The Pixie Run – to an absent friend

While browsing the shelves for a couple of novels to take on the boat, I stumbled upon “The Pixie Run”, by none other than our damaged ex-team-member Damon. So in sympathy and respect, I’ll take it along. I read it years ago when I first met the wee man; in those days he had a loft-full of them, and would thrust copies at total strangers all around Glasgow; these days it’s a collector’s item,  available only from a small corner shop in Bideford, and any of Damon’s friends; actually from anyone he’s met in the last 12 years. Seriously though, it’s a cracking read, considering it’s about running silly numbers of miles day after day after day, easting crusts, sleeping under the stars, a psychotic girlfriend, and several weird friends, mainly called Nigel (as far as I recall).

And this is where I first heard of our charity Practical Action, except in those days they were called “Intermediate Technology”. Here’s what it says on the back of The Pixie Run… “In February 1996, Damon Rodwell, a moderately successful club-standard ultra-runner [those were the days!] was on a trekking holiday in the Nepalese Himalayas when he was exposed to the work of Intermediate Technology, a British-based charity striving to improve the lives of the poor in the developing world. He was so impressed by the projects which Intermediate Technology were undertaking, and with their common-sense approach to sustainable change that he resolved to spend his summer on a fund-raising venture”…. (and the rest is history that you can read in the book!).

Anyway, I must go and finish packing, and pop this wee gem in to keep my spirits up. And you never know, we might run out of bog roll.

One down?

While running over the Beacons this morning I was wondering how Damon got on in his big bike ride, whether the ribs & neck were recovering, or whether (as I feared) they would make life hard . On my return, I found the email I was dreading…

“My rib, six days after my fall, is more painful now than it has been all week. I embarked on an 80-mile bike-ride with a couple of plodders yesterday, managed ten painful miles then bailed out, and had to resort to calling Anna to come and collect me a few miles from home. I couldn’t get into a normal riding position, pull on the handlebars to climb hills or, in fact, tackle anything that required deep breathing without pretty bad discomfort. I can’t run a step without grunting, and can’t get dressed without swearing. My assurances that the rib was bruised rather than broken now seem a bit on the optimistic side (although the pain is centred about 6 inches from the point of impact, albeit on the same rib). From past experience I know that the pain will stick around for about three weeks, which by coincidence takes us to the start of the 3PYR. What this means is that I may be in a fit state to toe the start line, but that I’ll have done nothing for a month. How the injury would respond to humungously long runs on rough ground with a hefty pack is quite another matter.
The upshot is that you either need to find a replacement runner a very short notice, or to resign yourselves to having a cripple on board, which may very well necessitate some heroics from the crew when I get back from Snowdon hours later that predicted in a gibbering heap. Or, it might  be OK.  I guess the way to proceed is for a replacement to be sought, on the understanding that if none can be found, I pitch up and give it a crack.
I can’t express how pissed off I am about this, so I’m not going to try.There seems to be some wee bastard somewhere conspiring against my ever doing a big event again. I’ve finally managed to get past the hopeless susceptibility to chest infections that has scuppered so many races in the last couple of years (high-dose VIT C has done the trick, and I’ve been in good fettle for months now),  I had some miles in the legs, with a final push planned and was flying on the bike, when this happens. Really not very excited at all. I also feel extremely shite at letting you all down so close to the event. I know its a massive commitment of time, effort and money, and that the boat has a chance to do well, and I have nothing to offer except, "sorry!"”.

I’m looking for a replacement… anyone out there?

Tumbelina

I went arse over breakfast on a steep grassy descent yesterday evening. I’d fitted in a quick blast up the local monster-hill on my bike at lunchtime, and was out for a 45-minute run while the boys were at karate when I lost control and fell headlong, bouncing off a couple of rocks. One grazed and bruised my ribs quite badly (although, despite what Anna maintains, I don’t think any are broken) and another caught my left quad just above the knee. Today the leg is puffy but pretty OK, the ribs are easing a bit (no pain-killers needed) but I seem to have whiplash, and can’t turn my neck nearly as much as usual.
Made use of the enforced rest by stripping the bike down, giving it a good clean, replacing a worn chain and fitting more sturdy tyres to withstand the forest track in Cumbria. It’s now running so smooth that I can free-wheel uphill! Hurrah – and as a bonus, I have quite macho-looking oily hands and chipped finger-nails.

Intimidation

I’d like to start a campaign for an end to the increasingly intimidating posts being published by Crispin. They are not good for team morale, and it’s quite clear he’s going to burn out before the big day.. I had a sensible weekend, strolling around Alnwick Castle with the family on Saturday, and playing rounders at my daughter’s school on Sunday. The rounders has left me with very tight hamstrings, but quite a nice tan. However, to inspire confidence that I remain an athletic force, I thought I’d post a couple of pictures from my stunning and effortless victory last year’s Eildon Hill Race…

Skipping effortlessly away from the field

Emptying my bowels on the finish line

Showing just how easy it is for a real athlete

Forgot to mention, At alnwick Castle I discovered a hitherto unknown talent for archery, which might come in very handy if we find ourselves at close quarters with rival boats. I left the hill-running to my twins. Oscar was clearly undaunted by his broken wing.

