Cleveland Wheelers Hill Climb 2017 and the 'poles

Roll up, roll up, read all about it. Man cycles up hill, is 10th last from a field of 45; claims small victory. Beats 14 year old by one second. Cause for celebration? 8mins 31secs. 35th out of 45 starters. The small victories are the precious ones. It was a much more disciplined ride yesterday at Claybank up the Jurassic scarp of the North York Moors. Off the seat for a full ride almost and just stared at the road until the end. In the rain. Like Pedro Delgado (only 30 years older).
I cannot recall if this is the 2nd time I've ridden the event or the 3rd, but I was surprised to see that the first time was 5 years ago. I didn't realise how long this sort of asinine stupidity had been going on.
Other than Sundays Tour De Trossachs (yes, a real event; a 28 mile hilly time trial that includes the Dukes Pass at Aberfoyle), I have no more two wheeled escapades planned for the year. I feel the need to dig out the trainers and get some more running done, now that the Achilles is sorted. There's a perfectly good cross country season out there.
The tadpoles are nearly gone. I've fed them and watered them most days from early June. Some (that are no size at all and look like a 'snotter' with legs) have insisted they leave the garden post hole a.k.a 'puddle' and forage around and about. I've even almost stood on a couple (or the same one). Since the sad demise of my old running partner, meg the dog, a month ago at the ripe old age of 15, we have had some cats prowling around. One has been in the house twice now, uninvited. Best keep the doors shut.
I have completed the 'Canticle for Liebowitz', a sci-fi classic and one of my dads favourite books. I have moved onto 'The Old Ways' by Robert McFarlane, a kind of travelogue. Halfway through, a steady read, not much going on, but very nice prose. Happy October!

Sunderland Hill Climb 2017

This is the face that you need to pull in order to finish 4th last in a hill climb time trial. As a vet in athletics over the last few years I have been described variously as a 'good club runner', pretty decent (or was that pretty vacant?) and 'a good hand'. My recent demise in the running scene has not gone altogether unnoticed, I think I'm glad to say. According to sources, I am still struggling with an Achilles injury. I would guess that if I pulled the trainers back on and began to wrack up the weekly miles again, I could dovetail myself into the top 5 in my category in most races, be it a fell race or a 10k. Not so with cycling. I have spread myself thin this year, with some running, the karate and now the cycling and, with the bike, at least, it shows. True, hill climbing is a particularly masochistic sort of activity, but the seasons short and I punish myself with only one or two events a year.


Weight is the key. Weight and power. Power to weight ratio and all that. If I eat less rubbish, I might get slimmer, lighter. Yesterday, working from home and still in my dressing gown at eleven in the morning, I found myself under the stairs with the lights off scoffing a Danish pastry like Billy Bunter. If I couldn't see myself eating it, I wouldn't know I had. Heart rate has also got something to do with it. As an oldie, I strongly suspect I can't get the heart rate up to what I used to and therefore fail to pump the oxygen round my veins and hearteries fast enough. Some sillyologist will no doubt tell me different.

The first of this years paingivers was the Sunderland CC two stage event at Kibblesworth near Gateshead. I set off too fast and then spent the rest of the first climb in oxygen debt and only just managed to retrieve my technique for Jack Earl, the classy cameraman ubiquitous at these events. Its worth the £10 entry fee just for the photo afterwards.  A good pose is critical when a camera is around. Its all about the ego.

I was lying 4th last out of 50 after the first stage. I comforted myself with the thought during the 2 hours break between stages that only people who think or know they're good at going up hills on a road bike enter these. I peered into my coffee at race HQ, willing the caffeine to provide some miraculous improvement in the 2nd stage, but I would have settled for being 5th last. For me, however, it seems to be a race to the bottom. If I sound depressed or despondent, don't worry. I actually find a good moan very good therapy. I would be in a category A prison for the times I 've beat myself up mentally. It's the only way to squeeze something more out of the system. The second stage was a much shorter affair on smooth tarmac for the most part. I set off steadier and simply tried to keep a rhythm going. The finish was just over the crest after half a mile and allowed riders a little respite and a sprint to the finish. As the results came back I found that I had indeed improved, but failed to move up the rankings, and left knowing that improvement is required. I was, however, sanguine about the whole horrible business, feeling a sort of perverse satisfaction that I can bury myself, compete and not be desolated about finishing well down the pecking order. Better than dressing up in sackcloth and dishing out lashings of flagellation.

