Keep on Running Sancho

2015 came and went without much of a fanfare from me. My yearly round-up was never written, along with 3 races which, for one reason or another didn't get reviewed. I also failed to write down my goals for this year, which, as a target orientated runner is a bit of a slip up.  2016 is now well underway, I've already got 3 races under my belt without so much as raising a pen to review them. It's fair to say that I've let the blog slip. 

 

There are quite a few reasons behind my lack of blogging, but chief amongst them is a new addition to my family. Time is at a premium and frankly most of my blogging time is taken up with running. 

Looking back to 2015, I can happily say that I achieved everything that I set out to. I had originally billed it as "Epic" and it didn't disappoint.  Trailtrekk, the 100km walk through the Yorkshire Dales, was incredible and much tougher than I had anticipated. I completed my first marathon in under 4 hours*, and in November I managed to run a sub 45 minute 10k at the Abbey Dash. All 3 target boxes ticked.

But with that all behind me I decided to lay off the mad challenges and just concentrate on enjoying running. That's not to say that I'm taking it easy this year.  To start with I've made the decision to only run of road. This came out of my deep rooted disdain of Kirkstall Road. Having propelled my body along it's featureless tarmac 7** times in the last few years I decided that enough was enough and I'd have a break. It was easy from that point to just rule out road races all together. 

So for me 2016 is all about off road running. That's not to say that I'm now a cross country nut longing to splash through every puddle available. To be honest I don't really know the difference between a trail race and a fell race but I know that the scenery is 100 times more interesting. 

Fitness-wise, I'm determined to get to, and maintain, some level of half marathon fitness. I've peaked and troughed since I started running but over the last year I have got myself to the stage where I could comfortably complete a 10k without any additional training. I now want to increase my base level of fitness so that I can tackle longer, tougher runs, without having to start from scratch each time. 

2016 is going to go by in a flash and I know that there will be times that I'll wish I was racing with my friends rather than sticking to my pledge of avoiding roads. I know I won't miss the Leeds 10k, but I'm already itching to beat my pb at the Leeds half. I really enjoyed the Hull and York 10ks too but they will have to wait until next year.

The Harewood 1/2 was a tough run

For now, I've already run the Temple Newsam 10, Skye Run, and the Harewood 1/2 this year. I have the Bluebell 10, Over the Odda, and the Round Sheffield Run, to name but a few races to look forward to... and I think somebody mentioned running the Yorkshire 3 Peaks.  Here's to 2016

*just
**Leeds 10ks, Abbey Dashes, Leeds 1/2s

Yorkshire Marathon 2015

I was going to try and come up with some kind of tally for the number of times that I have visited York in the past 30 odd years, but to be honest I'm not sure where I would begin counting.  School visits to Yorvik and the National Railway Museum soon gave way to shambling pub crawls and visits to some very suspect nightclubs, only for the museums to come back into vogue now that I have a young family of my own.  Lets just say for arguments sake that I have visited York a fair few times in the past.

This year however I have added a new reason for visiting.  No longer is York Minster an acrophobia inducing tourist destination, Lendal Cellars isn't just another watering hole on a long and rangy list of pubs visited.  Instead they are now places that have featured as landmarks on race routes.  Back in July the Run For All York 10k was my last race of Summer.  I had beaten myself up over 18 seconds after the Leeds 10k and was determined to enjoy the day in York.  I kept a steady pace, took in the scenery and finished with a respectable time of 47:24.

Yesterday I was back in York for another race but this time it was different.  I'm used to running 10k races, but I had very little idea what lay ahead of me, in what was going to be my first full marathon.  To say I was going in blind isn't actually true.  I had been following a training plan for 21 weeks but that only took me to 20 miles twice so although I knew what it felt like to run that far, I had no idea how it would feel to run 26.2 miles.

I had tried to put all thoughts of the final 6.2 miles out of my head but in the weeks leading up to the race it was almost all I could think about.  My long training runs had been fine but I was convinced that I was in danger of going off far too fast and burning out before I had even got to 20 miles, never mind 21 or over.  To put my mind at ease I had one last run on Thursday with the sole aim of getting my pace right.  After 2 miles I was settled and happy that I could do the same on Sunday.  My training was complete and all I could do was wait.

Finally Sunday morning came around.  I got up at the crack of dawn so that I could eat breakfast without it sitting like a lead weight in my stomach whilst I was running.  I mustered the family, and waited for our lift to York.  Everything was falling into place.  I made it to the event village by 8am, got changed in the glamour of a portaloo, dropped off my bag and wandered over to my start pen.

