My Apprenticeship Year

This year I set out to become more of a Proper Fellrunner. In June, I moved to Glossop, and knowing that I'd have the opportunity to train more regularly in the Peak District over the summer helped me to knuckle down in the spring and enter some Real Hard Races. I've already written about the Old County Tops race which is one of the events I am most pleased about having ticked off this year. There are other things, which on the face of it are less bonkers and petrifying for a non-runner to contemplate, that I am nonetheless pleased to have done.

One is the Donard race, where I put my new-found compass skills to the test in a race where the mist was so thick you could hardly see your nearest competitor. I managed to complete the race following the correct route, on a day where many of the UK's best fellrunners went totally wrong. Go me. I must give credit to Helen Buchan from Calder Valley Fellrunners, who joined forces with me on the descent to ensure we both got off the misty mountain as fast as we could. That race gave a me a good start in the FRA British Fellrunning Championship series. Completing as many races as I could from that, and scoring points in each one, was another tick.
I also completed my first score navigation event solo. Granted, it was held in my local area, though I never thought I'd have the confidence in my map-reading to do it, not least in pretty wintry conditions. I had fun, scored pretty well, and even managed to fall in a stream , resulting in me giving myself a little lecture about looking after one's own safety when running solo.
I completed a few (I think three) category Long races. All were tough, especially the A category ones. The latest one was the Roaches race in November. I pushed myself into racing it (rather than just running, as I had done the others) and to my delight I managed to overtake and hold off some of the ladies I passed in the second half. I'm dead chuffed with that , I don't see myself as having strength over the longer routes but a bit of competitiveness and hanging on in the final miles goes a long way.

So what have I learned?

• improving, and keeping on practising, my map and compass skills helped me a lot. Thanks Matt
• the volunteers who organise and marshal at fell races are a national treasure
• pack your compass, and your jelly babies, somewhere you can reach them easily
• in events which require you to navigate, the map must stay in your hand
• you've always got a few more matches than you think you have (ie, when you think you've no more energy, there will be some there)

I don't class myself as a fully-fledged fellrunner yet. I have a lot more experience to gain, especially in the Lakes and Snowdonia, though I think I've done a good apprentice year. Thanks everyone who ran with me, competed with me, gave me lifts, and listened to me bang on about mad hill races. 

The unlikely fan

I'm going to tell you about why I love watching pro road cycling. No, hang on, I'm not even sure I know why, but I do love it so!
I've become a sportsperson over the last ten years of my life, and the parallel evolution of a sports fan makes me wonder - could one exist without the other?
I know quite a few fans of our 'national' sport (oh do excuse me whilst I laugh like a drain) who don't so much as pull on a shinpad more than once a year, never mind compete at any other sport. In cynical moments I loathe the lads and lasses swigging beer and getting all worked up about a group of people doing a thing which they couldn't even begin to fathom out. I mean they don't really appreciate how the professionals get to where they are, the years of hard work, pain, shunning family, friends and fun. They just see them as stadium-ready celebs. They do sport vicariously through 22 overpaid men. The media let footballers get away with all sorts of bad and unsporting behaviour and fuel the culture which forgets what sporting brilliance is even about.

Back to cycling. One reason I love it is illustrated well by my experience watching the Tour de France this week in the UK. Thousands of people do the 'thing' - cycling - which the pros do, in order to arrive at the roadside and cheer. After the mayhem of the peloton passed, it was a joyous sight to see the roads claimed entirely for bikes, all kinds of bikes, all happily riding back to their homes. Buses had to patiently wait for bikes to pass and a vision of a greener world fleetingly swam into view. So many polite, overwhelmed and smiling cyclists all revelling on 'their day'. You wouldn't get that at a football stadium, as football doesn't also happen to be a neat mode of transport.

I love pro cycling because it speaks to my experience of me versus the miles. I run for sport, I also happen to ride for transport and sometimes for japes. It's an attainable type of thing to be enthused about. I can understand how good those lean lycra wearers are, because I see their mph, at least twice my top effort. I am in awe of them, every woman and man with their grazed elbows, enormously wonderful machines, clear eyes and smiling faces.

I love road races for the tactics, for the game within the race, it's not just fastest to the line, and luck plays a big part. We all have seen the champion falling in the final battle and slink off with no hope of completing, likewise we've seen the unlucky rider pick themself up and grit the hell out of a few hundred kilometers in order to finish the race,  to rapturous receptions and melting hearts.

I'm still not sure exactly how I became such a fan girl but wow, I love it. I love attending races, I love chatting about the probable winners and losers, I love yelling their names from dreary wet roadsides and losing my shit when the Grand Tours roll by. Allez allez allez!