As some solace I was 4th O50, but then there were only five in the field. I am looking forward to this weekends climb at Claybank near Stokesley. I used to train there when I was a teenager. I remember being sick there one Saturday morning after my first beery night as an under age drinker. Oh, fond memories. The even better news is that there is a 60 year old and a 70 year old riding in the 60 strong Cleveland Wheelers Event, so there's hope that I can improve on 4th last. In the words of Jason Kenny, "I started training again and I thought I might try a bit of a comeback. I did a couple of efforts and they weren't great results, but I felt like I did when I was 18. I felt refreshed." So here's to feeling refreshed.

Alpine Adventure

I'm not long back from a week in the Alps. I, like a cohort of other 50 something men, felt compelled to experience the grief that bike riders in Le Tour and the Dauphine Libere face. The pain comes from exotically named climbs like Le Galibier, Le Col d'izoard, Le Col De Bonette and others. These mountain passes have a mystical reputation among cyclists. There's nothing much to match them in Blighty.  I travelled with Mr M. He's not a huge cyclist but is a couple of years older than me. He also felt drawn to tick this slow burner off his bucket list. I was also keen to try on the new Gothic mash up jerseys which look great (even if I did the design myself).
We arrived at Nice, where we picked up a Clio estate after a false start with a fiat. We shoe horned the bike cases into the boot. It wasn't exactly commodious. There was barely enough room for anything more. He had booked a Focus estate, but the hire company advised that they had none. Breach of contract I would have said (or check the small print), if my French had been any better.

Nice is mega busy. Its getting a new tram down the high street just behind the promenade, and trying to find a parking space late at night was a near impossibility. At least their tram looked like it went somewhere useful. It's chaos in the town.

The next morning we took off after a coffee and croissant to Jouliers, a two hour drive into the Alps. We parked the car in the village and after a pretend steak (reconstituted mince) and sad flaccid chips washed down with tea au lait, we set off up the Bonette. This is the highest mountain pass in the French Alps at 9000ft above sea level (three times Ben Nevis, nearly). As a relative lightweight, I was soon some way ahead of my buddy and climbing steadily on smooth roads. These climbs are long steady drags with frequent zig-zags to reduce the gradient. They were formed so that you could get your horse and cart over the mountain in yon olden days, so nothing desperately steep or arduous. However, this beast went on and on; and on and on. I spent 2 solid hours going up into the sky. I noticed the air getting thinner near the top (who wants fat air anyway?). My breathing became a little more laboured. I imagined, at one point, a grey tree stump looking like a wolf. There are no houses or cafes at the top. It looks like the moon. It's deserted. It also blows a hoolie on the crest.

Promenading with the new mash up jersey at Izoard

A mile from the top, it began to get darker. A sinister heavy air arrived like a mugger. The cloud began to drop. The rain began as I crested the final bend. Within 2 or 3 minutes I was wringing as the horizontal freezing rain pelted down (or rather across). As I cowered behind an old ruin, hurriedly putting on a thin orange waterproof and scrabbling through frozen fingers to put my phone into a plastic bag, a little voice in my head was saying 'this is not good, this is not good at all'...I didn't want to be a statistic. My own personal Brexit. I had to get down off the hill, even as the cloud dropped and visibility become next to nothing. Thankfully I had lights on the bike and knew I had to get off the mountain as soon as I could. However, it took me a full hour to come down, stopping once coming out of the mist to tell Mr M to turn around and another couple of times to blow into my numb hands. Not much fun. The dutch guys in the café tabac had a chuckle as we came in, teeth chattering.
'Froid?' inquired the bar man as we order coke and hot choc. and huddled round the cups for warmth.

The next day we chose an easier ride and biked 20 miles up an old gorge near Briancon, but there's nought flat about the Alps and even this ride was testing. The next day after a glass or three of wine and another burger in the evening, we attempted Izoard. The sky was blue and as I climbed it was quite a contrast to Bonette. It took only 1:40 for the climb to the summit. The roads over there are smooth for the most part and it was a delight. I had a teary moment at the top, before manning up and rattling off a few photos. I even had the bravado to drop back down a kilometre to meet Mr M coming up. Descending was exhilarating and back into town, it was hot and sunny. We sat on the kerb and feasted on ham,brie,baguette and plum tomatoes. This was our lunch every day.


Later in the day, we drove to Les Deux Alpes, a ski resort at 6000ft. There had been snow on the peaks the night before and things were decidedly chilly. We were not far from Alpe D'Huez. I could hear the metamorphic behemoth growling down the valley as we approached our hotel. The resort was surprisingly large with more than a mile of high street, but it was truly deserted. Thankfully we found a great restaurant (Le Rustique) and spent two nights at the resort. We rode the back of Le Galibier on the Sunday and met a couple from Oregon and a bunch of lads from Cork. It was brassicks though.