Natural style - and barefoot too!

Check out the accuracy. The wayward arrow in the red was merely a sighting shot.

Oscar gets off to a flier

and hold his form to the finish

Toby decides to eat the time-keeper

Nice Bianchi

 

And on board it’s Damon at the end of the Etape Caledonia. We’ll be doing a lot of grimacing in the 3PYR, so this was quality training. Damon promises to write this up, but just in case, he finished the extremely hilly 81 miler in 4 hours 10, which is pretty darned good.

Trundling along

Crispin’s reports of his efforts over the last couple of weeks leave me quaking. I have managed a few 1-hour runs and a couple of bike rides. Yesterday’s 50-miler on the bike was a bit of a tonic for my achilles, which have been feeling a bit creaky lately, and this morning they are pain-free. I’ve a terrible lassitude about me, however. I think it may be a result of my Dad’s death three weeks ago, which has affected me in unexpected ways. We had a huge family get-together in his memory last weekend, and fed 50 in my house on Saturday evening and 30 for Sunday lunch. Fabulous weekend, but the preparations for the inundation of guests, coupled with the organising of his memorial service and the writing and delivery of a eulogy have left me pretty wrung-out. In these circumstances, my brief forays into the hills have taken on a fresh perspective, and have been very good for clearing the head. I’m plugging away and hoping that the weariness will soon lift and the bounce will return. I have an 80-mile bike ride (race?!) next weekend, and am determined to get out for a couple of really long runs before the end of the month. Injury-free and managing to avoid lurgies with the daily consumption of several kilogrammes of Vitamin C, so at least I have a fighting chance of turning up for the 3PYR in half-way reasonable nick.

A dance to the music of time

Way back in 2000 the Anniversary Waltz was my 3rd ever fell race. It’s a tough race from the Newlands Valley west of Keswick, with 3600 feet of ascent over 11.5 miles. In 2000 I finished just under the two hour mark in 21st place, ashen-faced but smiling, and properly bitten by this crazy sport. Here’s me on that day, with a tiny two-year-old Lois about to pinch my drink.

This year I persuaded Damon and kids to enter, so we gathered at my Mum’s house on friday evening to consume inordinate quantities of chilli and cheese. Damon’s father died a few days ago and I was really impressed he had still made it, looking strong and keeping the chin up, and the twins were just bouncing off the walls as usual.

On the day, Oscar and Toby were disappointed that their race for age 6-8 didn’t go to the top of any mountains, and their tiny Walshes were relatively untested running twice round the field. Oscar came in 2nd, behind a girl, and won a mug (or was it the other way round?); Toby was a few places behind, and will no doubt serve his revenge well chilled.

Here we are just before the start, with Catbells behind. A few minutes later the Waltz set off at a decent pace, and Damon was striding quite a few places ahead of me as we approached Robinson. The first big climb changed things around, and I went to the lead of a group to the summit, but I over-cooked things a bit and didn’t know the correct line off the summit so I had to let them past again. Note for the future:- on the steep climb of Robinson, we stayed right, up what looked the grassier line; however this turns into rocky scrambling on the ridge, and those who went the more direct route fared better overall. Anyway I was feeling pretty wrecked as we climbed Hindscarth, and when we turned at the trig Damon was only a few yards behind; I felt sure he would soon come storming past. But somehow I kept it together on Dalehead over more scrambly technical stuff, and I knew the further we went the better chance I had to stay ahead.

By this stage we were passing runners who had set off 1.5 hours before us on the longer “Teenager with Altitude” race (stupid name). Possibly distracted by the chap carrying a racing bike, I found an abysmal line off Dalehead, and dropped off the back of the group I’d been with. As we climbed High Spy I was feeling a little gloomy, but three jelly babies helped a bit and I started catching people again. But just when I thought I was getting Neil Ashcroft I took a stupid line (instead of following him) and immediately dropped 100m back.

The last climb of Catbells, through hoards of baffled ramblers, wasn’t nearly as bad as I was expecting and I had plenty in reserve to attack the final tricky descent. I came in 13th in 1:53:05 (3rd V40), with Damon 23rd in 1:57:52. Ben Bardsley won in 1:37, well outside Ian Holmes’s incredible 1:28 record.

It was great to be 6 minutes quicker than 10 years ago, and I’m now completely confident I can return in 2021 and dip under 1:50. Aye, right.

270 runners finished. Full results here.

