ROSE RUNS – Page 6 – The muddling through of a middling middle-aged menopausal fell runner

October 26, 2015October 26, 2015

The Yorkshire marathon, again

I never sleep well before a race. I certainly didn’t sleep well before this one. I was nervous. I was so nervous that I actually properly prepared, unlike my usual last-minute-haphazardness and constant oh-I’ve-forgotten-something trips that drive FRB to distraction. I prepared a list:

Why was I nervous? The usual pre-race nerves, plus the uncertainty about whether I could actually run a marathon, the doubts about whether I’d done enough training (I hadn’t), my tendon, everything. Oh, and this:

I was a VIP. I had a media place thanks to the kindness of Run for All, the race organizers, who had offered me a place to run in any of their events. They’d sent me a number already several months ago, which was a season ticket for a few races including the Leeds Half, none of which I could do. Then Vicky, the PR, wrote to say that I would be getting a VIP number. I didn’t expect it to have my name on it, nor be number 9. I’ve never been a single digit before. As far as I knew, this meant I would be starting with the elites. With the really really fast people. That was terrifying.

So, to race morning. I slept poorly, and was awake in good time. We were picking up my club-mate Hannah from Leeds city centre at 6.45. That was pretty early but FRB likes to get to races in good time – he was coming to support, by running about ten miles around the course from vantage point to vantage point – and we weren’t sure how much traffic would be clogged up around the university, the marathon HQ. There wasn’t much traffic, and we flashed our VIP parking badge to get past the no access signs. Only no-one knew where the VIP parking was, so we had a merry drive around the campus, which was already busy, until Hannah went exploring for information, and we finally found out where we were going. I had two wristbands for the VIP area, but I smiled sweetly at the man on the door, and as we were so early, he let Hannah in too. Thank you, man on the door, and sorry I was a bit rude about Plusnet, because they supply my office internet and they’re, er, patchy (“do you work for Plusnet?” “God, no”).

The VIP area had tea, coffee, pastries, but I wasn’t hungry, though I knew I should eat something. Most of the time I spent going back and forth to the toilet as usual. I had a banana and I think some pastries. I applied my anti-chafing chamois cream, which is brillliant. If it’s good enough for udders, it’s good enough for my inner thighs:

I asked one of the race organizers if I would get trampled by all the fast runners behind me, as we were apparently going to start in front of them. She said, “oh no. You won’t be the slowest celebrity runner.” Obviously I’m not a celebrity. I just write a bit. But the other celebrities in the VIP area included Harry Gration, Mr Burton from Educating Yorkshire, a very large rugby player, the wheelchair athletes, and two quiet Kenyans who arrived with no fanfare and headed to the back of the room. I wish I’d spoken to them, but I was too busy getting in a tizz.

Final toilet visit, but the queue was huge. I knew I would regret all the liquid and coffee, but at 9am we set off, following a woman with a flag. She led us through the crowds. Hannah peeled off at one point to go to Zone 3, and I headed off to the start. Although when I say “the start,” I’m not being accurate. We were ahead of the start. I’m unlikely to get this view of a start line ever again:

That’s Edmund Kuria, the winner, on the left.

Anyway. There we were, and I realised that I’d forgotten to bring a charity shop hoodie to wear, but it wasn’t cold, and I did a bit of the warm-up. I heard someone yelling “ROSE ROSE ROSE” and turned to see my club-mate Ben, who is fast and was in Zone 1, and he said, “How did YOU get in THERE?” which was a very valid question. I chatted to the country’s most over-active pensioner, also a VIP, and a nice man who said, “oh, you’re the author,” which was a treat (he’s a librarian who will run 5,000 miles in a year to raise money for a hospice). Then sort of suddenly, we were off. And for the next few hours, I was overtaken by about two thousand runners. It began immediately, and it never let up. I enjoyed being a VIP, but being constantly overtaken was demoralising for a while. I didn’t ever get used to it, really. After about two hours, people my pace caught up and it got better. But that’s my only objection. Even if I was given a VIP place again – for which I’m very grateful – I would slink back to Zone 3 where I belong.

Within 20 minutes, I’d been overtaken by a hundred people, and I knew one thing: I was desperate for the toilet. There were no toilets for about a mile, so I had to do my usual and pee while running, then dash to the toilet to wee, wash, dry. After that, I was fine.

York though. What a beautiful place. Last year had been so foggy we could just about see the Minister. On Sunday 11 October this year, the weather was perfect. Cool but sunny. We reached the city walls after about a mile, and then shortly after that, there was York Minister, its bells ringing. At that point. even though I still felt like a snail amongst cheetahs, I grinned. How often do you get bells rung for the simple act of moving faster than walking pace (though for a very long way)? After that, it was down to business: strict hydration and nutrition (nothing for an hour, then a gel and some water every three miles). There were loads of supporters, who were lovely. There was a pipe band again, who stopped playing as I went past, and my favourite Yorkshire marathon feature after the Minster, the priest in Stockton-in-the-Fields who stands on the pavement in his white surplice and rainbow scarf saying things like “Bless you!” “Have faith!” He’s lovely.

I have a terrible topographical memory, so I can only remember highlights: the minster, the priest, the bands, the Elvis impersonator who sang to runners. My neighbour Eve, with a big banner. I stopped to hug her and she said, don’t stop! There were long miles with fewer supporters and more quiet. There were forests. Through one bit of woodland I was overtaken by a tall lad running barefoot. He was extremely serene and very nice, and supporters routinely said, “no shoes! Well done!” (I beat him though). My pace was slower than last year, but I was intent on staying comfortable. My aims were to get round and to get round uninjured. Last year my hip started to give away at mile 18. This year, all was fine. I felt strong, I felt properly hydrated and fed. I saw friends and supporters all the way round. FRB first, at mile 10, then again at 19, on the far side of the switchback. He yelled, “what do you need?” I yelled “coke and chafing cream!” and by the time I got round, he was ready with a bottle of flat Coke (better for the stomach) and the cream. What an angel. I saw the lovely Anne Akers who you may know from Women’s Running magazine and she took this picture:

At mile 19 I was interviewed by a man on a motorbike. I tried to look as if I was running serenely, which was good for my form. Also it was nice to have someone to talk to. It’s odd, but despite being surrounded by thousands of people, I was alone for most of the 26.2 miles. It would have been nice to have company. I kept my thoughts busy with the usual: wondering why so many women have terrible sports bras or shorts, wondering at godawful tattoos, admiring fancy dress costumes, gazing at fields, working out how far the next bottle bin was (helpfully, there were signs to tell me). I did run for a while with Jim Meta, a club-mate with a purple beard who has run hundreds of marathons and is faster than me. By then it felt like most people were faster than me. At 20 miles though it got a bit better. 20-23 were hard. I didn’t hit the wall. I’ve never hit the wall yet, thankfully. But those miles just seemed empty. I knew my family were waiting, I thought at mile 23, but in fact it was mile 24.5. So, just as I did last year, I ran through villages that all looked alike, asking spectators, “is this Osbaldwick?” until it was Osbaldwick. Even then, my family were waiting outside my step-brother’s house, at the far end of the village. I made sure to look like I was in one piece. I was, in that I wasn’t injured like last year, when I had to secretly stretch before I reached my mother, so she didn’t see me wincing. This year I felt fine. And I looked pretty good, I think:

By “good” I mean, all legs in working order, smile on face. And I did actually feel that good. And it was so lovely to see my family waiting there, with hand-painted sign designed by my niece Amelia:

They all insisted I run on, but no chance. I stopped for hugs. I suppose in hindsight getting a hug from someone who has run 24.5 miles on a warm day may not be desirable. Oh well. I love this picture of me and my mother:

Just round the corner from them was FRB. He hadn’t realised he was so close. He shouted “well done Rose” and then, “Super proud of you!” and that was exactly what I needed to hear. By now I was overtaking people. I knew there was a hill up to the finish, and I ran it all, overtaking people, and I ran and I ran and then I sprinted, and somehow after a year of injury and trouble, I ran a marathon. I ran it in 4 hours and 27 minutes, a personal worst of 28 minutes, and I didn’t care. My tendon didn’t hurt then or afterwards and that’s the most important thing. If you want to run a flat (ish), fast, friendly, marathon through a beautiful city and gorgeous countryside and villages, which is extremely well organized and with wonderful support, but not as head-busting as London, do this one. Next, back up to the fells.