Summit fever

Reader, I completed it. Race partner John and I were thrilled to experience the Lakes in what can only be described as Alpine summer glory. Looking back I can honestly say that the only truly tough bit was the seemingly never ending pull up from thirlmere to Scafell summit. The time passed pleasantly due to the company, the amazing views and the distraction of spotting other racing pairs and their route choices. On the tourist path up to Scafell I was surprised that the hikers weren't cheering us but I suspect the effort of trudging up in boots trousers and big bags took their breath away. As opposed to trudging up in inov-8s, shorts and t shirts. The exposure to the sun was a risk I'd foreseen and so I purchased and sported a fetching white cap for the day. Water was not a problem, given the well placed feed stations and the extra drinks brought up to the checkpoints by the wonderfully cheerful marshals and organisers. Some things which evoke the day follow:
Mass start into the rising sun
Seeing a guy pulled from a bog by his giggling partner in Wythburn
The heaven that is Great Moss
The aqua blue pool we stood in to cool our legs on the way to Moasdale
The hell that is the climb up Greyfriar
Checking my watch and thinking 'yep 6 hours, maybe four to go' and then realising how calmly I'd accepted that fact.
Meeting clubmates coming off Coniston
The cowbell ringing us to the summit of the Old Man
The urgent, crazed and weary dash along the foot-numbing trail beside Blea Tarn to the finish
The mad feast of leftovers and odds in the campsite after the pub ran put of meals

Next year I shall race it. Thankyou John for my induction to this noble event.

The hardest thing in the world

I had a secret running aim this year. It's time to go public. I entered the London marathon and thought, after all the training and the fitness it'll result in, I want to have a good crack at some real long fell races afterwards. At Christmas time the ladies of my club talked drunkenly about the Old County Tops race and trying to field a few ladies in that, and my secret goal was set. I remember how I felt when I first signed up for a marathon and thought 'this will be the hardest thing in the world, but I want to complete it and that desire will push me along, and I WILL do it'
Here I am again. The Old County Tops is 36 miles and god knows how many metres of ascent, suffice to say helvellyn, scafell pike and the old man of coniston all have to be summitted. The hardest thing in the world looms before me but I Want to do it, and my preparation,
my ticking off points, have been passed. First of all I decided that post London, I would race the Three Yorkshire Peaks race which at 23 miles and three reasonable sized hills would test me and prove whether I had strength still left after a fast marathon. If I failed, I'd not enter the OCT. If I succeeded, it'd be more of a reality. I also agreed to a weekend's worth of training and racing in the Lakes to acquaint me with routes and general Lakesness. Both events passed without incident and with some enjoyable days. The final hurdle was finding a partner with similar abilities as me on the hill, foolhardy enough to run with a novice. I really wanted a lady but my first choice had to withdraw due to family events, so enter stage left John H. A veteran of two OCT events, so an asset on the route finding aspect, and a good friend to boot.
Nervous? yes. Confident? Quite. Willing to accept failure? Yes. I think I'm in the right place physically and mentally. Once faced, the expected next move would be to escalate to longer, tougher events but I think I'll be content and just happy to join friends and clubmates at other races and expeditions. I'll post a race report on the 18th or 19th. I'm wondering already what tall tales I'll have to share...

Boxing Day

Tower Bridge photo courtesy of Alan Scholefield

London Marathon day is Christmas Day for distance runners. They collect, they swarm, they flock and mass, with huge red kitbags, cushioned shoes, nervous faces and clear bright eyes, to Greenwich and they join the 26.2 mile long, all-day festival which livens London and makes everyone involved proud and humble.

It's the day after. Legs of wood . Still a bit muted and stunned. Debriefs were had yesterday, at fever pitch,over lager and Lucozade and crisps and bagels. Cramps were considered, fuelling fails were found at fault and smiles were infectious. Bests, worsts, and celeb spots and sunburn.

I read Scott Overall's blog just now. It made my heart big and happy. He makes me proud to be a runner. None of your British Cycling pulling out cos the win was unachievable. "I didn’t want to DNF so I just got to the finish" You sir, get paid very little to be at the top end of your sport, yet your attitude is the same as every first-timer and club runner and veteran in the race. Hats off for being honest and real.

http://www.scottoverall.com/blog/london-marathon-2014/

I must get up now. Sitting down for more than ten minutes is far from comfortable. 

