Sodium Drama at the Perth 50k

We left Dunkeld on the Saturday and got to Perth to watch the youngsters run the Parkrun. Morag Miller and one of the 100k Celtic Cup competitors won it, but our lot all had solid runs in calm and warm conditions. We retired to a coffee house for a hot roll and coffee of choice. I was still suffering toothache and took to my bed for an hours kip in the afternoon. Later, I bought a new buff in the afternoon, but otherwise I was ready to do battle the next day at the 50k event in North Insch Park. It was a 1.2 mile circuit. Having ran it last year at the 10k, I knew the course. We dined on pasta and it was bed by nine. Sunday arrived and we rose around 7am. The 100k event had already commenced with around 70 runners. I felt good and ready to go. After a breakfast of porridge, tea and a pastry, I made my way to the park. Missus Mac was also running, her having raised £700 for the Alzheimer’s charity. We got our numbers without any dramas and lined up for the 10am start. My costume for the day consisted of my Omm tights, Bella vest, my new fuchsia buff on the bonce, shades, zebra striped arm-warmers and kids woollen gloves. I cut a strange clashing figure as I warmed up. Was I dressed like this for a bet. On the run up to the race I had joked that I would apply a dob of face paint at the end of each lap and call it ‘performance art’, but I hadn’t found any in the shops the day before. On reflection, maybe it was just as well.

We effortlessly joined the 100k event and I fell into my pace. I wasn’t sure what my initial pace would be but I found myself running a 7:11 first mile. It was sunny and mild. Perfect. If I was going to do a 50k, today was the day. I plugged myself into Chicane for an hour before changing to Grace Jones for a good long while. There was an extensive choice of drinks and snacks every lap and I reached regularly for an arrowroot drink or water. I had a gel at 5 miles and then another at around 12 miles. I dispensed with the gloves first, then the arm-warmers. There were around 100 runners for the 50k and lapping at all times and abilities, I had no idea where I was in the field. My pace had fallen to 7.30 after 15 miles and I stopped briefly for some potatoes which I’d brought along. Our support team were vocal and really helpful. At 20 miles my speed began to drop markedly. I wasn’t sure why, but I was a basket case by 25 miles. My pace was dropping toward nine minute miles. I came past the marathon mark at around 3:25. At 27 miles I felt my nail catch and detach. It got caught in my compression sock. It hurt. I stopped immediately and pulled off my shoe to free the nail and toe from the sock end, only to cramp hugely in both inner thighs.  As I lay sprawled on the deck, immobilised, one spectator chap asked if I needed anything to which I replied ‘salt’. The other chap shouted at a women running toward me not to step on me and she kindly veered away. It took 4 minutes to get my shoe back on. In the meantime, the gent returned with salt capsules. ‘They are 600mg’ he said ‘take two’. However, I had no idea whether this was a lot or too little so I took one. I was running again and my pace stabilised. I finished in 4:12 and 14^th place, 4^th M50.  As I hobbled to where our gear and helpers were I cramped again and quickly found more salt.  I suspect my demise from the 20 mile mark was a result of lack of salt and I recall cramping at 18 miles at the Edinburgh marathon and badly at the Pentland Skyline years earlier.  Something to keep in mind for the 43km Lairig Ghru in June. 

Missus Mac finished in a very impressive 6:25 after a late run wobble, but she was resurrected by tea and Queen. We watched the prize giving and retired with the support crew to Brewdog for a beer before a Chinese takeaway and bed. Adrian Stotts organisation was very professional and the whole event ran very smoothly.  I was walking like John Wayne on the Monday.       

Deuchary Hill Canter 2022

I was up early, what with the clocks going back, and footered around before getting my race gear on and sauntering over Dunkeld Bridge to Birnam in the early morning sun. It was a terrific morning, the birds busy, the river gurgling, blah, blah. As I neared the race HQ, I noted the absence of any runners and thought I must be early. However, the wee group getting into their car stopped me and asked if I was running. I nodded. 'Well, the race starts in a couple of minutes, so you'd better get in the car'. I thought I was an hour early, but evidently not.

I was passed my number and pinned it on as I was whisked the 2 miles up to the start beside the Sawmill where the organiser had kindly held the start of the race up for me. What service, I mused. I thanked the assistants profusely and took my place at the back. There were around 60 lined up by the loch and Adrian gave his 'how not to get lost' pre-race instruction. We were soon off and running up through a mix of pine woods, open grassed track and some forest roads toward Deuchary Hill. It was pretty much all runnable, the gradient never too steep. 