October 6, 2015October 6, 2015

New York City

Big city running. I try to avoid it. I run through Leeds city centre, but always in company, and Leeds is a small city. I’m happiest in an early morning park or running through woods or on moors and fells. But here I am in New York, and I needed to run. I didn’t really know how far because my marathon training has been haphazard. I’ve only done one long run, at the Vale of York half marathon, to which I added five miles by running up and down the airfield before the start. I felt I should do another, but I couldn’t find any marathon plan that agreed with me. Most suggested much less for the last two weeks before a marathon. So I was winging it.

I was in New York to watch the Global Citizen festival, which I’ll be writing about elsewhere. But I was also jet lagged so I left the concert at 9pm, after Beyoncé and before Pearl Jam, and as usual was awake at 5, then 6. I waited for it to get light, and then I set off, west towards the Hudson River. I’d run up the riverside path a couple of years ago when I was in the US to give a talk, and my seafarers’ welfare friend Roger ran with me. It was the day of the New York half marathon, so the roads were closed. It was freezing, and I was so cold, I begged for us to stop before we got to the George Washington bridge, which had been our plan. But I remember it was a lovely run, and the path seemed quiet and calm.

I decided to aim for that again on Sunday. It was ten miles to the bridge from where I was staying, near Union Square, but I thought I’d get as far as I could. This time the riverside path was rather different. Without a closed road, much of it runs alongside the noisy and busy West Side highway. Without so many runners running the New York half marathon, it was also busy on the path, with runners, cyclists, walkers. There are sections of riverside park, and – well done New York City parks – frequent and functioning water fountains, which I needed because I’d forgotten to pack a waist pack or backpack. The further north I got, the thinner the exercising population got. I ran past ships and docks and cruise-liners, and on the right, wondered what the city looked like. Every so often I’d see a street sign. 50th street. Then 72nd, then 105th. That must be Harlem, I thought. The path cut in, under a roadway, and alongside road-building equipment, past a football field belonging to FC Harlem. I kept going. There was a park next, and a police officer there on his motorbike who grinned at me. There were enough people about that I felt OK, but I didn’t like knowing what kind of neighbourhood I was running through. Also, I wanted to get to the bridge, but god, it seemed a long way away. Finally I got to some basketball courts, another blessed water fountain, and I decided that was enough. I took a picture to show Roger that I’d got a lot closer than we had done:

I think I’d have got to the bridge in about a mile, but I turned round and ran back. I felt OK, but my legs were tired. I think despite the water, I was quite dehydrated, as I’d definitely not drunk enough water while standing for five hours at the concert, and I always get dehydrated on planes. I’d had a banana before I left, and I had three gels during the run. So I wasn’t hungry, but my legs were. I kept going though, on and on, southwards, past the football field, past the sight of the tower of the Cloisters peeking over the trees. If you go to New York, go to the Cloisters, it’s magical.

I got back to the busier sections, when suddenly some police came past on motorbikes, strongly urging people to get the hell off one side of the path and onto the other. I thought it was a bit officious, then I turned round and saw hundreds of people on bikes, horizontal bikes, tandems. They were all wearing fancy Army cycling kit, and had their names on little ID badges hanging under their saddles. It was quite a sight and kept me going for a while. I stopped at the clean and lovely public toilets provided by the Parks Commission, had a gel, and then kept going. And then I stopped.

It was at mile 14. My legs were tired, my feet were tired, my brain was tired. My foot caught a metal grate that was covering some tree roots, but which was not flush. I went flying. A proper face-plant, at speed, onto tarmac. I lay there for a few seconds, shocked, then got up. A man was running right past me in the other direction. He must have seen me fall and I was so furious I shouted, “I’M FINE THANKS” but he had headphones on and ignored me. There were lots of people all around me and not a single one asked how I was. I sat on a bench and pulled myself together, but I was very upset. That would never happen at any race I run in the UK. It wouldn’t happen even if it wasn’t a race. It wouldn’t happen on the fells, and nor would it happen in the city. I thought it was disgusting. I know that big cities require a certain way of life. The sociologist Erving Goffman calls what city humans have to do “civil inattention.” To live together in such quantities and at such close quarters, humans have to ignore other humans. They selectively tune in and out, and society proceeds harmoniously. OK, I get that. But this was more than that. This was inhuman and unpleasant. Not just that I was prone on the ground, but that people had seen me fall. Shame on you, New Yorkers.

Later, I told my New Yorker friend Vanessa about this. She said she had once, in winter, been crossing a road covered in snow and ice near her apartment, with a rucksack full of books. She slipped on the ice and also went flying. Her nose was bleeding, her clothes were covered in blood. She thought her nose might be broken, and so she went to her local nail salon and asked if she could use the mirror to check whether it was broken. They said, no.

I lived in New York for six months or so in the early 1990s, when I was an intern at the Nation magazine. I loved it. But this has punctured my enchantment. If that’s big city life, I don’t want it.

I got up from the bench and carried on running for another three miles. But I ran with anger in my heart, and that’s not the way to run.

October 1, 2015February 3, 2016

Vale of York half marathon

I don’t remember entering this race, but then, I don’t remember entering many races. I do them in a flurry, like I’m on Racebest crack, and then months later, discover I’m running them. Apparently I entered Vale of York when I was still off with injury, so I must have been feeling optimistic, like I could actually run a marathon, as planned, in October. By September, I was feeling less optimistic. I was back running, but any formal marathon plan had long since gone out of the window. I’d done a few longish runs, but the longest had been 15 miles. So I had no choice: I’d have to turn a half-marathon into an eighteen mile training run.

We got to Sherburn airfield early. Martin and Mark, the race organisers, were still setting out the start bollards. The airfield had looked on the map to be about a mile long. I’d looked on gb.mapometer, my usual source, for a nice five mile run, but the lanes around Sherburn-in-Elmet were mostly the country kind that don’t have pavements. In the end it seemed easier to just run up and down an airfield for five miles. So I did. And it was nice, actually. I saw hares or rabbits scampering off at the far end of the tarmac road, and at the other far end were two polite RAF cadets marshalling the traffic, who looked at me quizzically until I said “marathon training” and then they looked at me pityingly instead. Martin shouted from his car, “You’re in the lead!” and I shouted back “this is the only race I’ll ever win!”. The miles passed quickly, and I’d left myself half an hour between finishing them and the start of the race, for the usual toilet necessities, and for some coffee and bananas. It could have gone wrong, of course, and I could have stiffened up in that half hour, but actually I was fine. The sun was out, and it was a beautiful day. I told myself to put the first five miles out of my head (a tactic that didn’t really work as my Garmin kept going rather than going back to zero) and off I set again.