So far everything was just the same as any other race I'd entered. I'd bumped into a couple* of buddies from South Leeds Lakers and chewed the fat with a runner that I'd been chatting with at the end of the Leeds 10k earlier in the year.  I ate my pre-race banana, used the facilities (again), ignored the group warm up, and got ready for the start.  Oddly, for my first marathon, I wasn't any more nervous than at the start of any of the other races of the year.  What we were about to undertake was brought home however when a minutes applause was held for David Colley, the runner who had died during this year's Great North Run.  He had been due to take part in the marathon alongside us and suddenly what I was doing felt that little bit harder.

Thoughts of not completing the run were pushed firmly to the back of my mind just in time for Harry Gration to get the race under-way.  The usual shuffle, run, stop, walk, run to the start line was observed and we were off.  I was trying my hardest not to run too fast but I was being swept along by the noise of the crowds and the tempo set by my fellow runners.  I got through the first mile a couple of minutes faster than I had planned to but then managed to settle into something closer to the 9:14minute/mile pace that I needed to get round the route in 4 hours.

Nice Minster

I saw my family in the crowds as I passed York Minster and, thinking that that was the last of my support for the day, got on with the job in hand.  I soon left York behind and started running through the surrounding villages.  Each new hamlet brought a new set of spectators cheering us on and giving out jelly babies.  I was expecting children looking for high-fives to be lining the route but the sight of the Minister from Stockton on the Forest happily leading his congregation in high-fiving as many runners as possible was quite a nice surprise and a chance that I couldn't miss out on.

I was through 10k in 50:04, faster than I had anticipated, faster than most of my 10k races in 2014 and only a second off my Abbey Dash PB, but done at what felt like a nice steady pace.  The next 10k came and went without incident.  I was a little slower (2:31 slower) than the first 10k but it wasn't my legs that were the problem.  I had a nagging feeling that I could do with a wee but as the feeling came and went I didn't do anything about it, unlike the masses who were diving into fields, jumping behind trees, or shielding themselves with bushes as they sought relief before rejoining the pack.

I made it to halfway in 1:49:17 (not a bad time for a half marathon if you ask me), but I was still dithering about needing to stop.  I had been careful not to drink too much before the race and I'd only had a couple of sips from the water stations that I'd passed so I couldn't understand why I felt the need to pee.  By mile 16 the urge got the better of me so I found a suitable field to pop into, hurried behind a hedge and nothing happened.  Then it dawned on me, I didn't need to pee at all, it was much worse than that.

I rejoined the race and tried to put all thoughts of needing to visit the loo behind me.  This proved more difficult than the previous 16 miles running had been.  My race was in danger of being ruined along with my self respect.  An attack of the "runners trots" was not what I needed.  I was convinced that every step was churning things up and every rumble was like a tsunami alarm in my head.  Was I going to be "that runner" who everyone talked about after the race?

It didn't help that all of this internal discomfort and worry took part on the long drag between 17 and 20 miles.  The road stretched on for ages with a constant stream of other runners passing in the other direction.  I passed some other running buddies** heading in the other direction, summoned up the strength to shout encouragement at them and pressed on.

I found salvation at Holtby where, just after mile 20, some kind soul had left a block of partaloos.  I would have been happy with the worst toilets in Yorkshire, or something resembling Renton's toilet from Trainspotting, but I guess that not many people use a portaloo 20 miles into a marathon so it was nice and clean.

For the first time ever I timed a visit to the lavatory.  It cost me 4 minutes but I was back on the road and feeling much more comfortable.  I was also now into the realms of the unknown as I'd only ever run 20 miles twice during training.  Every step was propelling me further than I had ever run before and I was feeling fine, well, not fine exactly but I was still moving.  I was slowing down however.  I knew my early pace was gone but even after the pit-stop I still had some time in the bag to finish in 4 hours.

Just after mile 23 I rounded the corner into Murton and to my surprise Phil and Jenny from Cross Flatts parkrun were stood at the side of the road.  Suddenly for the first time in hours I had some support.  I was spurred on to finish.  I picked up my feet and started off on the hardest 5k I have ever run.  I had over half an hour to finish before the magic 4 hours was up but no sooner had I left Murton behind my body decided that I had had enough.

I'm not sure if it was my legs or my head but something said stop.  I slowed to a walk only to discover that walking hurt more than running.  Why this isn't written in every training guide and online support forum is beyond me.  This knowledge might have kept me going for a little while longer, but I had slowed for a walk in a race for the first time this year, and I was shattered.  I tried to run as often and as far as was possible (especially when there were spectators).  I was willing the mile markers to come to me but they stayed in their allotted places and then, with a mile to go, the inevitable happened.  The 4 hour pace runner passed me.

He had been behind me in the start pens and I'd seen him again on the switch-back around mile 18 but I had hoped that I had enough time in the bag to finish ahead of him even after walking.  I checked my watch and came to the conclusion that Mr 4:00:00 was actually ahead of schedule, not by much, but I still had a chance at finishing my first marathon in 4 hours.