Roving Running Reporter

Here's a link through to a race report I penned for my club. It was a proud proud day for us as the ladies were ranked 5th after the first British Championships series counter

http://glossopdaleharriers.blogspot.co.uk/

Toughing it out

Here I am in the middle of marathon training. That I got here is a bit of a surprise to me, and I'm pleased I've even made it this far without chucking it all in in favour of fell racing, or picked up an injury.
I'm here at the top of the hill, right in that period four weeks before race day. Behind me a steadily climbing slope of mileage, lots of it put in on dark cold wet roads, which I look back on with some satisfaction. However this is always going to be the tough part, maintaining high miles for a couple more weeks and fending off bugs, fatigue and loss of mojo. There's some extra tough in the mix in the form of a big angry bruise on my left hip, right on those muscles which always sing with pain even when I'm training to normal levels. Skidded off the bike on wet cobbles. Bang, extra pain for your intensest weeks. But suffering is what marathoning is all about.
I've had to fight the urge to wave the white flag, and even told myself Askwith-style this morning 'if you can't do this training run in the cold fog with an aching hip then you're not going to complete your marathon in your target time'
So I'm hanging on, clinging on in the hope that no more big disasters arrive in the next few weeks. I've got the added frisson of being in London to get on terms with my least favourite part of the course next week. I'm gritting my teeth already.

Into battle

The title refers not to the battle between runners and running clubs, more to the battle between runner and the weather, the terrain, the map and the clock. Fourteen glossopdale runners headed to the Shropshire hills on what I know to be statistically the coldest weekend of the year. Our aim, the mini-series of races hosted by Mercia fellrunners each year. The short Titterstone Clee and the medium Long Mynd Valleys. As a relative novice at the medium races, I was apprehensive, as a clubmate had used the word 'horrendous' to describe the last section if the course.
Saturday dawned cold and bright, and as we sat eating porridge, toast and eggs in the beautiful dining hall at Wilderhope Manor youth hostel, a flurry of snow was observed through the fine sixteenth century windows. There's only one way to prepare mentally for a fell race on winter and that is to laugh. The practical preparations saw a hush fall on the ladies dorm, as each of us pondered choices of leggings, waterproof coats, gloves and a set of warm clothing for afterwards. One even remarked 'i'll be packing normal clothes then for after if we're going for a cream tea' me, I stuck to tracky bottoms and my down jacket. It was at this point the selection of armour and weapons sprung to mind. Wind and waterproof armour, studded soled weapons, sugary and slow-release weapons. And some left over for tomorrow.
I predictably enjoyed the Titterstone Clee race, a traditional fell race in the simplest of fashions. 'see that hill; get to the top, touch the trig and get back down here' marred by the new Regulations imposed by our governing body which saw racers get colder than necessary as we were counted into the start area and briefed in no uncertain terms as to how to wear our race number and indicate our completion of the course. Thanks to my legs having chilled off, the first few minutes were hard work, my legs not giving me the usual lightfooted quick ascent. The snow blew at us head-on and I grimaced and bore it across soft springy terrain with a few rocks to keep one alert. Approaching the top, I noted how many returning ladies passed by, which was two. Splendid. I relished the wind-assisted descent and dug in and refused to give a place up on the last field as I heard splashy footsteps behind me. Charlie, a clubmate, had other ideas and manfully beat me in the last few hundred metres. A box of toffees for my third lady position and off to Ludlow for a cream tea.
Sundays forecast was much drier though I still feared Winter so decided on a backpack with many extra layers and handwarmers and cheese and nuts and water for the race. I'm very glad I didn't choose fleece-lined leggings as it later turned out to be much warmer than we'd expected. Why on earth I didn't expect a steep start as we stood at the base of a steep-sided valley I'll never know, bit off we went at a steady pace. We being Tom and I. We'd decided to treat the race as a fun run about on the hills and to hell with competition, he due to recent injury and I due to my inexperience. Sticking together makes for a mental comfort blanket and we had spent some time looking at possible route choices the night before.
 I soon realised I had not got the pace I'd hoped for in the first few miles and began to worry, though to his credit Tom seemed unfazed and wisely offered me jelly babies. I then set about fuelling up with solid food both to keep me from further fretting and enable me to acquit myself on the later climbs. On one fuelling stop Lindsey from our group shot past us, giving me a scare - I normally finish races a few minutes ahead of her. It gave us a kick..we came to what we'd identified as a decision point and Tom wanted to follow the herd (and Lindsey) it took me three times of asking to get us off onto our preferred route, hot on the heels of the local runners, who on seeing us explained the advantage we could gain on this line. We smugly popped out of the next valley about 50 metres ahead of Lins. My strength had returned and not a minute too early...two more monster hills to cross. I love climbing and Tom loves descending, I'll spare you the details but we made it over the monsters, I enjoying it more than Tom, we however made a poor choice of descending line to the finish, and with our team-mates voices yelling encouragement in earshot, tumbled and cursed through high bracken whilst Lins shot out 20metres from the finish line to pip us to the finish.
I learned from the Long Mynd Valleys. I learned that I worry too much and it holds me back. I learned that I'm still a decent climber, that good route choice is worth more than speed and that reccying the finishing descent is a cracking good idea. And that Tom is an all round decent bloke for putting up with my first-half wobbler. Oh, and gorse splinters take a while to come out.