I knew the first mile on the airfield road intimately, having run it several times already, up and down and up and down. I started near the back to avoid congestion and because it was chip-timed. I didn’t have a pace in mind, but it turns out my legs wanted to run at 9.30 minute miles and didn’t really budge from that. There were about 1400 runners but the congestion disappeared pretty quickly, there was always space to run, and it was a friendly atmosphere, with a good mix of club and unaffiliated runners. The route is lovely: flat, mostly – hence its PB reputation – apart from a railway bridge near the beginning. The views were fields or woods or pretty villages, and supporters now and then: thank you to them. I liked the three in camping chairs who were sitting by the road in the first mile, and still there for the thirteenth.

I’d guess half the route was sun-exposed and half went through beautiful shady woods, though I am probably misremembering because the woods are what I remember most. I didn’t find it too hot but I know some people did. I watched Burjor and Patrick (lovely, lovely blokes but usually a lot slower than me) overtake me and disappear, but I wasn’t going to budge from my pace. The voice in my head said, “this is a training run. This is a training run.” I made sure to drink at every water station and take a gel, and I felt properly hydrated and nourished all the way round. I loved that the water volunteers were bikers with big motorbikes, and I enjoyed the little girl spraying us with her hose-pipe. Being overtaken by a Dalmatian – a woman in dotty shorts with dotty legs and two black floppy ears who told me about Pet Rescue and how it does pet therapy with children – was fun. I ran alone for most of the race so had time to think my usual thoughts which are not, as most non-runners think, always the compassionate and caring kind, because sometimes I’m thinking, “your bum’s a weird shape,” or “you’re going to get a hip injury with that flailing foot,” or “for the love of god get a decent sports bra” or “TAKE THOSE HEADPHONES OUT” to some veering numpty: those fleeting running brain thoughts that keep you going, like oil on wheels. I bet you have them too. I ran behind a tattooed woman for a while, but all I could see of her back tattoo underneath her vest was a wing and a nipple. That kept me entertained for a while, not least because I was trying desperately to speed up so I didn’t have to look at it any more.

About four miles from the end, I thought, this doesn’t feel too bad, and then, I’m going to be over two hours. This bothered me a lot at first: my PB is 1:49 and I’ve never run a half marathon in over two hours. But then I shoved my ego back in the box and thought, I’ll have run 18.1 miles (actually Martin, it was 18.2), I’ve had a crappy few months with injury and it’s amazing I’m running at all. Not only that, but my tendon doesn’t hurt and I may actually be able to run a marathon. By the time I got to the final strait, I was still managing to overtake people, and getting cheered on by my team-mates – now all pretty in the pink technical t-shirt – and I was quite happy. Even if Burjor and Patrick both trounced me.

Vale of York has a reputation as a nice, fast race. It’s definitely nice, and if you don’t run five miles beforehand or have had a spotty running year, or if it’s several degrees cooler, then it’s probably fast too. There were some grumbles about the bottles of water not having caps on – making the bottles difficult to run with – and about chaotic marshalling at the finish, so that the fast runners found themselves competing for space with an ice-cream van. But overall, it was smoothly organised and run. Also, how often do you get very polite young marshals in RAF uniform? Or a medal? There are rumours that the race may not survive building plans for the airfield land. I hope not, because I’ll be back.

September 18, 2015September 18, 2015

Thoughts

A view inside a runner’s head:

11pm: I will get up at 6.30am, drive to Harewood and run twice around the loop. Definitely. Yes, I’ll definitely do that.

Midnight: Shit, I’m still not asleep.

06:30 No. No. No. I cannot get up yet and run 10 miles around Harewood.

06:40 No. No. No. I still can’t get up.

06:50 Shut up, James Naughtie and no, I won’t run 10 miles around Harewood. Maybe I’ll run to Roundhay instead so I don’t have to drive. But not yet.

07:00 Oh hello, cat. Now I’m really not getting up now that I’ve a furball cuddling me. I’m so warm and cosy, and the last thing I want to do is get up and run. I’m tired. I’m so tired. I won’t do 10 miles. I may do 9.

07:10 I suppose I’ll get up in a bit. But not yet. Maybe 8 miles will be enough.

07:20 OK. I’m getting up.

07:30 I’m up. Where is my kit?

07:40 I’m up. Where is my smoothie?

07:45 I’m actually leaving the house in running kit. I may as well run.

07:50 I’m running.

08:15 I’m running. There aren’t many people, but I’m going to say good morning to all of them. Positive thinking. This lake is so beautiful. This park is so beautiful. I’m very lucky.

08:50 I’m still running. God, I’m slow today. 35 minutes to do 3.4 miles? That’s pathetic. Never mind. Keep going. Can I be bothered to do another loop of the woods? No. But I will.

09:00 I haven’t done enough. I’ll have to loop around these woods too. God, everything hurts. My calf muscle hurts. My tendon has started to niggle. And what the hell is that? My ITB? No bloody way. Keep going. Keep going.

09:15 Eight miles. I’m exhausted. I’ll make oat pancakes and scoff them.

10:00 I’m more exhausted. I think I need a lie-down. Who’s going to know?

September 14, 2015September 14, 2015

Marathon, finally

My friend Gemma looked at me, puzzled. “You’re doing the Yorkshire marathon, again? Why?” I thought for a bit. “Because I’ve got a free place and it’s half an hour up the road.” Also, last year it was so foggy, this year I’m hoping to see the scenery. Also, unless I can run through safari parks in Uganda or raise thousands for Sierra Leone, a road marathon is a road marathon, up to a point. I ran the London marathon but was most delighted by my achievement, not the scenery. Perhaps that’s cynical. But I don’t see anything odd in running Yorkshire again, though I’ve no desire to do London again for a long time. We were talking about marathons because we have a friend who does foreign ones frequently. But they are so expensive. New York: probably £1000, once you’ve paid for flights and a week’s accommodation. I’m paying the petrol up to York and back. I’m so delighted to be in shape to run a marathon – potentially – that I don’t really care where it is.

On Thursday I got a missed-you card from the postie. I dashed down to the post office hoping it was my replacement orthotics and it was. I left the post office with a big grin on my face. FRB and I were planning a long run the next day so they had arrived with perfect timing. And Brooks had extremely generously sent me some replacement Pure Flows, my chosen marathon shoe, so despite Brussels Airlines still being unable to locate my bag, I’m ready. Or at least my equipment is ready.

FRB is training for Loch Ness marathon in a couple of weeks. But after running Ben Nevis last week, he wanted something flat. He turned down my suggested route of Eccup, Harewood and round about: too many hills. His quads and calves would go on strike. Instead, we decided on the Leeds-Liverpool canal, me to do 15 miles and him 15 or more, and after various logistical possibilities – two cars, one left at Kirkstall; or a car left in central Leeds then a train to Bingley – we separately made our way to Bingley and set off north towards Skipton. FRB bombed off, with a plan to do 7.5, turn back, do more on the way back then join me for the last four. I didn’t understand that even before running 15 miles so I just let him go and assumed I’d see him again at some point. The canal was lovely. It had rained heavily all morning, but now the skies cleared and turned blue, and the sun shone. I’d dug out my earphones and intended to listen to some podcasts. I haven’t listened to podcasts or music for ages, and usually I like to run without. But this, I expected, would feel long, and it would feel difficult, so I needed the help. First, Ruth Rogers on Desert Island Discs but I didn’t like her, so she was soon switched off. Then the New Yorker fiction podcast, which I love. I chose this Patricia Highsmith story and it was captivating. But it was still a shock when I looked at my watch, thinking I’d done about five miles, and I’d only done three. What do you do then? You sigh, pull yourself together, and keep going.