Back running I rounded the last corner to face the hill back up to University Road and the finish line.  From somewhere in the back of my mind came the knowledge that I could run up hills and run up it I did.  I passed a couple of less fortunate runners being helped along by spectators under their arms and cleared the summit.  It was literally all downhill from there.

Passing under the start gantry for the second time that morning it started to dawn on me what I had achieved.  But then a voice from the crowd yelled my name.  It was Anna from South Leeds Lakers.  The world kind of slowed down, I found where she was standing, ran across the road, got my final high-five of the day, and ran on to the finish line.  A friendly face with only 100m to go was all I needed to push for home.  The emotions of 42km washed over me and my eyes welled up.  Breathing became hard as I choked back tears but my legs kept turning and I crossed the line.

 

My watch said 3:59:38, 22 seconds under the target I had set myself.  I staggered through the goody bag zone, got my medal and walked, gingerly, back to the bag-drop area with my family who had been waiting for me just beyond the finish line.  My legs hurt, my head was swimming, but I had just done something that I still don't actually believe that I'm capable of.  I had finished a marathon.

No Excuses

*Betty, Liz, Ray, Karen, Steve, and Andy.
**Martin, Mark and Rachel.

Trailtrekker 2015 - Llamas Not Included: Part 2

As an avid reader of Run Sancho Run you'll know that a standard review is for a 10k race.  There is the occasional half marathon thrown in for good measure and I'm training for my first full marathon in October.  These distances being the norm I'm usually relieved when I get half way and find myself on the way to the end, every step bringing me closer and closer to the finish line.  This weekend however, halfway felt much more like "I have to do all of that again?!"

On Saturday morning at 7am, team Llamas Not Included set off from Skipton to complete the Oxfam Trailtrekker (you can see how we got on on Saturday here) and by 1:18am on Sunday morning we made it to the water Stop at Deepdale, 58km under our feet and three hours later than planned.  We were safe and dry, apart from our feet which had been soaked, wading through the flash floods on Cam Pasture following a two hour electrical storm.

We were the lucky ones.  We had been held up at Cam Farm in the relative warmth and safety of the watertight barn.  My thoughts turned to those who had been stuck here at this small checkpoint during the lock-down.  The only shelter was a couple of marquees and the facilities were limited.  We only stopped long enough to thank the volunteers before pushing on through the night towards Mike and Lyndon (our support crew) who we hoped were waiting for us at Buckden.  We should have been there with them at around midnight so we could only hope that news of our hold up had reached them.

Debs took point as we rejoined the Dales Way footpath.  We had been fortunate that the organisers had closed the section of path between Beckermonds and Deepdale and diverted us onto the road.  I can't imagine the state of the path following the deluge that had come before us!  My feet, on the other hand had not enjoyed the extra tarmac section.  I had chosen, against all advice, to wear trail shoes rather than walking boots in a trade off between weight, traction, comfort and the likelihood of wet feet, and the one thing trail shoes don't like is tarmac.  Each step of the detour had felt like a hammer blow up my legs but at least we were back on grass.

Debs kept a good pace but having been ill in the week before the event she was starting to flag.  To be fair, I hadn't been sure if she was going to make the start line on Saturday.  The Bronze stop at Horton would have been a poor consolation prize for her after all of the training that we'd done, but the Trailtrekker is about more than stamina.  Mental strength, as much as physical ability, is required to make the 100km Gold finish line in Skipton.

We soon came to Hubberholm (a hamlet that I really want to visit in my own time as the pub looks really inviting) and silently passed on through on the final approach to Buckden an the Silver Challenge finish point.  In the distance, behind us, we could just make out the lights of the trekkers following in our footsteps.  We hit Buckden like a wrecking ball, cheers and rounds of applause coming from the support crews and volunteers who were lining the street to the check point.  We totally forgot the "Please be silent when passing through the village" edict laid down by Oxfam, but then they started it.

We hit the Checkpoint at 2:56 on Sunday morning and cheers rang out as Llamas Not Included were announced to the tent of waiting support crews.  Lyndon and Mike were there waiting for us and had been for the previous six hours.  The event lock-down had hit every checkpoint but at Buckden "entertainment" had been laid on.  Our poor crew had to sit not only through a storm but also through a zumba-thon.  The powers that be decided that crew had to remain in the flammable tent rather than sitting out the storm in their personal faraday cages, or cars as you or I might know them.  Raising morale is all very well and good, but hammering it out of people out of misguided knowledge is cruel.

We ate creamy pasta and crisp sweat potato chips, Lyndon made us some fresh coffee and we contemplated what we had gone through.  We still had 35k to go to Skipton, our pace was well within the 30 hour cut off, but the previous week's tonsillitis finally claimed Debs.  She retired, claimed her well deserved Silver medal and smiled the smile of somebody who knew they would be asleep soon, comfortable, warm, and dry.  In a change to tradition I decided not to change my socks, saving my final pair for the last check point at Conistone, we filled our water bottles and walked off into the night. 