Wuthering Hike – evidence of Damon’s enduring chirpieness

Some photo’s to add to Damon’s write-up…

 

Near the start; not a picture of us, but a selection of grizzled northerners – the earth-salt of this kind of event. Actually I had to dash into our B&B to a) fetch my drink bladder, and b) relieve my other bladder, so we were right at the back of the field.

 

 

The family failed to materialize at the first agreed pit stop, so I was very relieved to find them here at about the 14 mile point. In front of us is Westie Dave Rodgers, a bit jaded after running the Fellsman the previous weekend.

 

 

A picture of Damon looking cheerful, just to prove it can happen.

 

 

 

 

 

Enthusiastic troughing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still looking vaguely athletic as we arrive in Mankinholes village (for more rice pudding), at around 19 miles. I was slightly better prepared than Damon, though far from adequately trained for a 32-miler, and from this point on we were working hard.

 

 

 

 

Here we are at about 28 miles, oh dear, not going very fast at this stage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And setting off up another lovely hill, with only 4 or 5 miles to go…

 

 

 

 

At the finish – we were immediately threatened with delicious bowls of stew, but Damon had to run away from the smell. Here he is outside telling everyone how much he enjoyed the run.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me finding the brick that Damon had snuck into my bumbag.

Wuthering Hike – and a salutory warning

After missing almost all of February with a persistent chest bug, I travelled down to Yorkshire with more than a little trepidation to meet Crispin for a trundle around the 32-mile Wuthering Hike. Despite his comforting emails over the last couple of weeks, which promised that he was hopelessly unfit and looking for a slow plod across the moors, I was alarmed to spot an ominous glint in his eye and an alarming determination to talk about pacing and finishing times over our pre-race dinner.
We’d spent quite a bit of time worrying about navigation, but for the first half of the race this was completely academic, as we started close to the back and spent the first couple of hours weaving through an intermittent stream of runners. An interesting route over the moors, passing spooky old ruins and brooding reservoirs, their surfaces whipped to choppiness by a stiff breeze, would have been even better if the clag had lifted.
My only vaguely long run in preparation for this was a 15-mile jog around my local hills last weekend, and I knew from that that I’d be in trouble in the latter stages of the race. In the event I felt reasonable, albeit tiring perceptibly, for the first 20-odd miles, but despite the devoted roadside minstrations and rice pudding proffered by Crispin’s family (many thanks), I started to fade badly as we tackled Stoodly Pike and its steep, rough descent. A slight boost when we passed our old mucker Dave Rogers was soon dissipated, and by the road-crossing at 28 miles where we were met again by our backup crew I was a shambling wreck, walking long stretches and finding it impossible to open my stride beyond a shuffle even on the descents. Unusually for me, my physical demise wasn’t accompanied by a mental gloom, and I felt pretty chipper throughout. At this rendezvous with the team vehicle I took the opportunity to strip all excess weight (map, clothes etc.) for the final heave back to Haworth. The pitiful progress continued for the next couple of miles, with Crispin skipping on ahead and showing admirable restraint in not shouting at me like he did in last year’s FRA Relays. With a couple of miles to go (although I thought it was a lot less), trail-running legend Sarah Rowell appeared at my shoulder. We’d been playing leapfrog with her throughout the race, and my determination not to let her past injected a modest dose of spring into my step. I kept thinking the finish was in sight, and apart from a short strop and a discreet snot-and-tears episode, I kept it going. Spurred on by Crispin’s continual encouragement (that’s a euphemism, by the way), we held off not only Sarah Rowell but also a mixed team from Bingley who looked a lot more frisky than I felt.
I was extremely relieved to get it over with. From the event I took succour from my mental chirpiness and a stern warning that I really need to keep myself healthy for the next few months and get some long hard miles in my bumbag to avoid a catastrophe in the 3 Peaks.
As a weird postscript, the drive home an hour after the race was absolutely fine (I’d thought my legs would spit the dummy), and the only part of my body that ached the next day was my forearms! Crispin reckons it was from repeatedly shaking my fists at his rapidly disappearing back throughout the race.

Navigation practice

I have my first exercise with the Border Search and Rescue team on Sunday – the simulated rescue of a casualty from a spot high in the Cheviots (NT892191 since you ask). Worried about exposing my ineptitude with a compass as soon as we leave the cars, I decided to recce it today. Lots of snow around with a nice hard shin-shredding icy crust to cope with, but by picking up a fence line and working my way along it, counting the changes of direction and taking a bearing from the last one, I was delighted and astonished in equal measure to find the location without any difficulty. Must have been a fluke. Nice jaunt in its own right, covering some ground only a few miles from the house that I wouldn’t otherwise have bothered with. Dogs loved it too, apart from the bit where I chucked them in the river at the end to wash the mud off. Bit chilly, apparently!