The threat from Huez was regrettably enough to scare us back to Digne Les Bains, back down toward Nice the next day. We took a back road for a low intensity spin and still ended up finding Le Col de Corobin at the end. It was then onto Nice, our final day. Huez will have to be tamed on another trip. Before our late flight we managed 20 miles up and down the flat and balmy sea front. We dodged other bikies, joe public, suicide scooterists and flash cars with even flashier occupants. I welcomed the easy ride. I had developed a sore knee, maybe not surprising after 18000ft of climbing in the week.

I have a 2 stage hill climb at Gateshead tomorrow. Plenty of altitude, but I can be fairly sure there'll be no snow at least. Next time, I think I might give Huez a go, but perhaps in June.

Mash up

My Achilles is much improved tonight as I lie on the bed half watching 'Grand Designs' and waiting for something better to start. There's been little or no running for a good wee while now. The biking is coming on, though. I've ridden around 100 miles this week so far, over 4 rides. Short and prompt. 18-20mph, but no heroics. I also got the other Condor back from my errant daughter and am looking forward to a change of bike. Like all long-time bikies, I have a small stable of two wheelers, but not enough time to appreciate them all, or money to make sure they're all road-worthy. Its true, they are in various states of repair. New biking bits are pretty pricey, and I like to shop on ebay when possible, but mostly browse...its cheaper. However, on the cycling clothing front, I am prepared to make an exception. I have designed a new jersey for the Gothic cycling club. Its not the official jersey, but a leftfield 'mash up'. I think its 'the dogs' and can't wait to wear it in the soon to arrive Hill-climb season (all 8 weeks of it!). They're due on the 20th September. There are a few spares and I think there won't be a problem with demand for the surplus items. I tried to change the pdf of the design to a jpeg file so I could stick it up, but my computer skills are just above the abacus level, so you'll have to imagine it or get on the clubs Facebook page.

As I consider re-engaging the running scene, I have a mind to butcher an old pair of Nikes that were due to be thrown out. I think if I cut out a section of heel, it might reduce the chances of inflammation from the constant rubbing. Worth a try.
Its karate tomorrow and the bike later. In between , theres a curtain rail thats looking for a fix and a hedge that needs to be taken down a peg or two.   There's also the Wiggle Northern Angel Sportive passing my doorstep on Sunday and I've a mind to gatecrash it. Pick up a little company and some quality miles. We'll have to see how it pans out.    

Hard Boiled

I'm struggling badly at the mo. with an inflamed right Achilles. I'm not even sure why I felt the need to put Achilles in capitals. Anyway, I've haven't even had the energy to take an interest in the usual races that have come and gone. Some words like 'ruptured' or 'torn' have crept into the conversation, then hobbled out of it. These are words that haven't been invited to the party. They're gatecrashers. Unwelcome. These kind of words are for other people.

There was never any chance of me going to A&E; partly because they do good work and have little time for self induced injuries, partly because they've no time for malingerers like me, but mostly because they might tell me no exercise Mr Mac; or they might even stick my leg in a cast-off moon boot from a star wars storm trooper. Does the Empire do half sizes? Some exhausted doctor might advise me to take a course of paracetamol, or, alternatively, to 'use the Force'. Would this save on the prescription charges, I wonder? 

I have accepted that the running thing may have to take a back seat in any case. The karate continues to demand more elasticity, discipline and washing powder than I can provide.
A weeks planned cycling in the Alpine passes in September also means I need to beef up the quads and cut out the donuts. Easier said than done. The summer's been a bit up and down, but even as my old running canine partner declines, my new best friends are a pool full of tadpoles in the wee garden. They are keeping me busy, topping them up every day and willing them to get bigger. A bit needy, they're taking an age to sprout legs. The pool is actually only a posthole. I dug it earlier in the year and some frog decided it was the spawning spot for them.

Me and Missus Mac took the newly arrived tandem down to Ely 3 weeks ago. Its working out well so far. We had a cultural whirlwind tour of the town, Cromwells House and watched a performance of Richard the Third. We also did some flat roads around Norfolk and hung out at the Cathedral (as you do). We stopped frequently to graze on the bloated brambles at the side of the road. Its a different climate down there, I tell you.

