I have been indisposed with a nasty cough and bug. So I’ve not done much running (OK, I did manage my planned 8 and 4 miles at the weekend, but I didn’t run for a WHOLE WEEK!) So that means I don’t have much to write about. Thankfully, my friend Ian does (he’s the one in the ridiculous hat)! Enjoy…
Athletes. Fit but not healthy. Something of a paradox, but usually true, runners seem to pick up sniffles, bugs and other sundry illnesses at every possible opportunity. Hence no Vicky blogging this week as she’s picked up something nasty doing the rounds. So she has asked me to give you the benefit of my wisdom from this week’s running (even though her mileage probably still exceeded my own).
Let’s get this straight from the outset. I am not now, nor have I ever been, an ultra runner and I fear it might be too late in the day to start now. (Great, so we have an ageing runner who doesn’t run very long distances banging on about his running experiences. Just what the world needed. I’m overweight too, did I mention? Sue me)
Anyway, it’s the time of year when thoughts turn to February’s Rombalds Stride, the 22 plus mile moorland trek with a cruel and unusal, very uphill, sting in the tail. Vicky blogged about her experiences the other year here. Usually I get roped in for marshalling on this, due to my brother being on the organising committee. This, let me tell you, is harder than running the damn thing as given the time of year and despite layering up to look like the Michelin Man, hypothermia is a distinct possibility and crossing numbers off a sheet on a clipboard, usually in a bracing wind, when you can’t feel your fingers, toes or other extremities is not as much fun as you might think. See photo above.
However, as much of the route is on my doorstep, it does present splendid opportunities to bask in a bit of reflected glory by taking part in ‘reccies’ with club-mates who are planning on doing the event. This Sunday I did just that. The plan was to run the second half of the route, starting in Ilkley and finishing in Guiseley. The two points are connected by local railway, so I met my fellow Horsforth Harriers on the train when it got to the station just up the hill from where I live.
The start of our run was determinedly uphill virtually from the point we tossed our tickets in the station waste bin. We began by striking out through the town, heading for White Wells, a spa which made the town famous as folk came to take the waters. It’s all a bit rudimentary with just a stone trough filled with freezing cold water (see photo). You can, if you feel so inclined, have a dip – I have to say I’ve never been inclined. There’s a cafe too, but, having a run to do, we bypassed the whitewashed landmark and headed for ‘The Rocky Valley’.
The valley, often the preserve of rock climbers, is a cleft in the moor which forms a fairly decent path, which trends uphill to emerge on the open moor. Here the paths, though usually well constructed get thinner and less obvious. And, given the amount of rain we’d had prior to the weekend, extremely wet underfoot. Our route went directly ahead above the famous Cow and Calf rocks, heading for a large cup and ring marked rock almost directly ahead. But between us and it, there was a descent to cross a ‘conduit’, a man made channel carrying streams off the moor. The crossing point was extremely muddy and wet, resulting in wet feet, and a muddy baptism for my brand new, straight-out-of-the-box, trail shoes.
Once across, the going was easier as we’d stopped climbing and we were now heading along the edge of the moor overlooking Wharfedale (always a spectacular view). Across this terrain there’s a distinct advantage in picking your feet up, as one of our number found when making rather too close an acquaintance with the muddy path. On these stretches I can usually maintain closer contact than usual with my faster running chums for several reasons.
First and most obvious, is that I am not in the least concerned by the conditions underfoot and revel in them, being too dim to be scared of them (despite a week in a French hospital with a ruptured quadricep after fall on similar terrain). Second, a previous life of playing rugby, with it’s requirement to chop and change your stride is a positive boon when skipping and sidestepping along these paths. Finally, being possessed of an incredibly short stride and with no discernible backlift to speak of, actually suits this terrain, giving me a distinct advantage over the long-striding pencil necks!
Though I say so myself, I’m not a bad descender either. So I was at the front of the group as we came off the moor (look – there’s even evidence! – credit to James Hingley for the photo). This didn’t last for long and I resumed my accustomed place towards the rear of the group. I was also starting to tire and my left hip was becoming increasingly sore (not entirely healthy, and also not fit either currently, it would seem) and the group were beginning to drop me.
As I’d not planned to go the whole route, for once I wasn’t tempted to bite off more than I could chew. So, on reaching the main road I turned left for home while the group turned right for Otley Chevin and the vicious climb to the finish. Turning off here though was a mistake. I’m nursing a couple of niggles and road running doesn’t really improve them, so going a bit further in pursuit of the group and heading home over the fields would have been the more sensible decision. Unfortunately I only realised this as I struggled down the A65, slowing and stiffening the whole way.
So what’s to be learned? First, I’m lucky to have beautiful, wild, unspoilt open country on my back doorstep. Second, I actually prefer running on uneven and boggy surfaces (although it is more energy sapping) and may, just here and there, have an advantage over some of my chums on it. Third, that I should run off road as often as I can. And there, dear friends, endeth the lesson, and my very first blog post!
diaryofanultrarunner 