Buckden to Kettlewell was the only section of the route that we hadn't previously walked so we were flying by the seat of our pants, but we had figured that it wouldn't be too difficult to follow the path along the side of the river.  We were right, the path was easy to follow but the rain had turned a lot of it into ponds.  My wet socks remained wet and I felt 100% justified in retaining a pair of socks for the final walk to Skipton.

Half way to Kettlewell we were diverted along a path to Starbottom as the riverside path had flooded.  This meant more tarmac, but the sun was coming up and the negative thoughts of night were lifting.  We stopped for warm fruit punch in Kettlewell where the gent looking after the urn told us that he had never known so few teams to make it through the village by dawn.  Suddenly we felt elated.  It wasn't a race and even if it was we were far from winning, but we had got this far and we were damned if we were going to be stopped.

3 Llamas in the early morning sun just outside Conistone

Only we weren't all going to make it.  Dalia had done brilliantly since having her feet patched up in Horton but the miles finally took hold and forced her to retire at Conistone.  We had endured an additional detour between Kettlewell and Conistone which saved us miles but kept my trail shoes on solid ground.  My feet were sore and I didn't want to take my shoes off but on investigation I only had one small blister and some swelling due to damp.  I re-taped, chose to keep the faith with the trail shoes that had got me this far rather than changing for my back-up trainers and got ready to push on.  Only this time we needed to find another team to buddy up with.

Health and Safety dictates that you need 3 people in a group just in case somebody need to go to find help.  The sun was up, the wind had dropped, we knew the route, all Jon and I needed was a team to join and we would be on our way home.  I'll be honest, I can't remember the names of the walkers we buddied up with (sorry), their team name and number is lost to me too, but they let us leave Conistone within the letter of the rules.  The rules were out of the window however by the time we cleared Cool Scar.

We maintained line of sight to our adoptive team but decided that we'd rather keep our own council and conversation.  In the distance on Malham Moor we could see the next team.  A quick Health and Safety Risk Assessment told us that if anything happened to either of us we would be joined in a matter of minutes by another team so we didn't really need to hang around.  We passed on to Boss Moor, passing another team struggling with injury but determined to finish, and then in the distance a mirage.  No, not a mirage a real ice cream van.

Just when things were getting bad, bleak, lonely, or sore, the event crew from Wild Fox managed to turn up and raise morale.  They had been giving out cheese and biscuits at the foot of Fountains Fell, they managed the soup and chilli at Cam Farm, and here they were again, at 7am on Sunday morning, 24 hours after we had left Skipton, dishing out 99s to anybody who wanted one!

By the time we had reached the final Water-stop in Hetton we had joined up with another team, but as a super team, made up of waifs and strays of around 5 other teams was about to set off, we jumped ship again and hit out for Skipton.  We didn't stay with our new family for long, making our excuses and walking off at our new found pace before we had hit the first field.

We had asked Mike to contact our families when he got back Skipton, to tell them that we would be finishing around 1pm (three and a half hours later than expected) but we now knew that midday was likely.  A phone signal for the first time in 26 hours was ours and we made like E.T.  Our ETA confirmed we walked on through Flashby and took on our final climb up High Wood and Crag Wood.  Below us we could see the Leeds Liverpool canal, joining Skipton and Gargrave.  The same stretch that we had walked on Saturday morning.  How that had been part of the same experience was beyond us.  We kept passing teams, the topic of conversation was always where they had been during the stop, but a sudden realisation dawned on us.

Jon and I had managed, somehow, after 28 hours, to have got ourselves in the position that we could still finish on Sunday morning.  The psychological impact of this was immense.  In the back of my mind I had thought that 24 hours would be a good time.  Our "plan" was actually to hit 26.5 hours.  Nobody planned for injury or the event being halted for two hours, so to finish in the morning rather than the afternoon suddenly meant everything to us.

We were sure that the last team that we'd passed was trying to catch us (they weren't) and decided to run if they got too close.  We were delirious with fatigue but determined.  All that was left was the drop into Skipton and the least well signposted section of the route.  I'm sure that following the path through the park next to Skipton Academy makes the 100km a nice round number but I'd rather cut the corner.  We were close to doing just that when we saw a glow stick dangling from the bough of a tree.  We kept to the path like good boys and turned towards the Academy and the finish line.

Other than the balls of my feet I was feeling fine, but then Jon happened to mention that he was feeling quite emotional.  We turned the corner of the tennis courts that we had passed at 7am the previous day and, to rapturous applause, we crossed the finish line with Mike, Dalia, and Debs there to meet us.