I returned from down south only to go straight up north as I was press ganged to ride with three bandoliers up to North Berwick for a long planned weekend. We set off at 8am and had a tailwind almost all the way up in dry conditions. The 105 miles were a breeze. I then did 40 wet miles on the Saturday morning back around Dunbar turning at the Pease Bay roundabout with Steve H. It was so wet, the snails were all out in force. We kept bumping into wet, subdued Canadian couples doing some tour of the Scottish coast or somit? Might have looked like a good idea at the time. On the Sunday, we rode back home in the rain. When we stopped at Berwick for a cuppa, the delightful woman in Fortes Café brought out some towels for us....now that's service. The only other saving grace was that we had nearly a tailwind back home. It was wet. Very wet.

As I am partially laid up, I have digested Murikami's left field and engaging but weird 'Hard Boiled Wonderland' and then it was on to 'The Watchmaker of Filigree Street'.  The book was a present but it took me an age to read. It tried but failed. disjointed and poor character development. However, I am continuing to ply the urban fantasy theme with Neil Gaimans 'Neverwhere'. Its an easy, wholesome and cheery read. Now he's someone who can tell a story.

Anyway, I feel some gym work beckoning, otherwise I wont be able to pull on my jeans. Wish me luck. till next time.


Some this week      

Black Rock, Eildon and Dollar

I have been very remiss in posting recently. I have given myself a good telling off. However, that said, I recall my stifling eagerness in 2007 for running, when I started blogging. The blog was really a diary for my running. With age, 12 years of club running and many thousands of miles under my belt, I have allowed myself a bit of slack as I begin to accept that in order to keep myself in one piece, I might have to cut my cloth (as they say) and learn to enjoy events, rather than beat myself up trying to compete. Its a slow transition, but I'm working on it. If I keep telling myself to enjoy the run as I run out of puff, I might start believing it...sometime. In the meantime...

Three weeks ago I strained my right hamstring  a week before my second karate competition. I still took part and got a good mashing by a national team member. He was good. I hobbled off home to recover and ducked out of a club training run a week later after half a mile.

We took off on the Friday (23rd June) to Kinghorn, pitched the tent and, after tea at Burntisland, met up with speedy joe, the daughter, at the railway station. I was on camera duty. As the whole village began to jump to the annual sound of the Black Rock 5, the village population swelled with 1500 runners. It was bouncing in the midsummer heat. I half walked, half jogged down the street and across the sand and took a position on a rocky promontory.

After an age they came galloping down the road and across the sand and I clicked away for a good wee while before jumping down and running into the snake of runners, clicking as I went. I then jogged halfway back along the street and continued taking snaps as they returned.


Afterwards, I retired to the Auld Hoose pub and waited for the missus and speedy J. They returned via the showers and the chip shop which had apparently run out of fish and chips. Some beer was supped. During the evening I admitted that I may as well have run the race as I had jogged most of the course (well, some of it). We wandered back to the tent around 11:30.


The next day after breakies we took off home, but deviated across to the A68 and to Melrose, where the Eildon 3 Hills Race was on. It was hot and the town was in full gala mode, and after some chin scratching, I thought I might test the hamstring. I took the Canon with me as a crutch more than anything, thinking that if I had to stop early into the race, at least I could get some snaps. As it was, I grafted up and over the hills and passed speedy on the way down as she tip-toed her way over the scree. I shouted that she needed to 'trust her studs on the way down'.  I finished some way down the field, but not a disaster by any means and more importantly, without any serious aches. Mrs Mac, who also entered was nearly last, cursing us for persuading her to run this Borders Bonanza. We did enjoy the chat, tea and cakes afterwards.

Training last week was patchy but come Saturday morning, I committed myself to the Dollar Hill Race, and took off up the road arriving in good time for the start in the rarefied grounds of the Academy. It was vest only, long shorts and compression socks, partly to try and avoid injury and partly to cover up from tick-central. I hate those blighters. There were about 10 or 12 runners from a French running club (plus some cheery hangers on) which boosted the numbers and gave the race a continental flavour.