Having buried myself at yesterday's Birnam race, I took it very canny and with camera-phone in hand, stopped and started all the way up to the Hill, going off course only once for around three or four hundred yards before a lone walker saw me and suggested I was off course. What a stroke of luck. I thought the runner behind me might have shouted, but apparently not. I could have been half way to Kindallachan before I realised my error. At the top of the hill the sun was splitting the sky, it was warm and I have rarely taken part in such an enjoyable and picturesque race. It could have been the clear blue sky and dry conditions, but I had to pinch myself at the views. I took a few more shots and the runner behind asked for a copy of the photos. 

After a short scramble to the top, I put away the camera, took a gel and proceeded to hammer down the descent which would its way down across the heather, grassy footpaths and gravel tracks in a figure of eight loop. Passing four on the way down I found myself behind HBT man. He said later that he didnt expect to see anyone behind him, and my arrival 2 miles from the end gave him the motivation to move up a gear. He pulled away from me comfortably and disappeared off into the distance, but I reflected that I had probably lost around 4 or 5 minutes going off course and messing about generally on the hill. I was pleased to see Mrs Mac before the finish and even had the temerity to wait to have a couple of staged pictures of myself before running off to the finish.  We made our way back to Birnam for soup and nibbles. 

Winner Kris Jones was only marginally in front of me, finishing in 1:17 for the 11 miles and 500m of ascent to my 1:55. I finished around 30th and hobbled my creaking carcass to the nearby Birnam Hotel bar for a mothers day half, which turned out to be a bit vinegary; so we reverted to the Atholl again. Top day out and one I'll do again.  

Birnam Hill Race 2022

 

Arriving at Birnam with a spare half an hour before the race, I joined the queue to get my number from Adrian's impromptu race pop-up tent HQ, set up in the rear yard of his B&B. Ten or so late entries swelled the race numbers; most had pre-entered. The sun was up and it was warm, and I elected to go with the fashionable black Bella T-shirt, black shorts and twee powder blue socks. Around 100 runners assembled in the lane next to the park for the start. The need for full body cover was spelled out. It was chip timing (PROTAY.CO.UK) so no need to rush off the front. However, having run this previously in 2017, I recalled that some of the course is narrow, so getting stuck behind folk was best avoided. There were a few old faces and I had a chat with Steve M from Hawkhill. Some said it was their first proper hill run for quite a while. The race started and we set off, winding our way up the steep lung-busting, head down climb to the top of Kings Seat. The race is really a good old fashioned ‘all up and all down’ affair, with only the slenderest romp across the top. The descent is quite technical in my mind, given that you should be flat out and marginally out of control going down. I crested the top at around 40^th and tried to recover running across the heathery path and dry rushes. Then the descent began and I passed around 8 or 9, spurred on by gravity and cracking my internal whip as I opened my stride, the sweat on the forehead and eyelids misting my eyes and clouding my brain, which I had disengaged for the descent. The last mile is an undulating run through the forest and is taxing but I sat in behind a Carnethy girl. I couldn't find any more speed. Around 80 metres ahead was a small group, but they seemed to break up as we inched closer. Hitting the top of the lane, I moved ahead, half expecting Carnethy girl to reveal her sprint, but there was none and, instead, I found myself catching Alan Smith, cap on, top off and him cruising to the finish. I couldn’t get past him, but it occurred to me that the chip timing might decide on the placings. Sure enough, I had beaten him for the first time by one second. Fair enough, he’s now M60 and I'm still a year off that, but I was pleased with the run and scalp. 

Peter Bracegirdle was on the hill with camera and took some great shots. The one attached has been photo-shopped to remove the stringy slaver dribbling down my chin. This development which I noticed at the signals relays, is slightly worrying and appears to be establishing itself as my race look, my ‘de rigeur’, the mark of someone who has lost it. It is not the genteel look that I'm striving for, me being the nearly elder statesmen of the club athletics scene.  Anyway it was 30th place and soup and prize-giving back at race HQ. There had been one casualty apparently, but hopefully nothing serious.  As I had entered the longer Deuchary Canter to be held the next day, me and missus mac retired to top up our vitamin D and sit in the sun in the beer garden at the Atholl Hotel with pale ale at six quid a pint. Good business if you can get it.   

Yeavering to Wooler Trail Race 2022

Yesterday morning I lay on the bed with the sun beaming in and, armed with a cup of tea and chocolate oatie, entered myself into 3 hill races. Wtf. Have I taken complete loss of my senses I ask myself? Dunkeld's not going to know whats hit it.. (😨 ).