The end.

100km 28:47, 6 friends for life, 1 blister.  I collapsed and swore that I would never ask the members of Llamas Not Included ever to do anything like that again.

Llamas reunited.

We gathered our thoughts and broke camp leaving one of the tents to Oxfam to sell on or use themselves.  On our way off the site I saw a number of other teams cross the finish line and roundly applauded them.  I needed food though, so I went for a bacon buttie in the hall where we had had the safety briefing two nights previously.  There I found some of the team from Wild Fox who had been in charge at Cam Farm.  I took the opportunity to thank them for looking after the 300 trekkers who were stopped in the barn, for their professionalism, and for generally being on the route when we needed them.

Bacon buttie in hand, I wandered off to load my car, and there, directing vehicles and radioing in the teams before they crossed the line, was Terry, the volunteer coordinator who I had hugged at Cam Farm 15 hours earlier.  I learned then just how bad the situation had been.  With only one very steep road in and no passable path out, the event crew had come very close to cancelling the event and evacuating everybody from Cam Farm.  The steep drive to the farm was too much for coaches and the closest place to get people too was Hawes.  It was only the break in the weather and the chance to get everybody to Deepdale where we could be rescued from if the storm came back that kept everything moving and allowed us to finish the trekk.

I have never taken on anything as tough as the trailtrekk, but it is there to be done.  The challenge is as much mental as physical and it's for a very good cause.  The money that team Llamas Not Included has raised is going to help people around the world and that thought is helping my aching limbs.  Standing with Jonathan, Dalia, and Deborah at the finish is quite possibly the proudest moment of my life so far.  I know we were lucky with the weather and it could have been much, much worse, but if you are after a challenge, if you want to help those who need it, Trailtrekker knocks a corporate obstacle course into a cocked hat.

Thank you to all of the Oxfam staff and Volunteers for a wonderful walk in the country.

Trailtrekker 2015 - Llamas Not Included: Part 1

If you ask me, nothing says "it's going to be a good weekend" more than pitching a tent.  Whether it's a festival, or camping by the seaside, the excitement of being under canvas for a couple of days always makes me feel good.  This weekend however, the camping was a means to an end.  The temporary camp site at Skipton Academy had one purpose, it was to be the base, start, and finish point for the teams taking park in Oxfam's Trailtrekker 2015, a 100km walk through the stunning Yorkshire Dales.

I was the first member of team Llamas Not Included to make it to Skipton, so I set up camp and started our registration process whilst waiting for Jonathan, Dalia, and Deborah to make it over from Leeds.  We were a full team by the time the time the second of the evenings safety briefings took place.  We tucked into jacket potatoes with beans and (organic) cheese whilst we were lectured on hydration, temperature control, and the importance of walking boots over any other form of foot wear.

A lot of the safety briefing felt like common sense to us, but I don't deny it it's relevance.  I would say however that all advice from experts needs to be heavily caveated, as what is great advice for one person is potentially a bad idea for someone else.  I know this to be true of running and I can't see why "one size fits all" advice should be right for walking too.

By the time we'd registered, and had our dibbers strapped to our wrists, it was time to retire for the night.  This was when I faced my first weather related disaster of the weekend.  The tent's windows had been opened to allow some fresh air in, however it had started raining during the safety talk and my sleeping bag and ground mat were soaked.  This was not the most annoying part of the night however.  It was astounding that even though everybody in the field was about to take on a 100km treck in the morning some people thought it would be acceptable to stay up chatting and singing songs until well past 1am.  To say that the team didn't sleep well is an understatement!

We awoke at 5am, bleary eyed and bedraggled tailed.  This was not the start that we wanted but you have to play the hand you're dealt.  A full English later and we were ready to go.  At 7am our wave of starters were under-way and we were instantly stuck in a convoy walking just slower than was comfortable, along the Leeds Liverpool canal.  I had no intention in racing around the 100km route but not being able to walk at our normal pace was frustrating.

Bleary eyed and bedraggled tailed...we set off.

We soon made it to the first water-stop at Gargrave, and even though we hadn't been moving as fast as we could have we were still well within our predicted time.  We had decided only to spend 10 to 20 minutes at each checkpoint so after topping up our water bottles, using the facilities and necking a hasty cup of tea we were back on our way to Malham, and the first stop with our support crew.

The crowds of the canal tow path had dispersed and although we could see two or three teams in either direction we were now able to walk at our own pace without fear of getting in anybody's way or being hit by a flailing walking pole.  We already knew where we were going, having walked the route on our training walks, but even if we didn't it would have been very difficult to get lost as the way was marked with fluorescent orange arrows at every turn.