There were lots of stops for gels, and fruit, and to adjust things. I saw FRB running back; he checked I was OK, I checked he was OK, then we headed off northwards and southwards. He said, “I ran to the bridge with the stop sign on it.” At least I think he said that. But all the bridges I saw had stop signs on them. I think my Garmin dropped out for a bit, but I had nothing else to rely on to guess my distance – the mile markers saying Liverpool was 115 miles away weren’t much help – so I kept going. I saw beautiful gardens dropping down to the canal, with terraces filled with plants; I saw lovely weeping willows inclining themselves into the water from the bank; and people having an outdoor party behind a huge England flag. I saw many canal boats sailing along, and people inside reading books in narrow cabins. I saw people walking, now the rain had gone: families, and friends, and a group of Asian women in glorious bright salwar kameez, just as I was thinking, “why don’t I see more Asians walking on the canal?”. I ran on, and on, past swans and geese and ducks, all in abundance, past the still, green water and the humans and animals who were enjoying it. At a bridge with a stop sign, past Silsden, my watch said 7.5 miles, so I stopped and ate dried fruit, and a family walked past, coming from the farm behind and heading for the footpath, carrying fishing nets and I didn’t know where I was but it didn’t matter. I set off back, and the day was so beautiful, and the scenery so lovely – green canal, green fields, sheep – I put my earphones away and just listened to the world.

My shoes were great and the orthotics were definitely helping. I could tell I was getting another blister but I think that’s because I was running through puddles and my socks had got wet. A word about my relationship with Brooks here: they have sent me a few pairs of free shoes, but never with any obligation. If I didn’t like them, I’d say so. I’ve abandoned my Brooks Pure Connect, despite having three pairs, for example, because they’re not for me (though I bought those). I love the Pure Grit, though they are slippery in mud. I genuinely think Brooks make great shoes, and the overwhelming reason I think that is that I can put on a pair straight out of the box, run fifteen miles in them and feel like I’ve been running in them for months. They feel like slippers – airy slippers – from the first minute, and that has yet to change. So I’ll trumpet about Brooks shoes because I think they’re a bloody good product. That said, Brooks, I wish you’d design women’s shorts with better pockets, along with nearly every other sportswear/shoes company. My running skirt has three pockets, including one that fits an iPhone, but none of my shorts have anything but small ones that hold a gel, maybe, but not much more.

The only trouble on this run was my lungs. I’ve had a cough for four weeks now. It began as a sore throat, then became a dry, tickling cough that kept me awake, and now my lungs are full of phlegm. So the pastoral peace of the canal was often interrupted by me stopping and hacking my lungs up, then spitting like a person who has smoked for forty years. I think it’s getting better, and I know it’s not a good idea to run when there’s trouble in your lungs, but I’m so delighted to be fit again, unless it gets worse, I’m going to run through it and phlegm be damned. FRB caught me up again, looking a bit worried. “Did you go further than you thought?” No, I just took longer to do it. Actually, I probably had gone further because when my watch got to 15 miles, we were still a mile short of where the cars were parked. Still, I did it, though I was too tired to do my habitual “this is the longest I’ve run” jump.

I do have a marathon training plan, but it has long since been abandoned. So now I’m winging it. I’m running when I want to, never two days in a row, and getting in a long run every week. This weekend I’ll be running the Vale of York half, and plan to get there early and add an extra five miles. My tendon was sore after the 15 miles, but we stopped for a drink in the pub – after we’d changed soggy, muddy clothes – and I asked for a glass of ice, put it in a carrier bag and iced my foot for the duration of a lager shandy, and that helped. FRB said that when he first crossed me on the canal, my hips had been noticeably rotating, which isn’t good, and means I need to stabilise my pelvis and get back to my glute exercises. But he said that later my form was much better, and I was clearly focusing on moving my arms properly, which seemed to align me.

I’m writing this while I’m walking on my office treadmill. 3.3 miles so far today. I’m hoping that’s helping. Meanwhile I’m extremely happy to have run so far – the furthest I’ve run since I abandoned marathon training in March – and for my tendon to be coping. Onwards.

September 9, 2015

A run

It was nothing special, I suppose. I got up early in the morning, I got in my car, I drove to Harewood House and I ran. But it was special, because it was essential. The day before had been a black day. I am feeling overwhelmed with work and the more overwhelmed I get, the less efficient I become. So the day had turned into a self-loathing black pit. I also felt lousy with a cough and thick head. I went home, shut the door, made green bean and potato curry with my own green beans and my own potatoes, then sat on the sofa with my lovely cat and watched trash TV. I could have gone running, I suppose, but I didn’t have the heart for it. Instead, I laid out my kit for the morning, set one alarm for 6.30 and the other for 6.45. For some reason I had decided to do ten miles. Possibly this was frustration after the weekend, when I’d taken part in the Leeds Country Way relay, a self-navigated race around the whole 60 miles, done in teams of two over six legs.

Both my partner and I probably shouldn’t have run. My cough is getting no better, and she had a hamstring injury that a sports medicine consultation told her meant she should rest for eight weeks with absolutely no running. But there was only one reserve for the three teams so we both turned up to run. I didn’t want to bug L. with continually asking her how her leg was, but I could tell she was in discomfort. It wasn’t her hamstring but her knees. I’m pretty sure it was where the ITB inserts into the knees. She soldiered on but she was clearly in pain. With five miles to go, we stopped running and walked the rest. At one point, she froze on a stile because she didn’t want to bend her leg, at any cost, but couldn’t figure out how to get over the stile without doing it. At another, we were on the top of a steep descent and she stood there, again dreading having to bend her legs. I offered her a piggy-back. She was a brilliant navigator, though she’d recce-ed it only once, and I hadn’t at all, and we only went wrong twice and not by much. Some teams ran miles out of their way.

Then, in a woods somewhere, she suddenly said, Oh, Rose and looked horrified. What? What now? She said, “I’ve left my key in your car.” We’d taken two cars, dropped hers at the finish then driven mine to the start. We were supposed to then drive back in her car to the start to fetch mine. But this was a disaster. We had no money to get a bus. We were so slow that we didn’t think anyone would be even there at the finish to give us a lift. And my phone was rapidly running out of battery. Oh dear.

Luckily, as we walked to the finish, there were a dozen people there. We weren’t even the last team: four more came in behind us (though no-one applauded us, and they all got applause. Hmmm.) A lovely woman from St. Theresa’s was taking her partner back to Stanley, so she gave us a lift. Phew.

Anyway I’d been hoping for a good long run – the leg was 11 miles long – and was a bit frustrated that we hadn’t run more. Not that I’m blaming L.: she was in serious pain. But I just wished I’d had a longer run (even though I was still knackered that night after 6 miles of running and 5 of walking).

