who had seen us on the hill. This morning, the knee is still up like a cauliflower, but I'll dig out the frozen peas, put the leg up and endure.        

Ben Lomond Race 2026

Well, it wasn't pretty, but I was pleased and exhausted with this years run out at Ben Lomond. Its taken me four days to recover from the 8 mile combination of forced march and semi-freefall, although as I hugged Dave Allsop's shoulder for a mile or so downhill (before he eventually dispatched me), I caught a glimpse of what I used to be capable of, while realising that my downhilling isn't, now, what it once was. 

Earlier I had tramped up the hill, much of the time with Hanna from Strathearn. Clad in yellow, Westerlands vet Anderson, M60's winner at Dumyat, had started ahead of me and it stayed like that as he disappeared over the ridge at the halfway mark. Oddly, having seen Deeside's Alan Smith mulling around the start, I was waiting for the legend to come past and pace me back up to Westerland; but unbeknown to me, he wasn't running and I spent most of the race resisting being passed by my imagination. 

I made no ground on Anderson throughout the race, but I was stalwartly intransigent in my slow capitulation as I asecended, gathering the vestiges of residual energy from mitochondria who think I should have thrown the towel in years ago. These days, they only manage a grumpy whip-round to help me out. I found myself breaking into short reluctant trots, but only as the gradient permitted. It wasn't convincing. Not at all.    

As Westerlands and me crossed paths near the top, I guessed my competition in the M60 category was about 2 minutes ahead. He was going down, while I was still going up. There was definite work to do on the descent. 'Was I too far back?' I mused as I fed myself my solitary gel. 

Once off the top I was passed in quick succession by 2 younger guys on the steep and heathery section of the race. My grasp on running on heather and reedy grass is slight. As I hit the track, Allsop came past and I sat in for a good while. Having a heavy breather (like me) behind must have done his head in, and he admitted the same afterwards. However, all good things have to come to an end and the elastic snapped and off he went. I came past another guy halfway down the hill and then my tiny mind got excited as I caught a leggy lad in green vest (who we shall call Jason, cause that's his name) on the lower reaches and just before we hit the wide forest road.  The punters and trekkers kindly stood aside and fairly gasped at the agility of an old baldie as I skipped and dodged the rocks and outcrops trying to put some daylight between me and Jason. However, once we were onto gravel and the half a mile run in to the finish, his long stride gathered momentum and he motored past me, darting over the cattle grid a.k.a potential ankle breaking race hazard, to the finish 8 seconds ahead:  1:37 for the race and 30th.  

Now that I've got rid of the Doms, we'll see if this weekends Goatfell Race on Arran can break me. Humph. Speedy won the womens race. Photos (by Marg) at  

https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipMooaTGkdk5E56VBm1F67UjQnA8Ev20c5CYRIeBSlyeO6XlQ0oexuMQkcR7OvjqPA?key=cnVJMHF5dEtFRnYxZm5SUTBicUM0aHZ5TXJ4N29B

Hunters Bog Trot 26

 

I was up early and arrived at the station with 10 minutes to spare. The queue at the coffee stall was 6 deep, so I walked on to the deserted Platform Two and took a seat at the end of the short aluminium bench.   

An older woman sat down 2 seats away on the bench. Her daughter elected to stand outside the refuge on the Platform. ‘Well’, I mused, ‘everyone needs a bit of personal space’. After 2 or 3 minutes the daughter, in her sensible shoes and black jeans, poked her head round the opening and said to her mother ‘I’ve texted you your seat number’, adding, ‘just in case’….. Just in case of what? Was it about to kick off? Unexpected package on Platform Two. Was Travolta slouched in the drivers chair of this Trans-pennine train wielding a '45? Should I expect to see Denzel leaping up the stairs from the station underpass. 

On the train, the trolley woman announced that she and her trolley were on the train serving teas and coffee. She asked us to make our way down to the rear of the train, Coach E. Surely she should be coming to me?

I navigated my way through the gauntlet of slow moving doors and carriages, inquiring faces peering up from their seats. A sea of faces. Some were already tucking into beers and fizz. It was only 7.30!

Arriving at Coach E, the kitchen door was shut, so I knocked on the window. Trolley lady opened up and was happy to serve me an americano, adding that they only took 'cards' for payment. Wtf. Having lost my wallet earlier in the week I was, the day before, in receipt of two new near identical cards. The bank sent me two. I had tried one of the new ones in Lidls the previous evening. It had been declined. But what about cash? Nada. 

Armed only with the other, untested card, the question was ‘Did I feel lucky’? Well, do you? ‘.....No’ was the answer and I made my way, coffeeless, back up the train, simmering, with my tail between my legs. So much for promising to pay the bearer on demand.