We were wary as we passed Airton as on our first walk this was the boggiest section, but the way was clear, even with the previous evenings rain.  Much to our surprise and that of Lyndon and Mike (our Support Crew) we made it to Malham just before 11 o'clock, and hour faster than we had anticipated.  All the way through training we had been hitting 24hour pace but we didn't think for a moment that that was achievable over the actual event.

We took the opportunity to change our socks and set off, only to be thwarted by red tape.  It turns out that what we thought was an acceptable survival bag was not what the bloke checking our kit thought one was.  Jon also came a cropper as he hadn't packed waterproof trousers.  You see Jon is a seasoned walker, his kit is robust and tested and he has never worn waterproof trousers in his life.  He has a long waterproof coat and wears gaters so the only exposed section of trouser would be 6 inches long and would dry out (or he could change trousers at the next check point).  All of this fell on deaf ears and so waterproofs and a survival bag were duly purchased.

Trouser-gate didn't lose us that much time and we were soon climbing up the 400 steps of Malham Cove.  I love that climb and its reward of one of the best views imaginable.  But we were only at the top long enough for a couple of photos before moving on towards Malham Tarn, the location of one of the low points of our training.  Last time we got to the Tarn we were welcomed by ice cold gusts of wind that went through us not around us.  This time out we got the first rain of the day, but as soon as we pulled our waterproofs (jackets only) out of our bags the rain eased off again.

Llamas Not Included on top of Malham Cove.

I'm not sure what happened next, but somewhere between Malham Tarn Field Centre and the foot of Fountains Fell Dalia's feet decided that they had already had enough of this walking lark.  Even though she had trained in her walking boots without a single blister, for some reason she was visited by a boot full of them.  The pace the we had set on the way to Malham quickly vanished and the hour in the bag was soon eroded.  Last time we had walked up Fountains Fell it had been freezing cold and blowing a gale but this time in the summer sun it seemed more painful just because of our pace.

When we made it to Horton in Ribblesdale Dalia got her feet patched up,  Debs changed out of her boots into some trail shoes and we set off again, having lost another hour.  Times for the event are some what irrelevant but we really wanted to have made it past Cam Farm before sun set as we knew how tricky it would be to cross Cam Pasture in the dark.  The podiatrist had worked miracles with Dalia's feet and we joined a stream of trekkers rejoining the Pennine Way for the long slow climb up Cam Fell.  Even though we knew where the path forked for us to join the Dales Way it felt like it was taking forever.  False summit followed false summit, but then in the distance we could see a hi-viz wearing volunteer.  It soon dawned on me that he was directing people to stay on the Pennine Way and not drop down Cam Fell.  This was met with mixed feelings.  The Fell was bound to be boggy but the road ahead was still climbing, and the path down to Cam Farm would be steep.

Eventually we reached our turning point and dropped down to Cam Farm only to appreciate that the dimming light was only partly due to the setting sun.  Ahead of us the sky was black-red and angry.  We knew that storms had been forecast but so had a day full of rain and we had only had a brief shower to contend with at Malham Tarn.  Then to our right the sky lit up.  Lightning in the direction of Horton.  Phew!  We weren't heading back so the storm could stay over the Three Peaks.  A second flash to our left, the direction of our journey confirmed that the storm was covering the whole of the Dalse to the South.  We were certain to meet bad weather after dark.

We were welcomed at Cam Farm by Terry, who I hugged after he told us there was hot Chilli con Carne on offer!  We took on food and water as the storm rumbled overhead.  The sky was soon black as the storm rained down upon the wriggly tin roof of the Game Keepers barn where we were sheltering.  We braced ourselves for what we were about to take on, donned our waterproofs (not the trousers), sorted out our head torches, snapped our glow sticks, and got our packs back on.  Dalia and Debs decided to take a final visit to the loos and promptly saved our bacon.

By the time they had come back to the barn we were on lock-down.  The event had been stopped because of the storm and nobody was allowed to leave the Barn.  We had no idea how long we were going to be stuck at Cam Fell but the volunteers and event crew kept us all fed and watered, giving us updates as and when they could.  More and more people joined us having been walking towards Cam Farm when the storm struck.  Each body was wetter than the last and space was fast becoming a premium.  At one point we were informed that there were at least 77 more people walking the Pennine Way in our direction.  A lucky few were moved into the farm house and the remaining trekkers were welcomed into the Game Keepers cottage.

How many more can we fit in this barn?

I couldn't help but try to listen into the conversations that the event crew were having but could only get a gist of what was going on.  The storm was rolling around the valleys that we needed to walk through and four days (weeks?) of rain had fallen in two hours.  The river had burst its banks, bridges were impassable and the normally boggy pasture path down from the farm to Oughtershaw was at best ankle deep.  Professional teams were being sent down the path to see if it was navigable but the wait continued.

Human fairy-lights.