All in all, this morning I wanted to run, and quite a long way. My Lumie clock woke me up gently, as did my cat licking my neck as usual. I got up, got dressed, grabbed a banana and some squash, and drove four miles up to Harewood. I haven’t been there for ages and it was so nice to be back, and to be running. There were no humans to be seen for most of the way around. Just me and a lot of noisy sheep. I ran the five mile loop, past the deer park, past the estate offices, up over the tops, down the permissive path through the secret gate in the wall (it’s not secret but I love gates in walls and always think them wonderfully Midnight Garden-ish). I ran up to the gates at the Wike Lane entrance where I’d started, still not sure whether I would run more than five, or do another loop the same way. Then something in my head made me turn round and run back the other way. It wasn’t really a rational thought, but more like a propulsion.

I wasn’t fast. I walked quite a few times. But there were hills that I ran up, and long stretches where I kept going, steadily. It took me longer than I’d expected, but it was lovely.

Brussels Airlines has still lost my bag containing my Brooks Pure Flow and, more importantly, my orthotics. I’ve been running without them. Today I ran in my Ghosts, which are heavier but more cushioned, and I hoped the cushioning would help. But my tendon has begun to niggle, and today was the first day it gave me some shooting pains again. That is not good news. I’ve express-ordered new orthotics and will be billing Brussels Airlines for them (£170!), but I suppose until they arrive I’ll have to be more sensible than running ten miles. Though there is the slight problem of me supposedly running a marathon in just over a month.

Even so, at the end of the run, my gloom lifted, because it always does. Also, the citalopram I’ve been taking for two months is not really working yet, so running is it.

September 7, 2015September 7, 2015

A French summer of running

In August, I go to France. I have a ramshackle house in a tiny village in the foothills, sort of, of the Pyrenées. I needed a few weeks of sun, drinking, eating and relaxing more than ever: after my catalogue of injuries, illnesses, infections, I was desperate for a break. So FRB and I drove for two days, stopping in Chartres on the way, and got to the very very south of France where my house is. The background: I’ve not really run much when I’m in France. I was marathon training the year before, and did a few runs, including a lovely run in the rain up the very steep hill that rises behind the village (which is in a valley), and a long 15K on the Voie Verte, a 30K-long converted railway line, from my village, down its Allée des Platanes, past sunflower fields, past La Camonette, the most stylish snack-bar around, to the beautiful mediaeval town of Mirepoix. But this time round, France was going to be where I got back to running, after getting back to running then falling off again. Apart from that short run to the chip shop, I had deliberately done nothing. We would get to France, we would sleep, and we would get up and run. And we did, around the stunning Lac Montbel, a freshwater reservoir with a 16K track running around it. We set off together, but FRB said he would run ahead, go further and then presumably loop back and catch up with me. I wanted to do 10K, he wanted to do about 12. Off we went. Summer at the lake is busier than winter, but still not busy. It’s barely known. There are a few fishermen, a few families on the shore. But most people head for the two official beaches, and ignore the other 14km of shoreline. This is a mistake, when it looks like this: I did 5K, slowly. This got me to the nautical sports resort, where some young men in a canoe-rental shack decided it was hilarious to send me in the wrong direction. Abrutis. Then back, to a gathering storm. There was hardly anybody about, just a couple of fishermen in tents, then a small group of horses and riders. I never know what to do when coming up behind horses. I mean, at what point to alert them and at what point it’s safe and at what point it’s inflammatory. So I called out from way back, and walked slowly past them, and then picked up my slow pace a bit so I didn’t get caught up. They didn’t catch me up and nor did FRB even though I stopped a few times to take photos. I got back to the car, he got back five minutes later, and as we had planned, we headed back to the lake for a swim. The storm broke and the rain began while we were in the water. I don’t usually like wild swimming, as I’m scared of depths and currents. But this lake is green and calm and beautiful. But even I knew that you shouldn’t be in water when lightning is coming, so we got out quickly, and headed back through the trees, another place you shouldn’t be when lightning is coming. FRB knows about these things, and told me that the best thing to do in lightning is lie flat in an exposed place. If you still get hit, then it was your time and there’s nothing to be done about it.

We didn’t get hit, we got very wet.

A couple of days later we decided to do a run-explore. The map showed that we could get from a nearby village, through the forests, over the hills and down to my village. There were tracks galore, on the map. In reality, they were goat paths that had long since disappeared. Even the unerringly good navigational sense of FRB couldn’t get us up and over the forest. We walked and fought through brambles and thorns for a couple of miles, then gave up, went back the way we had come, and ran back to the safety of the Voie Verte.

There is always one walk or run when I’m in France that leaves me scarred and scratched for the rest of the holiday, and this was it.

Next, we decided to run up and down a mountain. I never fully exploit the Pyrenées when I’m in my house, usually because my guests aren’t particularly sporty or active, or they have children who do not want to go trekking or running in mountains. But this time I was determined to get up the mountains, and to go camping. So we packed the car (or FRB did: he’s better at it than me) and headed for a campsite near Ax-les-Thermes run by Dutch people and full of Dutch people. Then we headed into Ax and got the cable car up to the first ski station, then a chair-lift up to the next level, about 2000. The plan then was to run the mile to the summit, then the 8 or so miles back down. But I couldn’t do it. I found the altitude draining, and I had no energy. We got to the summit, but mostly by walking. It was stunning. (So stunning I obviously couldn’t keep my eyes open.)

Because we’d taken such a late chairlift up, all the mountain bikers had finished for the day.

So although I wasn’t going to give my Brooks Pure Grit the altitude training I’d promised them, they were going to learn a lot about descent. We couldn’t find the hikers’ trail on the map, so we decided it was safe to set off down the VTT trails, of which there were many. Down, down, down. At one point we ran down ski pistes instead, to get some relief from the rocky, technical VTT trails. I had no idea how taxing running downhill could feel like. We stopped in the Bonsacres, the ski station, for an overpriced but totally worth it Coke, then carried on. It was another four miles or so. I went over on my ankle and had to walk for a bit, but we made it down, stuck our feet in the hot thermal pools that are freely available in Ax, and despite having no change of clothes, headed for urgent pizza, me dressed in a tiny running skirt, a waterproof, and looking like something the cat had dragged in, but only because it hadn’t found anything else.

The next day. Ow. Quads! God they hurt. We were both hobbling around, but we still did a six or seven mile walk up another mountain nearby. The next day we’d planned to run, but neither of us was yet in a fit state, so another walk, then back to the blessed flat.

Next, a race. I’d decided I wanted to do a race while I was in France, months ago. I looked and looked, but south-west France is cycling country, not running country, and the number of local races was very small. I found the Marathon de Montcalm and though it looked good, but FRB checked the ascent and said, no bloody way. He was training for Ben Nevis but he didn’t want to run another Ben Nevis as well. I found another one in L’Hospitalet pres d’Andorre, but that had a similar altitude problem. Then, I saw a sign for something called the Marathon des Oussaillès in St-Girons, about an hour’s drive away. We researched it. Not just flat, but a net descent. It offered relay options, so I wrote to ask if we could do a half marathon each. Bien sur, they replied. Never mind that it would be on the day before we left to drive back home, nor that I had to fly to Copenhagen a couple of days before it to give a talk. We signed up, sent in the required medical certificates, and I started to get a bit nervous. I always get race nervous, but I hadn’t run near 13 miles for a while (the last had been Eccup 10 in June) and I didn’t know if I could. FRB offered me the first half, which turned out to be less than a half. The weather forecast was clear skies and 33 degree temperature, which meant the FRB would get the worst of the sun.