I became a bit braver in the St James Centre and withdrew money with the other new debit card from the bank. Probably helps if you put in the right pin. It was a slow coffee in a café and then I dropped off my bag and jacket at half eleven in the bus station lockers. Always a worry that the contents won't still be there when you get back.

I jogged the short distance to the HBT race HQ, a gazebo sat at the edge of St Margarets Pond under Arthurs Seat. It became quite busy and there must have been around one hundred runners who eventually lined up in the sun. 

HBT, the self proclaimed ambassadors of dissidence were asking us to scan a bar code thing and complete a digital entry form on our phones. Whats going on? I said 'I'd rather not' and the lady said she would be happy to lend me her phone to do it. I took her up on the offer.  We're all getting led down a rabbit hole with nothing good at the bottom. Baah.

After the start I was passed by Des C. who kindly advised me that I was overdressed. I got into the familiar walk-run groove up Whinny Hill and tried to make progress, aiming at the wee group of six around ten seconds ahead. After the first hill, I passed one, but then was passed by another. The grass was dry and gradients forgiving, but the downhills were not in any way technical, so I had to rely on my stubby legs to do the grafting. The second hill which skirted Salisbury Crags was steep but short and before I knew it I was bombing down to the finish. Thirty five minutes. Mr C, who had finished, was jogging up toward me on his warm down. I evidently have work to do before Lomond.

I made a couple of new buddies who were also in my age group. They had come down from Inverness and after collecting my bag and jacket, I made my way to the local Weatherspoons and had a good chat for an hour over a pint and a plate of chips with the lads. 

Getting the train back, I heard the announcement over the tannoy ‘Tea and Coffee are available at the end of the train, Coach E.’  Sat in Coach A again, I couldn’t be arsed.  Trolley services; That’s a joke.  Substandard service? Digital progress? Don't make me laugh!  All in all, a jolly good day out.  

 

Jeffreys Mount

On the face of it the Jeffreys Mount fell race looked like an event that might not be expected to tax the system unduly. At a touch under 5 miles and perched on the edge of the Lakes at Tebay, it might have been construed as a likely candidate for a training session. Certainly these days, it would cost around forty quid to get there, such is the cost of fuel and add on tax, but with 2 of us going it made the trip slightly more justifiable and, well, we both need the hill training. This was the nearest workout we could find, short of Ben Ledi or Screel in Dumfries. With an ascent of 590m, it would be a respectable season opener for me. A modest training session. My expectations these days are such that I should be grateful to run any event and I need to pace myself, watch the heart rate and take in a little more of the scenery. However the best laid plans and all that! We sped across the A69 and down the M6 and were parked up in good time. The village Hall was race HQ and we paid our eight quid and got a recycled number. We joined the other 50 or so runners and jogged a mile down the narrow lane and across the footbridge to the start. Jeffreys Mount looked down on us as the sun broke through scattering grey clouds. It was still five degrees and the wind was brisk adding an element of wind chill. The race route has two steep ascents and is a figure of eight. There were plenty of locals from Helm Hill, Eden and Preston. I had my gopro and decided I might do a fell run video. We set off and I watched most of the field disappear over the hill. I was walking soon after the start and in a group with a few grey haired men and a couple of women. We were straight into a headwind and it was a slog, but we were soon past the first checkpoint and swinging north west, just as two of the fast lads came past, having gone left instead of right at the checkpoint. There were a herd of fell ponies on the ridge with the sun behind them, a super silhouette. It would have been a great photo. By the time I arrived they had scattered. I managed to get into a rhythm once we started to descend along a long grassy hollow out of the wind and I passed a younger bloke who said, ‘like your hat’, then added ‘I like the way you wear it’. Quite frankly I detest these west coast fashionistas masquerading as fell runners. They’re everywhere! Not to be put off I gave him the thumbs up and plodded on. It was a good slog across the long bleached grass and then we were swinging round to the second steep climb around a mile from the finish. This was a grassy mega steep affair and just as I began to ascend, Preston John came up on my peripheral vision. He was deffo a man of mature years and we climbed and scrambled the 300m or so of ultra steep climb together, spidering our way up and resorting to grabbing handfulls of grass to combat gravity and pull ourselves up. The hill was close enough to the M6 for me to hear the beeping and the abuse of bored passengers hanging out the car windows as we formed a bright and mental cavalcade scuttling up a bonkers gradient. ‘Fell running *ankers’ came the shout. I got to the crest just before Preston lad and he seemed to slow and I was off after hat man and the girl who had made light work of the hill. I passed hat man again just before the final checkpoint and had a huge tailwind down the final descent. However, once again like a bad dream, Preston John came up on my radar and I opened my stride…and still he came…I sped up…he was still coming….I was now full tilt and there was 50 metres to the line.The heart rate was on max. Johnie boy had to settle for 6th m60. There were five m60’s in the 6 runners around me, such is the sheer intransigence of truculent old men like me trying to prove theyre still someone on the hill. No matter, we shook hands and I was offski to the tea and cake table back at base with Speedy, who did alright. Checking my new heart rate monitor, I was doing really well until the last 400m, so it’s a ‘no thanks’ to having to fend off old gadgies trying to beat me on a sprint to the line.