Eildon Hill Race Start

The last time I did this race was in 2010 when it was a UK fell running championship counter. I forgot about the punishing start, this time reverting to a spider like crawl up toward the crest of Saddle Hill.  I was wearing a nylon cap  and near the top I was enveloped in my own little rainforest monsoon, a regular series of salty drips discharging across my face. Over the top I was around 20th and just behind a Kinross runner. However, the cloud was down and visibility was around 50m, and after putting on my waterproof on the move, I clung to him as he ran on with purpose. I hung on with him around 10-15 seconds ahead for a while, seemingly wandering around the tussocky and undulating ridges for a long time with hardly anyone else in sight. On the climb up to the last rise, Andrew Gannel Hill, a Penecuik runner who had been shadowing me, passed me and took up the chase with Kinross, who was well away.
I found the descent hard and wasn't sure if the compression socks were the reason I had begun cramping up. I ended up walking a little way at the end and losing a few more places before those cheery continentals gave me some reason to pick it up and 'Allez' to the finish line. Nice chat with a couple of lads, 20 minutes with the masseur and great cake layout with tea galore. Home via the Dalkeith kebab shop and spent an hour in the bath, partly reading and partly obsessing about the days race, re-running parts in my head.  I loaded up the snaps of Eildon on Flickr with a link from the Scottish Hill Racing Facebook Site. Still got another 80 snaps from the Black Rock to load up, but it takes an age. Maybe find time tomorrow. Upwards and onwards.

 

Baking, but not in the Kitchen...

'Grantchester's' on the TV and I'm sitting here not taking much notice. The fishing guy who had a brief singing career is in it. I think he'd make a good replacement for Vera, the Northumbrian detective. Talking about Northumbria (see that smooth segway...you don't deserve it), its been an unusual week, with only 27 miles in the bag all week, but six of those coming from the Cookson 10k at Whitley Bay and 6 more from the Allendale Fair Trail Race, yesterday.

The Clive Cookson 10k is about the fastest course around these parts. On Wednesday night there were around 300 overly warm p.b. chasers, looking flushed on lap one and becoming nicely toasted during the second lap of this two lapper. It was searing, it was.  My blue vest was ringing at the end.  I scraped a time just below the 40 minute mark, but only just. Even though I ended up 2nd V50, it was tough and a personal worst for some 10 years. But my aim was a sub-40 and it would be churlish not to be relieved that I scraped a performance of sorts. As I gasped my way to the finish, I kept telling myself to keep my technique. I spent the last mile with my eyes glued to the runners shoes in front. 'Just get me to the end' I thought. I think most folk had a tough time. The goody bag had a t-shirt in it. That's all. Just a t shirt....bit of a waste of a goody bag.  Would we have to pay 5p. Nice T shirt though.

Allendale Fair day 10k was just as hot, but with 650ft of climb and an 'out and back' affair, it was quite a different dish. Unlike revenge, it wasn't a dish served cold....not so much searing, more sweltering. With only 50 entrants and half of them women, we kicked off this modest Allen Valley Striders event at 11am. It was about 25 degrees. The rain clouds were gathering, but the heat hadn't broken. The course is a mile of tarmac road up into the moors and 2 miles of baked track that runs across the moor and makes up the back end of the Hexham Hobble fell race, held in December.  I found myself, early on, in 3rd place with Speedy Joe on my shoulder (the daughter) and a bloke from Ponteland Running club. I pushed on up the hill leaving them a little behind. Had I gone too soon? Were they just not trying? Who is Kaiser Sose?

I ground my way across the dry sandy track. It was rock hard. Dry as a bone. Drier even.  A dry bone. A couple of nesting Curlews flapped about as we trogged by. I didn't think that the 3rd mile could be so long.

I was running into a light headwind and could see the two front runners a minute ahead through the heat haze. At the turn (a marshall and her lone red cone) we were in a hollow and as I turned to head back, I was met by a wall of heat.
Cooking.  Was that Dante I spied at the side of the track? Was that Anonymous Bosch travelling incognito on the ridge getting some ideas for his latest oil?  I struggled back up out of the gully as the rest of the field behind me passed coming the other way and making their way to the turn, the hot bollard; glen furnace; the dip of sweaty misery.....

If I could keep up the pace, I would snaffle a podium place, but Ponteland runner was suddenly there. The heat wasn't a problem for him, clearly. And then at mile 4 he was ahead and making easy distance between us.  I expected 'Speedy' to come past also, but she couldn't summon up enough zing. In the event she finished 20 seconds behind and first woman by a good 5 minutes, so that's good enough. We all got a wee water bottle.

It was a good natured presentation, ironically next to the graveyard and next to the hall 20 minutes later.  I won £10 for best dressed v50 and then because of my stylish gait, a pair of socks in the spot prize. Tidy. We toured the stalls in the village and, armed with a cuppa, we watched the strongmen do their thing. We left with thirsty five quids worth of vouchers and stopped for chips at Haydon Bridge, cause we're hard-core!

This morning I was going to get 13 miles in to maintain my 40 a week habit, but my heel and Achilles are having an Allendale hangover, so no sport today.    Best get myself in shape, though, as its Black Rock 5 month next month and in preparation, I've a wee notion to return to Yetholm for the hill race, where I've enjoyed a tussle or two in the past.