I've been bunged up with the cold again, but thankfully it wasn't lingering. This meant that I could get out for the Yeavering to Wooler fell race organised by Glen and his race vehicle, Cheviot Trails. Me and the youngster had entered this a wee while ago and we were delighted with the weather as we drove the 30 minutes north with Linds and Mrs Mac, who were out for a jolly. There were around 75 for this 7 miler. Its a point to point mostly using St Cuthberts Way as the route. We picked up our numbers, used the very clean toilets at the local hall and scratched our chins a little about how much stuff we needed. As I wanted a couple of snaps, I was resigned to taking the bumbag to carry the phone-camera, but its no burden. I also took a gel, jacket and a compass, although I had no idea where I was actually going and had no map. If in doubt, head for the low ground!

We were all bussed to Yeavering. Arriving at the start after a 10 minutes bus trip, there was really no opportunity for a warm up before being confronted with a good old 2 mile hike up yon big hill. We set off and I got into my stride after a mile or so and a very modest one it is these days. The route was grassy and undulating, but nothing too steep or rocky.

I passed a couple of folk over the next mile, and set my sights on a powerful well built chap with a white t-shirt some way in front. He slowed up one or two short inclines and I eventually reeled him in. About the midway mark, he slowed again and I passed him. Normally I would have stayed tucked in, but he stuck to the left side of the track, so there was no shelter to be gained from the head-crosswind by sitting behind him without going off the path.  After not quite a mile he caught me up again and although I got close to him once or twice, he powered away to take maybe half a minute out of me at the end. I felt I had put up a sprited defence even if I looked at times like I was stifling a random bowel movement, all facial contortions and angry, parboiled complexion. At the end I hadn't, thankfully, overdone it and the finish came more quickly than I expected, but that's not a bad thing. The gang shouted me over the line, turning a blind eye to my accelerating decrepitude. T shirt man thanked me for giving him a good race. A Scottish navy man, he was (said Yoda); 55 minutes and 14th for this one. I might have stopped a while longer to sneak a peak at the results for the over 50's, but some chap called Colin Donnelly appeared at the start line and he hasn't lost any of his speed (I later realised he's V60 - I'll have some of what he's having).    

Back in the hills

 It was a double-bubble weekend as some would say. It wasn’t my idea, but Speedy Joe has been directing traffic in the running calendar this year, her with the horn-rimmed tortoise shell half frame sunnies, big megaphone in hand and perched in the folding fabric chair with lattice legs (not hers, the chair). I think I am the Watson to her Sherlock, or more like it, the Porky pig to her Daffy Duck.

She suggested that Sundays rearranged Simonside Cairns might be do-able even though there was the final cross country league race the day before at Alnwick. The Cairns race is a formidable 11 miler with 1500ft of ascent and more boggy ground than my wee potato patch on a cold wet day in January. I concluded that if I took Alnwick easy, I could still have ‘something’ left in my legs for Simonside.  I was just not sure what that ‘something’ was. The forecast wasn’t bad, but it still represented an exacting moil. I am well out of hill running practice. My heart has shrunk over the last 5 years to the size of a pea and my legs are no longer capable of the quickstep, not that they ever were. While I’m on the subject of off-road-running, its such a shame the Scottish Hill Racing site has folded. A great wee facility it was.

Anyway, at Alnwick, I babysat the wee man for half an hour while Speedy J. cracked the whip around the 2 laps of the Womens race at Alnwick.  She ran well as did Linds and Mrs Mac. The men’s race was 3 laps and I set off in the slow pack and took it steady, measuring my effort. There was a cold northerly as we ran and I had forgotten my gloves so gesticulated wildy as I finished the first lap, waving my hands around to our lot like a loon. Sure enough, I was handed a pair of gloves after the second lap by which time the wind had dropped a touch and I had warmed up. I had to stop twice to tie my laces, which was further confirmation that I hadn’t prepared properly for the event and I waltzed around the 3^rd lap to finish somewhere, not first and not last.  I dressed expeditiously afterwards in the cold wind and got back home sharpish, mindful that Sundays extravaganza would be a much longer, tougher and probably a lonelier affair. 

 

I read that hills and even gentle inclines can improve glutes and leg muscles and are good for a high calorie burn. Who comes up with this guff? Flogging yourself around the wet heather, trying to keep up with two complete strangers and then chucking yourself off Simonside Ridge at nearly 60 in order to win a box of wine gums comes into the category of a near death experience or utter buffonery; or at least that’s what it felt like as I lay on my bed later on Sunday evening being over- tired. I think the common parlance is 'exhausted'. 