Superquaich 2: The Farce Awakens

(courtesy Anth Robson)

Sunday saw the return of Superquaich; Superquaich Two. A trigger for an appropriate sequel title: The farce awakens; Welcome to the Jungle: Fury Road , yadda, yadda... 

I had had a pretty poor nights sleep fueled by a late fish supper and a couple of beers, an intermittent sweat about whether the car would be o.k. where I had parked it and the periodic shouty noises in the hotel corridor in the wee small hours in one of Dundees once finest establishments. They keep the windows closed to keep out the streetnoise, but the air-con is a poor second place to fresh air. 

Everything was still intact in the morning and we traveled to Lochgelly and blagged our way into the Marshalls car park within Fife Cycle Park. I had, after all, volunteered to Marshall a couple of races; but, ultimately, we were not required. We hauled the bikes off the roof rack and bolted on the wheels and took in the landscape of tape and plastic pegs. 

We picked up our numbers and watched the women warm up. They were off at 11.30am. A field of around 20 bolted off after the starting whistle and soon were spread out all over the course. There was a short sandpit where Speedy came to grief and a short steep click at the other end of the course, but generally it was head down-erse up along the soft mossy grass.  Speedy did remarkably well to finish 10th and seemed to enjoy the 50 minute thrash.  

I joined in the 45 men in the mens B race. I was feeling abit naff. Another Dundee Thistle rider was in the field and we nodded at each other. There is a gridding system in operation and I found myself on the 2nd row. I can't start quickly and braced myself to be overrun, which I duly was. However, I got into my stride after a couple of laps and a couple of spills and worked my wee sox off to pass and catch anyone remotely near. The course had become well cut up by the time we got on it and it sure was a slog. However, I collapsed over the line exhausted and pleased it was done. 

I didn't wait for the bike wash that was on offer and slinging the bikes back on the roof, we were off and relieved that we had done o.k. 

No medals, but this is cyclo-cross where you can gauge your success by how much of Fife's native clagg you can carry off in your knobbly tyres, the sticky brown mud caking everything in the car and a bit more.

Marg did the fotos and Ant did the videos, so we're not short of evidence that shows that we must try abit harder next weekend at Strathallen.     

Superquaich

Morning All. The big news is that its not raining; well, at least, not at the moment. The running has been patchy in the last month with a poor week following a good week. I find myself having to stop every so often when I'm out. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it in the words of Bueller. However, its more to do with managing my diminished energy resources and trying to maintain the myth that runnings fun in your 60's.  

I dodged a bullet at the weekend when I was due to run the last leg of the Royal Signals Relays for an over 50's team. The course was too icy. ice, ice, baby. I had secretly been out the night before with my ice gun giving it large on the course. However, it's lush to see blue sky and light after 4pm. 

As an alternative, we've been investing in the world of Bikes. Speedy got a new gravel bike last month and I've spent all the housekeeping on getting 2 bikes serviced. This is to ensure that we are in good shape for the 2nd Superquaich, a series of 3 late season cyclo-cross events. 

Speedy opened her account at Falkirk last month. It was a long day but a good laugh. I took part in the B race. I was surprised to see Des Crowe there and we had a right old battle - a battle of the ragged grimbles. This weekend its Lochgelly for Round 2. Should be a hoot. In preparation, we've been out a couple of times now on the bikes. I can see me reverting to a ride today rather than a run. Its a lot more fannying about getting ready for a bike ride than a run, but a damn site easier once you're out. My new years resolution of packing in more races has shriveled in the rain like the gaunt and bedraggled plan it was. Still, running is about the only thing that I can rely on to keep my weight in order, so I can't ditch it altogether.  

Elsewhere I am making steady progress with David Granns 'The Wager', a tale of shipwreck, murder and mutiny. Ahoy me land lubbers. Nearly time for another cup of grog.   

Life's a snowy Labyrinth

The new year has started with an interesting mix of weather. It has carried with it a hint of menace which has developed (in the north east of the country) into something pretty adverse and, for some, downright hostile.  As long as you're not driving and are not elderly or otherwise disadvantaged, its only been a mild distraction hereabouts. We've had to crank the heating up, mind.  

As a confirmed chionophile (who knew?), plodding around the woods in fresh snow brings a welcome change of aspect and I've managed to get out a few times last week. 