Finally just before 11 o'clock we were told to get ready to leave, a two to three hour weather window meant that we needed to get back under way.  We were one of the first teams out of the barn and started the slog down the saturated path.  The idea of wearing walking boots to keep your feet dry was lost at this point, waders would have struggled to keep feet dry as we squelched between, over, and through, the swollen streams that feed Oughtershaw Beck.  Behind us the black night was punctuated like a string of fairy lights by head torches.  There were slips and falls but at least it had stopped raining.

A man called Bob.

Picture the scene;

A spit and sawdust saloon bar in America's mid-west.  The bar is propping up a couple of trail-beaten cowboys and a time ravaged prospector, sleeping off too much firewater, while the barman diligently wipes glasses with a greasy cloth.  In the corner an old timer is playing ragtime on an out of tune piano whilst keeping a keen eye on the card game being played out on the next table.

Suddenly the candle on the piano sputters out in a gust of wind from the now open saloon doors.  Stood in the doorway is the silhouetted frame of a stranger.  The music stops as the stranger steps in to the room and says "I'm looking for a man. Goes by the name of Graham. Bob Graham." 

The card game continues and the piano refills the silence of the saloon as people diligently avoid the eyes of the stranger.  "I said, I'm looking for a man called Bob Graham!" says the stranger, silencing the piano for a second time and walking up to the bar "Do any of you know where I can find him?" 

"Ain't nobody called Bob Graham in these parts stranger," replies the barman, putting down his cloth and moving slowly to where his trusty Smythe and Wilson lives under the counter. "can I get you a drink?" But before the stranger can reply the prospector raises his head from the bar "I've not heard the name Bob Graham for many a long year...that name brings trouble with it everywhere it goes."

A shot rings out...

Back in the real world I wasn't looking for Bob Graham, but he seems to have found me.  On the 1st June this year, a day after we had completed our last training session for August's 100k TrailTrekk challenge, Jonathan shared two words with me via Facebook, along with a link to a blog.  Bob Graham were those words.  At the time I was very confused. Bob who?  I needed to know more and as Jonathan is a trustworthy type I clicked on the link and discovered that I was being led down a pretty dangerous path, one that I'm teetering on the brink of walking along.

In 1932 Bob Graham, a hotelier from Keswick ran 66 miles through the Lake District, including 42 of the highest peaks, in 24 hours.  The Bob Graham Round was born and people still take it on to this day but less than 2000 people have successfully completed the round in under 24 hours.

I'm only just getting into the idea trail running and am yet to cover more than 17 miles in one go so there is no danger of me taking Bob on any time soon, but as the man himself was 42 when he set the record, I guess I have a few years to think about it.  I have a few other challenges to overcome first though.

There is the small matter of the York Marathon in August, but next year I'm planning on running the Yorkshire Three Peaks which will give me a much better idea of what would be involved running in the Lake District.  I'm not about to become the stranger walking, into town looking for Bob Graham. But I know his name, and I know that if I want to find him all I have to do is walk into the Moot Hall in Keswick, and then go for a very long run.

Leeds 10k 2015

Since starting up South Leeds Lakers in February there are certain things that I've said so often that they are starting to sound odd.  "Lets go for a run" and "Hills are your friends" are fast becoming annoying catch phrases, but "Not every run can be a good run", said almost every week for the last 22 weeks, is possibly something that I need to take to heart.

This weekend was the Leeds 10k.  It was the 3rd time in 3 years that I was running it and, during the week leading up to Sunday morning, I started to feel quite confident.  It had been my 1st ever race in 2013, I'd seen a massive improvement in 2014, and I felt like it was on the cards for me to improve again this year.

I set off to Millennium Square bright and early as per usual however, unlike the last two years, I wasn't alone.  Gary joined me for the walk in for his 1st Leeds 10k, and around 30 people who I know from running in South Leeds met us on the steps of the City Museum.  We stood around talking race strategy and telling tales of how we had done in previous years, whilst giving advice to our friends who had never run a 10k race before.  The atmosphere was great and rather than the usual pre-race nerves I was being swept along by a group's excitement.

South Leeds Lakers and Hunslet Hawks. One happy family.

We soon went our separate way to find our starting pens and I made the decision that my time in the  Hull 10k a few weeks ago wasn't a fluke and that I could at least achieve the same time again.  All I needed to do was maintain a pace around 4:30min/k and 45:30 would be mine.  If I managed to go just a little bit quicker my dream of a sub a 45 10k could become a reality.

Unlike Burnley a couple of weekends ago there was no delay in the start and we were off just as the temperatures started to climb.  The first couple of kilometres were over in a flash and before I knew it I was already on Kirkstall Road with the voices of friends shouting my name ringing in my ears for encouragement.