 No matter, 10^th place it was (out of 35) and I was happy enough to beat Carnethy man who followed my lead and stopped periodically midway and toward the end of the race to take snaps. I had initially got the camera out after 2 miles, but then gasping like a fish out of water, decided that was enough. 

At the finish in central Rothbury, Speedy Joe had finished around 2 or 3 minutes ahead of me, but she had to wait 3 or 4 minutes for the runner behind in order to find which way to go when confronted with a unsigned fork in the road. 

It was a blidy hard workout but good value for a tenner and the tea and buns in Rothbury Hall for the competitors was welcome.  I think we all got a prize.

It’s the Yeavering to Wooler trail run on Sunday. Seven miles of St Cuthberts Way. The forecast is good, so it should be very pleasant. Roll on the long nights.

Falkirk.. Tough Gig!

 

Today I was intending to do 6 miles or so to bring my mileage for the week up to 40 miles. Instead, I have dug out the laptop and pinched someone’s can of coke and, reclining on the bed, I feel that after yesterdays exertions, I probably deserve a rest. I am recovering from panning myself at Falkirks Callendar Park where 600 runners had similar vainglorious ideas at the Scottish National Cross Country Champs. I was ready to stake my claim for the Senior Mens title. Ok, maybe not, but after hirpling around Lanark last year at the short course, I wondered if I could improve. True, my fitness is not anywhere near what it was in late 2021. I had little work on then and was effectively a professional athlete. However, running at the Royal Signals Relays last weekend I clocked 13:31 compared to 13:14 last time around, so I’m not too far away from full fitness. More to the point there are no serious aches or pains.  Falkirk was a 3 lapper and I was clad in the purple and white of Bellahouston Road Runners, my first outing in their hard-to-miss colours. My short spell with the Falkland outfit didn’t amount to anything. They are not affiliated to Scottish Athletics. When Cat (aka Speedy joe) and Ant invited me to join the Glasgow club, I thought it a very decent offer and graciously accepted.

Back to yesterday. It was busy and plenty folk milling around, the tent enclosure a sea of colour and babble.  I jogged around the course with my wee camcorder recording Speedy joe running the womens race. She finished 10^th. In the mens race I ran well enough around the undulating course, losing only a handful of places in the last mile as I ran out of juice. 300th or so out of 600,. In my early 50’s this would have been mid-table mediocrity, but now it’s mid-table success. I am at the wrong end of the over 50’s  and have started rather worryingly to check where I finished compared to the over 60’s. I was buoyed up by Speedy joe’s performance in the womens race. I was well supported by the spectators every lap as I ran…’come on Cats dad’ they chanted, and then probably looked at each other in a bemused fashion, shrugging.  However, I came away from the race without a medal and with an image from the portaloos which I can’t unsee ...those things should be replaced by a ditch at these events.  It must be less offensive.

We made short work of coming back down the road and celebrated with a pint and a Chinese from 'Salty Joes'. I even had enough energy to wash my shoes and grease and replace my spikes.  I have, at last, finished my Mortlach 2007 malt. It was very good indeed. So I dug out the slightly less exotic  Knockando and poured myself a wee dram. Medicinal you understand. Perfectly acceptable, but I’ll be saving up for another old Mortlach when it becomes available again.  

I knocked out a 65 mile week a fortnight ago when we enjoyed a week at La Santa in Lanzarote. It was only the wind that stifled some of the outdoor activities, but it was nice to laze around in seventy degrees heat and enjoy the balmy evening trails. 

I was intending to run the Meadows marathon in preparation for the Perth 50k next weekend. However, when I thought about the petrol and chunky entry fee, I decided against completing the credit card entry form. I will, instead, run the local cross country next weekend at Alnwick and perhaps, if I’ve enough energy, trot around the Simonside Cairns fell race on the Sunday. The latter is an eleven miler with 1500ft of ascent and, hopefully, with a bowl of broth at the Newcastle Hotel at the end.  All this for a tenner. I dare say 90 minutes riding the tufty grasses and sinkholes of the Cheviots will be a useful workout.   

On the book front I am currently enjoying Liz Giffords ‘Lost lights of St Kilda’, after grinding my way through ‘the Last Snow’ by Stina Jackson, which I found slow. In the end I found myself ambivalent to the fate of the various characters. This was preceded by Ray Chandlers ‘the Big Sleep’, a 1939 ditty which was largely what I had expected.  Anyway, its an easy mileage week this week so we will see what next weekend brings.