Then, disaster. Brussels Airlines lost my luggage somewhere between Toulouse and Copenhagen, which contained my favourite Brooks Pure Flow and even more importantly, my orthotics. I really really didn’t want to run without them, but my tendon hasn’t niggled for a while now and I decided to risk it. I had some older Ghosts that I’d left in France, so I thought, the cushioning will help, and I’ll just have to take it easy.

The registration ended at 7.30am, so we set off at 6, when it was still night, through and beyond Foix, along winding roads to St-Girons. The race HQ was in the local athletics stadium; FRB would get to finish on the track. It was a low-key atmosphere and really nice. There were only 50 marathon runners and 75 doing relays. It would be smaller than even the smallest fell race I’ve done. We got our numbers, marked with my hastily-thought-up team name (yes, yes, I should have made it Tourists de Yorkshire):

A quick stop for me to eat two pieces of bread and jam, then we drove to the start at Aulus-les-Bains. I’d never heard of Aulus-les-Bains, but I’ll be back. It’s stunning.

By now I was getting very nervous. The usual: how do I run? I can’t remember how to run! FRB at one point said, “remember three rules,” and I said “DON’T GIVE ME ANY BLOODY RULES,” even if they were good ones:

Hydrate
Enjoy
I can’t remember the third one

We met a couple of other runners, including one nice man from the huge print-works we’d driven through, who spoke extremely good English and turned to be extremely fast. We asked a couple of people to take pictures:

Then FRB set off to get to the first relay hand-over stage, to support me, then to drive to the next, in the town of Seix. The route was beautiful on the map: a meander through two “shady valleys,” through several villages. We gathered around the back of a Centre for Trail Running (noted! I’ll be back!), and set off. A couple of hundred metres later, as we turned the corner into a street, an escaped horse came galloping up past us.

“Is that normal?” I asked someone running near me.

“Well, you don’t get it in Paris.”

It was going to be hot, but most of our 18K was indeed in shady valleys. They were very beautiful, though I took no pictures, but I did a lot of gawping. After the first mile or two, the field spread out and I ran on my own for most of it. At the first change-over, I pulled one number off my vest to reveal the second one underneath. FRB was waiting further on, checked I was OK, then overtook me on a long straight road afterwards. I famously don’t remember routes, but of this one I can remember green fields, forests, hamlets of houses with very sloping roofs, an ancient and crumbling house with what looked like a pigeon loft. There weren’t many supporters, but there were a few, and anyway I was happy ambling along with my own company and the scenery. As for difficulty, I think it was probably the easiest run I’ve ever done. There were water stations every 5K. At the third one, the volunteer said, “would you like some Coke?” and I could have hugged him. Every water table had dried figs and apricots and dates. The French obviously don’t do jelly-babies. I’m not sure I’d want figs, given their bowel-moving capabilities, so I stuck with water and Coke and gels. The miles went past really fast, at least in my memory, and I got to about a mile outside Seix when something popped under my foot: my skin had cracked. Lovely. I handed over to FRB on a bridge, wished him luck (at least, I hope I did), and took as much Coke, water and dried fruit as was on offer. Then I asked in the tourist office where I could bathe my feet, and the woman pointed out a ramp I hadn’t seen. I bought lots of delicious local sheep and goat’s cheese from an épicerie nearby, the kind run by a man who takes total pride in finding the best produce to sell, fetched bread and coffee from the car, the location of which FRB had written down in a pouch he handed to me with the key before running off. I went to the river, and I sat in it, for a long time, drinking good coffee and eating amazing mountain cheese. Who wouldn’t?

Eventually I dragged myself away, back to the car and headed off to find FRB. My tendon and legs were fine the day after, so I’m planning to sit in cold river water whenever I can after a race. I missed FRB at the first changeover, but drove past him on a long stretch of road. It was baking hot and he had no shade. It looked very very tough. I was going to stop again but by the time I found a good place to stop, I was in St-Girons, so I headed for the stadium. It was HOT. I found some shade to sit in, and tried to figure out when he might arrive. I’d done my 11K in 1:44, which was OK. He had 24K to do, in heat. I knew he’d be at least 1.45, so at that point I walked over to the other side of the stadium to see him back in. He didn’t arrive for about 20 minutes. I didn’t realise that not only had he run 24K in mostly exposed heat, but that the second leg had him run into St-Girons, then up a big hill to a chateau, then back again.

I saw that most of the relay teams were running to the finish line together, so when he did arrive, I said, “are you OK?”

“No.”

“I’m running the track to the finish with you.”

“No.”

He claims he just grunted. I’m surprised he got anything out at all, given how heatstroked he looked. Anyway I ran alongside him, though I was barefoot, we crossed the line together, the MC doing the interviews asked me to stay to talk to him and I turned to look for FRB and he’d sprinted over to some shade. It took about 20 minutes for him to look human again. The MC asked me the usual: why are you doing this race, and I said, why not? Then he asked if we were staying for the group meal, but I said we had to go and pack. We showered, drank a beer, and instead of packing went into St-Girons and wandered around desperately seeking an open cafe. Finally we found one, and ate salad and chips, and it was blissful. We came pretty far down the list of relay teams, but they were mostly running in fours, so I didn’t feel too bad. Apparently Marathon des Oussaillès is the fastest in France, but not official because it has too much descent. Anyway, the organization was impeccable and much better than for some big races I’ve done (yes, Edinburgh Marathon, I mean you). I would definitely do it again.

I’ve still not been reunited with my orthotics, so I’ve ordered more. Brooks have very kindly offered to send me some new shoes for the Yorkshire marathon. Though my training has gone extremely awry, I’m still going to try to do it, as long as my tendon doesn’t object and as long as I can stop having stupid accidents. But for now, I’m back.

August 2, 2015

Setback and back and back

It’s been a godawful few weeks. First, the fall down the stairs and the burned hand, which led me to wearing a Michael Jackson glove at Widdop. But Widdop was wonderful and it felt so good to be back exercising. The next day, I was cycling home on my usual commute, a 2.5 mile uphill from the centre of Leeds. Some of it has a bike path but only about a third. In Chapeltown, there is a stretch of road which narrows. I’ve had a problem there before, when my bike hit a deep drain and the tyre punctured. It happened again, only this time was worse. My tyre punctured, but it was a violent jerk, and I was thrown into the road, into the path of oncoming traffic. I don’t remember much about it, apart from lying in the road, somewhat stunned, and seeing cars had stopped behind me, and thinking, I’d better get out of the road, quick. I did. A young woman had been walking past and stopped to ask if I was alright. Then another man, in a smart suit, came running up. I began to think that the accident must have been dramatic. I was very shocked and shaken, but thought that nothing was broken. I had no idea if I’d hit my head, but later checked my helmet and there was no sign of damage so I don’t think I did. I stayed there for a few minutes, telling my helpers that I was OK, and another man came up, looking as shaken as I felt. He had been driving the car immediately behind me, the one that had stopped, and had pulled in further up the road to see if I was OK. What a lovely man. He said, “you just went flying into the road.” He offered me a lift home, but I thought that as everything seemed to be working, I could walk the mile home. This, in retrospect, was probably stupid, as I was very shocked and trying not to cry all the way. I thought it was best to keep busy, so I went to Tesco to get doughnuts, because I thought I deserved them, and to the pharmacist to get more burn plasters, then I went home and made myself some hot, sweet tea. The next morning, my knee gave way when I put weight on it, and I had a huge bruise on the leg, but otherwise I thought I’d got off lightly. I could so very easily be dead, as my head could easily have gone under the wheels of a car, or I could have hit the bonnet. I just happened to be extremely lucky that no car was passing at that exact point.