This weeks efforts have been much less successful. We have had to deal with the snows frigid icy legacy which offers a challenge, at least in terms of staying upright.  I like to think I know my limitations, but breaking my foot last year suggests that even the most assured off-road runner can misjudge conditions.  

As a sporty type, its an expensive time of year and various club subscriptions are increasingly bloated with additional costly contributions to national bodies in order that they can fund whatever it is they do. 

Checking a website used by several clubs for membership, I noted the average club membership to be around twenty quid with an additional twenty quid 'tax' in some cases for the national body. The fell running membership (FRA) is 16 notes, but as the magazine and website are very good, I don't grudge this at all. I'm never very sure what a tenner buys you for Scottish Hill Running, but an improved website would be welcome. 

At a time when most are squeezed financially from all directions, I find myself looking very closely at value for money. As an old grimble, club membership doesn't seem all that relevant, but if you like to take in the odd race or find that you are interested in masters title races and the like, you're stuck with putting your hand in your pocket. This, coupled with rising costs of race entry, makes for an expensive hobby...and don't even get me started about cycling and the cost of kit. Bah, humbug. 

On a separate note, we arrived in Pitlochry last Tuesday for a fleeting visit in time for a huge dump of snow, but as I was driving and we were staying over in Perth, I failed to embrace the conditions and, instead, found myself stressed out and impatient to leave, lest we got stuck somewhere on the A9. The snow disappeared around Dunkeld and by the time we got to Perth it was freezing rain, which is the worst. 

We also failed to get our entry in on time for the Falkland Race spending all week languishing on a virtual waiting list. Given the fresh wet snow this morning, I doubt we would have even attempted the trip to Fife.  Corresponding races at the Lakes and North York Moors were cancelled, so today its a jog around the woods or maybe half an hour in the gym, or a wee cup of hot coffee in one of our many cafes. Shouldn't grumble really, but I'm old and that's my prerogative. I've binned 'The Go Between' (L.P. Hartley). I struggled with the book when I was 16 and it seems my reading stamina has not improved. Instead I'm giving 'Mr Pottermacks Oversight' by Austin Freeman a go. Apparently its an inverted-Mystery classic - whatever that means.          

Hogmanhoway 5k

We entered Steve Crams newest race, the above named 5k. He had secured most of the Newcastle University Estates roads and some of Newcastle City Streets for this evening affair in deepest Midwinter. 

The number of entrants had swollen to around 1800. This probably reflected the need for many folk to do something other than getting bladdered and eat stuff on Hogmanay. There was an accompanying elite race with around 15 in the mens and the same number in the womens races. I was not surprised to have been passed over this time for the elite race, what with just getting over the lurgy thats going around. It s been some time since I did sub 15 (like never). With a first prize of two grand, there was no shortage of fast lads and lassies who flew around the 3 lapper. The plebs on the other hand were asked to experience a different course. It was quite a tortuous affair involving swithchbacks, sharp turns and so on. This baffling circuitous route was countered only by the relative flatness of the terrain. Twenty quid got you a number and a medal, buff and 'goody bag' at the end. There was also alcoholic and non-alcoholic warm mulled wine which was very welcome, given that the temperature was a midgies-didgie over zero degrees with a perky biting northerly wind. Still on the recovery path, I was hoping for a sub-21, but it was going to require a bloody minded effort. The consequences of failing to do a sub-21 were that I would do a 21 something, so the vapour clouds which I exhaled probably gave off an air of algid apathy. I didn't bother to remove my tights and kept my woolly hat and gloves on. 

We watched the elite race, which was entertaining. I tried to run along parallel with Beattie as he darted his way to a sub 14 minute win, but even at a flat out sprint effort, I was dropped. We lined up at the Civic Centre and I dumped my trackie top, tying it to a handrail. The bloke on the microphone was trying his best to keep folk jovial as they stood outside in the refrigerator and slowly turned blue, but the wait soon came to an end and it took me only 10 seconds to get over the start line. I was joined by Mike from the club and we ran together for a while, before I pushed on ahead. However, he was, I suspect, sat just behind me and not breathing quite as hard or gurgling along with a chestful of mucus, unlike me. The field went back and forth, round, up and down the streets, the super-cooled wind channeling between the buildings to give you a helpful push or an unwelcome dose of wind chill and red nose. Around 4k, Mike came past me. However, I didn't chase him as I was done in and also unsure how far into the race we were. Turns out we were just about done and he crossed the line around 10 seconds ahead of me. It was a sub-21, but only just, and after waiting for Missus Mac, who went sub 30, we repaired to a hostelry for a modest imbibement. It was a surprise that we could get served straight away on Hogmanay, and this probably shows how frail the hospitality business is presently. Either way it was a good event and one we might do again next year.

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.