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Folks, thanks to your kind words after my last post I stuck to my plan of slow incremental runs. Last night was my first 7 miles and I was on tarmac entirely. This is the big achievement as I've suffered quite badly with shin splints in my recent running past.
Check out my activity on Strava: https://strava.app.link/D0ZPKdny6W
Anyway there's my Strava link, onward and further.
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There's an LFGSS running Strava group in case you fancied joining
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@dubkev well done for sticking it out after being ill. You looked fucked when i saw you around the 5m mark. Did @salmonchild run too?
Thanks Iain, lesson learned though. Won't try it again after illness, it's not worth it. Not sure if Oli ran in the end. Tim Warin might have ran too?
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I didn't enjoy the changes to the Hackney Half route this year. The new bits seem to add more short, narrow streets with more twists and turns.
Amen to this, I'm not a fan of those hairpin bends at all. And where the road is running on both sides in opposite directions, it feels really squeezed.
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Crikey! Vancouver's a lovely place for a run, took my running shoes when I visited my bro, but his heat map is putting mine to shame.
Anyway, 338 miles on the bike over four days for the bank holiday, so I really should get out for a jog later to remind my legs what running feels like. Weird, probably. -
anyone doing this?
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https://racedrone2.net/event/escape-from-gb
I'm number 122. There's v.low cloud & 60mph gusts in my face forecast so likely to stick on roads after Alston today
Hope to get some hill action tomorrow from Ravenstonedale onwards as conditions should improve.
See you on the other side.
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Short report of Lothersdale a few weeks back:
Lothersdale has all the makings of a great mid-week fell race. It’s short and steep, costs £3, and you get a bottle of beer – a feat which not only seems to defy the laws of economics but also firmly hoists the flag of virtues that I associate with good races (cheap, no frills, fun and booze). Held on the Wednesday after the Yorkshire Three Peaks race, I was under no illusion of hoping for a decent performance, but the sun was out, the small village hall bustling with runners, and I’d just exchanged my £3 and entry form for a race number and a bottle of beer. The standard plod up and down the road to shake some life into my legs was met with quite some resistance from my being, but the promise of a short course pushed any concerns away. It’ll be over before it’s even begun, I foolishly convince myself. Chatting at the start line, I offer the advice I was given from a friend regarding races under 5 miles “Go as hard as you can, and try not to blow up.” Happily espousing the strategy that was about to sabotage me in just a few minutes to come.
The race sets off up the steep and narrow path and my legs almost instantly shit themselves. I’m very aware that’s not really physiologically possible, but I can’t bring to mind a better way to describe it. My chipper enthusiasm is replaced with dread. Not real dread, like the feeling on a Sunday before the return to school, when booking a dentist appointment, or checking your bank balance after an exuberant night on the piss, but more like the kind of dread when someone unsheathes a bottle of vulgar and exotic spirit when you’re casually drinking cans. It’s dread with a wink and a chiptooth smile, one that provokes fear with a dash of intrigue. Everything feels wobbly, my legs have gone to jelly, my lungs are puffing harder than the Flying Scotsman, and I seem to me moving no quicker than a mobility scooter with a flat battery in a swamp. The quick pass through the fields and up a track then pulls down, to my dismay, onto a downhill concrete path. The hard ground and downward trajectory has me praying to the Gods of Quad to keep my useless pins from folding under me. I always thought it’d be some giant leap over boulders in the rain that would gift me my first downhill clatter, but this little concrete track in the Parish of Craven has other ideas. I ramble my way down, miraculously avoiding full body contact with the deck and regain the upward path. The aspect is frustratingly runnable. The moderate steepness offers no excuse for breaking into a walk and any hope of momentary respite. The disparity between perceived effort and tangible output is laughable – like revving a car to the redline but leaving it in first gear. I’m sure my exhaust gasses weren’t too dissimilar either. The summit and its turnaround are reached and wobbled through. My legs are joined by pretty much every other part of my body in the customer services queue to complain to the manager, as I thump my way down on the solid flagstones. The brief descent on the way out is back again to cause discomfort on the way back up it. Again, the course is too short to justify walking and this tiny stretch jeers at me to falter, and only with oxygen starved exasperation is the tiny mound crested. The final 200m steepens downhill as you’re funneled into the finishing straight, gripped with fear as small children pop out to encourage you, worried that a wrongly placed stride may land you with some difficult explaining to a parent as to why their little darling is now a lot flatter than they used to be. Thankfully the finish line is crossed without issue and I’m able to crumple into a heap without any steamrollered children on my conscience.