I was wrong about getting off lightly though. After 24 hours my ribs started to hurt. Then they started to be agonizing. And they didn’t stop being agonizing for two weeks. I’ve never bruised or cracked my ribs before but oh my god, they hurt. I now have a deep appreciation of what the rib cage does, because it hurt to do ANYTHING. Twisting, turning, lying, sitting, breathing: anything. I spent two weeks taking strong painkillers. The thought of running, again, was horrifying. I couldn’t even walk without pain. Meanwhile, as I’ve just started taking citalopram for depression, I was nauseous and drowsy from the medication. Then last week my eyeballs started itching and I got infections in both eyes.

I began to forget what it feels like to be well. I felt exhausted and ill. And I’d forgotten about being an ill person, when you can’t remember how you were ever healthy.

But slowly things have got better. I’m writing this post today because it’s the first day I’ve felt well in about three weeks. I’m not nauseous. My ribs don’t hurt to do everything. Sometimes, I even forget they hurt. They were so pain-free yesterday, I did a little run to the chip shop. They are slightly sore again today but nothing serious. My eyes are clearing up too, and it’s not a sudden onset allergy to my cat, which would have been devastating. I’m not going to start running again yet. And I’m going to try to stop having accidents. But soon I will start marathon training, gingerly.

I wore this t-shirt today to celebrate my first day of health. Nothing bad can happen to me if I’m wearing this:

July 16, 2015July 17, 2015

Widdop

Where, oh, where is Widdop?

I had never heard of it until ~~FRB said it might be a good one for my first fell race after injury~~ I decided it was a good idea, having looked for midweek near-ish fell race as my first one back. (Quote from FRB, having read this: “Why would I recommend a race I’ve never run?” Good point. Sorry.)

Proper fell, I mean. I’ve done cross-country and trail and road and fields. But I’ve been nervous about the fells, because they can be twisty and technical. But my mind fixed upon Widdop, even after I’d found out where it was: beyond Hebden Bridge, beyond Heptonstall, up, up to the tops and keep going. It took us over an hour to get there from west Leeds, and I’d already driven 45 minutes to get to west Leeds from my house in evening traffic. So I had decided, on a mid-week evening, to drive for two hours to run for seven miles. Yes. And I am very glad I did.

We got there at 6:40. The race HQ was a shed in the car park of the Pack Horse pub at Widdop. I write “at Widdop” but there seemed to be nothing at Widdop but the Pack Horse pub and moor, moor and more moor. We weren’t the last, but both of us were anxious. FRB doesn’t like being late, and certainly not for races, and I was nervous because it was my first fell run in so long, because I wasn’t sure how my tendon would react to it, and because I was sure I would come last or nearly. We paid the huge entry fee – £4 – and I headed for the toilets in the pub. In the queue, a woman in Clayton-le-Moors kit (a big fell-running club in Lancashire) told me she had been going to run but had wimped out because she knew she’d be last. I said, no, no, you won’t be – how on earth did I know? – and even if you are, I’ll be in the back-pack with you. Really? she said, and I next saw her outside with a race number on. There were hardly any runners from Leeds there. In those parts, most runners were from the borders or beyond. Calder Valley, who are based in Mytholmroyd and who were organizing the race, and Trawden, Clayton-le-Moors, Todmorden, Baildon, Wharfedale. I was the only Kirkstall Harrier, FRB was the only Pudsey Pacer and our mate Reena, a pint-sized ninja runner who I used to be able to keep up with, and who I met on one of the ten mile races a couple of years ago, when we had a long conversation about Diwali, was the only one in Eccleshill blue.

I put on my lucky race striped socks (though FRB persists in calling them “hooped”). I’d had my scalded hand re-dressed that day by the nurse, and when I told her I would be running a fell-race that night, she put another bandage on top of it. She advised me to wear gloves, but it was so hot, I compromised with one glove, thus managing to look like Michael Jackson in clown socks. We’d had the usual Shoe Discussion earlier: fell or trail? Will it be dry or wet? Will there be mud and bog on the tops? Isn’t there always mud and bog on the tops? But it was so dry, in the end I chose my beloved Brooks PureGrit, a decision I slightly regretted at the start when I was surrounded by 360 degree Inov-8 Mudclaws-shod feet. By then it was too late.

The race start was in the road outside the pub. There was some milling, then a swift parting of the crowd when a car drove down, then back to milling. A Scottish Calder Valley man gave us guidelines, such as they were: there was no kit requirement though they recommended carrying a waterproof. I can’t remember what else he said because suddenly he said very quickly, “3, 2, 1, go.”

And we went. Downhill down the road first, past the field where the juniors had run their races. At this point I will remind you that my visual memory of races is very poor. I can remember bits, but rarely in the right order. But I remember we ran down the road, then turned left onto track, and there was one bottleneck, then another and another. “Never mind,” said a man from Baildon running just behind me, “we’re not in a rush, are we?” I wasn’t in a rush but despite my new habit of putting my ego in a box, I didn’t want to be last. I really didn’t want to be last. There’s no reason for that but pride, and it’s daft, but so it was.

The paths were grassy, and then the tussocks started. I’d not accounted for tussocks. They were frequent from then on, and my ankles didn’t like them. I’d put a comment on my club Facebook page that I was going to do the race, and one of my clubmates, a nurse, had replied that she’d done it last year and it was very tussocky and might not be good for my ankle. But I didn’t see that until I was lying on FRB’s sofa with an ice-pack on my ankle.

I wanted to try to run all the climbs, but I didn’t even manage the first one. I felt OK, but not superwoman, and not as strong as I’d felt on Eccup 10. I’m pretty sure the answer to getting more strength is eating chips the night before. I’m not joking. Whenever I’ve had chips before a race, I’ve run better. Or so I tell myself. Anyway I kept going. I’d forgotten my Garmin but FRB had lent me his, though he said, don’t even bother thinking about pace, it’s just so you can see what distance you’ve done. I looked at it at mile 1.6, and again at mile 6.7 and that was it. The rest of the time I was busy getting round. For much of it, my head and eyes were down, looking for tussocks. There were tussocks, but also deep channels, mud, rocks. At that point I was glad I’d chosen the PureGrit, because Inov-8 Mudclaws are wonderful in mud, but terrible on rock. The PureGrit were great in both. The weather was glorious: perfect temperature and beautiful sunshine, and the scenery, when I remembered to look up and look it was so very beautiful. At one point we climbed a hill and over the other side was a deep blue reservoir, and I thought, what a strange thing to do, to drive two hours to run seven miles over moorland, but also what a bloody privilege. And then I was busy getting up another climb.

After that climb, I think, was a long stretch of ground that fell-runners would call “technical.” Technical means tricky. It means having both to think about where to put your feet and also to watch to check you’ve put them there. After a mile or so of this technical, tussocky running, I was upset. I was upset because I was worried about my ankle, and I was upset because I had become a fell-runner who is worried and cautious, and I didn’t want to be that. I haven’t really done enough fell races to call myself a fell-runner but I’ve done enough that I know that I love descending and used to do with it abandon, and with no caution. And now here I was picking my way through the boggy, muddy, poorly visible track. I had to walk a lot of it because I couldn’t risk running it and twisting something, and that annoyed me. At one point I was genuinely frustrated and almost angry and then I had a loud word with myself. I mean, out loud. I was running alone by that point; a few people had overtaken me, and there were some women behind who I could hear whenever they crossed a stile behind me, because they were usually laughing. I thought they sounded lovely but I also didn’t want them to catch me, because I’d checked behind a couple of times and it looked to me like I was in the last 20 or so.