The 40 minute pace runner had disappeared into the distance but I was still keeping a good pace. I was inside what I wanted at the 4k point but I was already starting to feel tired.  I grabbed a bottle of water at the first water station took a couple of sips and pressed on, well aware that my pace was already slowing.  5k came and went with what would have been a parkrun PB but by the time I was through 6k I knew that I was losing valuable seconds.

I don't like running back into town on Kirkstall Road at the best of times.  It is a featureless stretch of tedious tarmac that has the ability to sap the strength from my legs.  No matter what I tried I just couldn't get any pace back.  Every attempt at increasing my cadence, thinking about breathing, working my arms, brought the same result.  By 8k I knew that I would miss out on running sub 45 and by 9k I knew, even with a strong last minute push along Westgate and The Headrow, that I was going to miss the PB that I had set in Hull.

I crossed the finish line outside the town hall in 45:48, 4:04 faster than last year.  Over twenty minutes faster than my first Leeds 10k two years ago.  I should have been over the moon but no.  I felt deflated.  I'd missed out on the Hull 10k time by 18 seconds and sub 45 felt like it was a life time away.

I know that I should have been listening to my own advice and that "Not every run can be a good run".  I also know that 45:48 is a good time for 10k and that my training recently has been all about the marathon and running for longer not for going faster.  But none of that is giving me any comfort.  Last year I would have ripped your arms off if you had offered me that time but there and then, at the end of the 2015 Leeds 10k it felt like the worst time possible.

At the start of the year I laid out my aims and targets for 2015.  The top target for the year is getting around the 26.2 miles of the Yorkshire Marathon.  Going sub 45 for 10k was only ever going to be a happy byproduct of that training, if it actually happened.  I now need to hold onto that and move on.  There will be other races and other chances to push myself harder and faster but for now I have a new PB for the Leeds 10k and a date with a 17 mile training run on Sunday.

Urban Trail Runner: Middleton Woods

For me the last few years have all been about the next challenge.  First it was getting out of the door and going for a run.  Then it was my first 10k.  A few races, and a year and a bit later, it was my first half marathon.  Now I'm training for my first marathon.  I don't know about anybody else, but for me that feels like quite a escalation of running distance since my first 2k run/walk back in 2012.

In fact, since I started running I've clocked up over 2,500k but most of those have been on tarmac and I'm starting to feel the onset road running fatigue.  This isn't great as there is still a long way to go before I take on the Yorkshire Marathon.  To give myself some more off-road miles, and following on from my first trail run at Over the Odda, I signed up for the inaugural Middleton Woods Urban Trail Runner race.

When I entered I did so on the basis that I had nothing else in the diary on the same day as the race.  What I should have done was looked at what I was doing in the weeks around it.  Last weekend was the Pennine Lancashire 10k and next weekend is the Leeds 10k.  I should have realised that I'm not a three races in three weekends kind of runner.  The distance isn't the problem but the intensity of race days takes a bit longer to get over.  Then there is the question of my Marathon Training plan.  So far it had been building gradually but the day after Middleton I was due to run 15 miles, my longest run to date.

With the LSR* in the back of my mind I set off for John Charles Stadium.  The morning wasn't great.  There was a chill and drizzle in the air.  I had also woken up feeling like somebody had dropped a hammer on my foot over night, but a trot around the athletics track at the stadium told me that I would be OK to run on it.  We lined up at the start and received the pre-race instructions.  It turns out the the locals were not content with removing the route markers, but they had moved them to make us through a swamp, luckily this had been discovered before we set off.

And they're off!

After a quick lap of the track we were off into the woods via "Scrooge Hill".  I got stuck in traffic but everything was going fine but then we got to the first serious hill up to the Rose Garden in Middleton Park.  I could have found the strength and stamina from somewhere to make it to the top of the slope, I've run up worse, but I remembered the 15 miles that lay ahead of me on Sunday and decided to walk and save my legs.

That set the pace for the rest of the race.  Happily running and maintaining a good pace through the twisty, muddy, bramble strewn trails and the mown paths of the clearings but then slowing to a walk on the steeper up-hill sections.  I covered the 8.6k route in 47:25, slower than I would have liked but, given my decision to walk, a time I should be happy with.

Once I have managed to get the marathon out of the way I think my next challenge will be improving my trail running, more off road, more hills, and more mud.  Roads are a safe bet when it comes to routes, especially organised races but trails, to me, are where the adventure can begin anew.**

*Long Slow Run
** The day after the Middleton Wood Trail race I set out to run 15 miles with Rich and Martin from South Leeds Lakers.  They ran with me for the first 4 miles before turning back and their company was very welcome.  I found a slow and comfortable pace, ran on pavements, along the canal, through the city centre, and Cross Flatts Park, and finished in 2:28:28.  My longest ever run in the bag.  The next long training run is 17 miles in a couple of weeks, but before that there is the small matter of the Leeds10k.