Safe to say, I don’t think I’ll find a better way to spend £3. -
And Coniston too:
The Old Man of Coniston was the first ever Munro I remember walking up with my parents. This is despite the fact that it is neither: a) above 3000ft, or b) in Scotland. Having grown up North of the border, with parents who would occasionally drag us haphazard gang of children up the odd hill, asking if something was a “Munro” was simply a way of gauging how long and awful the day’s outing would be. It didn’t have specific criteria that must be met to earn the badge, it was just a way of figuring out if our efforts would include a really big hill. It wasn’t until I was far too old for it not to be embarrassing, did I realise that The Munroes were a defined set. Anyway, the memory of slogging up to the slate mine in sweltering heat, while pouring with sweat, is very clear in my mind. The steep rocky path seemed never-ending. Chimes of “are we nearly there yet?” rang in the air almost constantly. I remember the twisted and rusted metal relics of the old mine and how impossibly cold Low Water felt. I even remember my disbelief watching a speedo clad old man happily wade in before pushing off for a swim. I couldn’t keep my toes in the water it felt so cold, never mind popping in to do a couple lengths. I’m not sure if we even made it up the Old Man, but in my mind, we’d definitely climbed a Munro.
I ran the race for the first time last year, and I’d been mightily happy with my result. I’d come much further up the field than usual and I simply assumed that the race must’ve suited me really well. In reality, it was because there was a championship race the next day, which had massively thinned out the field. Ignorance is bliss. I had run well though, by my standards at least, managing the steep descent straight off the Old Man and hanging on to the speed right until I ran straight past the bridge I was supposed to cross in the final kilometer. The guy who had been just in front, suddenly appeared on the other side of the river about 10m to my left. I instantly recognized my mistake, but enthusiastic descending left me unable to run back uphill to the crossing. In the heat of the moment, I dashed straight down the mini ravine separating the two paths and scrambled back up the other side. I’d lost 10 places and a couple of minutes but at least I’d never make the same mistake again. It’s not a route choice I’d recommend.
Race day was warm with promise of colder winds higher up – ideal conditions really. It went as it always does, heads bobbing up the road in waves before the turn onto the fell. I felt great going up this bit last year, my legs can’t be bothered now. It keeps coming. Step, step, step, occasional scurry over a flatter section, step, step, step. Reaching Wetherlam is a relief as I join running my running mate Bill. I’m both glad to have someone to run with, but also cursing the pace. We leapfrog back and forth, gaining and losing distance as the terrain panders to and protests against our merits and shortfalls. Up and over Swirl How, and it speeds up again. Trying to gauge our contours correctly, aiming to skip unnecessary summits without shooting too wide. I’m on the fence about the efficacy of our strategy, but that happens no matter which way you choose. Coming off the Old Man, Bill takes the rightward line directly East, and I take a crap line sort of North East and our company parts. The steep and tufted grass is hard to descend with its jutting rocks and uneven surface. I find myself cutting sharp turns as if I was skiing moguls, twisting left and right, highly focused on not going arse over tit. The crappness of my line is made clear as I rejoin the path at the disused quarry. I’ve barely saved any distance on the path, and I’ve still got most of the awful flagstones to descend. I was however fortunate enough to find myself in sight of people better acquainted with the route, following them as they minimize their time on the unforgiving rocky path. Flying down, last year’s missed turning is at the front of my mind, as I cross the bridge and join the path back to the start. The steep and feet slapping tarmac makes my battered feet wince, but it’s short lived with even enough beans left for a sprint finish.
The rest of the day was spent with a quick visit to the slightly bizarre Ruskin Museum, with its interesting juxtaposition of information about the humble origins of life in the Lake District, and Bluebird, the jet engined hydroplane. Informed, if a little baffled, we sauntered along to the pub to enjoy a great post race pint of Bluebird X7, and to chat running related nonsense with the other runners.
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Only covered 21 miles so far today. Legs ok-ish & head & rest of body fine just can't get the legs to move much. Not enough long2long back2back runs in training I think.
Dinner now at the end of Barbondale (lots of wild camp spots) but I'll push on over next hill before thinking about another kip.
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You bloody legend. Sending digital cheers of encouragement. 🤘
Tough one in the clouds at the long Duddon today. Low vis all day, tough navigation that I fortunately managed to stay on top of and avoided going wrong, lots of taking bearings, map checking and trying to keep my nerve when you can’t see a fucking thing. Legs felt toasted from the get go, not enough rest since last week. Last big week tho, taper time for 2 weeks before Arran now.
Feels good to get another Lakes AL category ticked either way, especially in testing conditions. Looking at the Strava flyby, plenty people had nav trouble today!
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Dot watching alert:
http://www.randomforestrunner.com/2019/05/seeking-grand-challenges/