So, I had words. These were the words: “DON’T BE SO BLOODY STUPID. STOP GETTING UPSET. YOU ARE OUT FELL-RUNNING WHEN YOU’VE BEEN OFF RUNNING FOR MONTHS, AND IT’S BEAUTIFUL SCENERY AND GORGEOUS WEATHER AND IT DOESN’T MATTER IF YOU’RE LAST. IT DOESN’T MATTER IF YOU’RE LAST SO PUT A SMILE ON YOUR FACE, YOU BLOODY IDIOT, AND ENJOY IT.”

It worked. I put a smile on my face, and carried on. I overtook someone at one point, and promptly went flying with a proper head over heels tumble. He helped me up – thank you, fellow runner – and I said, “that’s how you overtake someone with style” and then pelted off because I didn’t want the embarrassment of him catching me up when I’d actually managed to overtake him.

On the way up to the race, up a very steep road, FRB had seen flag-poles and said, oh dear, I think the race finishes up here. After a last long descent through lots of bracken, which was fun, we hit a road, and there was that steep bit. I thought, oh god, we’re going to have to go for a mile up that road to the finish and as I got to the bend after a steep climb I said to a marshal, “who on earth designed this course?” which was deeply ungrateful of me because it’s a beautiful course, and anyway at that point the route turned off the road and into more bracken. The path ran along the edge of a ridge and it was like being a long, endless jungle. I looked at my watch and saw I’d done more than seven miles, which I thought the race was, but the path kept going. There was no-one near me, just me and poles with ribbons marking the route, and boulders, and bracken, and the evening sun. It was a quite surreal but ethereal mile or so. It probably wasn’t that long, but it seemed ages until I heard “COME ON PURPLE WOMAN!” (my club vest is purple) from some kids waiting on a big rock with their mum. I said, thanks! and the finish was another five minutes or so. The next I heard was COME ON ROSE from FRB, then over a stile into a field, up the field to the finish, two poles marking a funnel made from tape. I can usually smile when I’m finishing a race, but not this time. I was too thirsty, too tired. But it was beautiful. So beautiful.

We could have stayed for presentations, but our plan had been CHIPS. So I can now inform you that if you leave a race at 9pm in the Calder Valley, you will not find a chip shop open in Hebden Bridge, nor in Friendly. But carry on to Halifax, stop in King Cross Road, and go to Mother Hubbard’s famous chip shop. They will give you a bap the size of a loaf, some superb chips, and I recommend you scoff what you can, drink a can of Ben Shaw’s Dandelion & Burdock as quickly as you can, then go home, ice your ankle and sleep the sleep of the blessed.

Oh, results? FRB had said, try for under 1:30 and if you can, sneak in under 1:25. I did 1:25 on the nose. Calder Valley have mixed me and FRB up on the results, so for a while I was delighted to have come in 59th out of 114. But of course I didn’t. I was 101st. Last 20, but who cares?

July 14, 2015July 14, 2015

Small steps, keep going

Mojo. Mine’s gone missing. It’s weird, because I’ve been racing, and loving it. But in my few months of not running, I’ve lost a trigger that I used to have. Before, I would never find an excuse not to run. I would read pieces in running magazines and blogs explaining to people how they should motivate themselves to get out of the door, and I could never understand it. Why would you not want to run? I ran in rain, cold, darkness, whatever. If I planned to go to a club training session, I never missed it.

Not any more. Last week I ran the Yorkshire Vets race on Tuesday and that was it. My plan called for two more five mile runs, and I did neither of them. I walked on my treadmill, I did a kettlebell class, but no running. What are my excuses? Well, I was blindsided by an unexpected and very heavy period. My periods are erratic now that I’m in the perimenopause, and I can’t predict them any more: months of nothing, then ten days of heavy blood loss. This one was heavy and painful, and though I can usually run throughout my period, I didn’t want to. On the weekend, when I thought I would run, I spent all day Saturday and Sunday at East Street Arts where we had an open weekend. But that’s an excuse, I could have run in the mornings. Maybe it was because I fell down the stairs? I’d had three glasses of wine, got myself a cup of tea, and started off upstairs with no lights on. I reached for the banister, missed it, and went flying back into the kitchen. Result: I didn’t die, though my head only just missed the corner of the sink unit, but I did scald my hand badly. I ran it under a cold tap, but I was tired and wanted to sleep so went to bed. Mistake. The throbbing and stinging got so bad that I googled the nearest A&E, then didn’t go. Instead, I dunked my hand in cold water for ten minutes, then found an insect bite soothing gel that calmed down the heat enough so I could sleep. I got burn plasters from Boots and that, I thought was that, until on Sunday it started to look angry. It was dark purple and there was a line of dark red leading down towards my wrist. So, to the walk-in centre in Burmantofts, which was busy:

The nurse was lovely. She started telling me about a book she wants to write, and unlike many people who tell me about books they want to write, hers sounded fascinating. She laughed when I told her I’d fallen down the stairs backwards with no lights on with a cup of tea, then said, “I’m laughing with you, not at you.” And she said my burn – actually, as it was caused by liquid, it’s a scald – was infected. The red line snaking down my hand to my wrist was infection. Boots burn plasters, it turns out, Boots pharmacist woman, should not get wet. She put a dressing on my hand, bandaged it, told me to keep it dry at all costs, to get it re-dressed mid-week and prepared to set me forth. I said, “can I run?” She looked surprised. Yes, of course.

But I didn’t. On Monday I had a horrible day of depression. I got myself to my studio but not for long and soon retreated back home. All day. I kept meaning to go to training but the thought of having to run seven miles while chatting did not appeal. I didn’t go. I told myself that I should go and run on my own, but I didn’t do that either. Instead, I went to my allotment and built bean supports and harvested things. I came home and made gooseberry pie, and a quinoa and feta stuffed mushroom thing. And I went to bed and read a beautiful book and waited for the next day to come, as is my usual practice on one of the black days. The next day, I told myself, I would run.

And I did. I woke up at 5, when my cat woke me, dozed until 6.30, and was outdoors with my running kit on by 7. I absolutely did not feel like running. I’d eaten nothing, and drunk nothing. It was a stupid way to set off running, but I did anyway. I thought I’d do a gentle jog, but then I decided to run up the steep hill in Little Switzerland. Small steps, keep going, and I got to the top without stopping. Hurrah. I ran to Roundhay Park, and round the lake, and round the little lake, and up Hill 60 – small steps, keep going – and I did it without stopping. I ran back to Little Switzerland along Lidgett Lane, past the schoolkids now on their way to school, as my gentle jog had not been gentle, but nor had it been particularly quick, and the world had now fully woken up. I got to the bottom of Bracken Hill Woods and thought, I’m quite enjoying the hills, so I ran back up it again. I have never done that. Up, back down, then along to Chapel Allerton park, another steep hill, and I ran up that too.

Goodness. Maybe running on no fuel is something I should do more often.

And my injury? I just strapped a Garmin on it and kept going. Small steps.