The next item on the 2014 sporting agenda is the Midnight Mountain Marathon in Wales (near Brecon) on 28th June. So that's meant getting back on my feet after the 316km audax a couple of weeks ago.
And that's where things have got tough. I expected a week of reduced power and enthusiasm after the audax, but that's turned into two weeks now. I've still been doing the runs and the miles, but yesterday's moderately hilly 18 miler has left me wiped out, with sore muscles of the like I haven't had for months.
I'm putting this down to a few things: work, lack of sleep, and lack of hills. Work's been even more full-on than usual in the last couple of weeks - the usual combination of living in a hotel and long hours being supplemented by a 'big' presentation and mediating between multiple warring parties; just exhausting. I've compounded that by trying to get by on 6 hours sleep a night, and whilst that might be fine for some people, it's not for me; to function efficiently mentally and physically, I need 8. As for the lack of hills, running up them (and down them for that matter) is hugely different to riding up them - the impact on your joints and muscles is huge - and I just haven't done enough of them in the last few weeks - last weekend's runs in the sunshine were fantastic, but the canal towpath is, by its nature, pretty flat.
So this long weekend has been a blessing, and I extended it from 3 to 4 days by taking much of Friday off to do a few things, including make a rather nice Cambodian curry for Mrs M's birthday (if I do say so myself). The day off also enabled me to have a thorough check over at the opticians about the temporary blindness I suffered at the end of the audax a couple of weeks ago, which was quite reassuring - it turns out I've got "excessively dry corneas", and there's a range of things I can do sort it out, cod liver oil featuring quite highly. It's interesting that most of things that have stopped me running or riding in recent years (sciatica in the leg, bad back, and now the eyes {as a result of being in air conditioned rooms staring at a screen whilst wearing contact lenses}) have all been caused by sitting at a desk and using a computer, rather than actual exercise. There can only be one solution...
I've also caught up with sleep this weekend - 8 hours the last 2 nights, and another 2 hours yesterday afternoon, and 3 this afternoon. Lovely; I can feel things beginning to come back into balance. With a bit of luck I'll actually feel like doing some training tomorrow instead of it feeling like a form of torture. All I need now is to be able to run up some hills without it hurting...
Sunday, 25 May 2014
Sunday, 11 May 2014
The Old Roads 300 Audax
Let's start with the facts, because there are many to get out of the way. Yesterday, I and great mate Mendip Rouleur rode the Old Roads 300 Audax. (Those who don't know what an audax is - do keep up; it's a pre-fixed route that you self-navigate round, collecting stamps on a brevet card or shop receipts to prove you completed that route. It's not a race, but it is timed). Through a combination of choice and ineptitude we ended up covering 316km, or 198 miles. We started at 6am, and arrived back at our starting point (Honiton in Devon) at 11.36pm, i.e. 17 hours 36 mins later. We ascended 3800 metres, or 12000 feet. Our route took us on a clockwise tour of Devon and Somerset, calling at Okehampton, Barnstaple, South Molton, Wiveliscombe, Bridgwater, Cheddar, Ilminster and Chard amongst other places. We cycled roads across the Somerset levels that 3 months ago were under 6 feet of water. It was wet and windy during the day, at times very wet, at other times very windy, and other times still both very wet and very windy.
Now for the interesting stuff. First, did I enjoy it? I'm still not sure to be honest. I'd never previously ridden more than 152 miles in a day, and the final 50 miles from Cheddar back to Honiton felt like a slog to be honest. Then again, there are two explanations for that - we had a headwind of varying strength for most of that time, and my eyesight was getting progressively worse. When I've done 200km rides in the past the vision in my left eye has occasionally gone cloudy - like you imagine having a cataract to be - but yesterday was something else. For the last 90 mins I could see virtually nothing out of either eye, and hung on to Guy's rear light like my life depended on it, which in some ways it did. It was really disconcerting riding on unlit country lanes with vision that poor.
Still, it meant that after our midnight veg stew and bread and butter at the organiser's house, there was absolutely no chance of me driving. Fortunately, I'd taken a sleeping bag with me, and I have an estate car, so my filthy bike occupied one half of the boot between 12.30am and 5am, and me tucked up in my sleeping bag occupied the other half. I had to answer the call of nature at 3.26am - I crawled out of the car and stood barefooted on the council car park doing what I had to at the back of the car. It was only when I got up at 5am did I realise that I'd dropped some clothes at the back of the car when I was blindly loading it at midnight....well, you can guess the rest. Oh the glamour, the glamour....
So I didn't enjoy the end of the ride, but the rest of it was good, despite the weather. The route is so called because it uses in several places the old version of a new road where the latter's been built to accommodate greater amounts of traffic, so those roads tend to be fast and quiet, which is good. We also got some nice views of Exmoor and from the Black Down hills. To my great relief and slight astonishment nothing particularly hurt, despite the fact I've done almost no cycling in recent months. Neck, shoulders, back, undercarriage - all the bits that are vulnerable on a long ride - seem to have survived pretty much intact. So's the stomach, despite the vast volume of - let's face it - high carb crap it was forced to endure yesterday. We probably expended close on 10,000 calories yesterday, and that's a fair amount of fuel to have to take in and digest. Apart from a few nighttime thunderclaps my digestive system's been fine; the same cannot be said of my riding companion however...
...for about 40 minutes before we finished he did the bicycle equivalent of an emergency stop, and just as I was about to berate him for his bike handling ineptitude, there was an urgent shout of "hold that, I need to vomit". It seemed a bit churlish to carry on with the original complaint under the circumstances (those circumstances being the peace and quiet of a moonlight Devon night being broken by the sound of a middle-aged man dry retching), particularly as it was my turn to bellow "Stop!" a few minutes later to fix a mechanical - a day of rough roads had caused one of the bolts holding a water bottle cage in place had worked its way loose, the thing had gone sideways and I was pedalling into it.
Other notable features of the ride included:
- kamikaze birds: a blackbird and a (I think) a pigeon both flew dangerously close to the front wheel of Guy, risking both decapitation and hearing my Mr T impression ("crazy, bicycle-bothering, bird fool!"), whilst a generously-proportioned pheasant mistimed his takeoff attempt in front of me, meaning I felt the air of frantically flapping wings as he and I had another near-miss;
- the fact that despite there were only 12 starters for the event, and 2 of those packed somewhere along the line, we constantly kept seeing each other during the day; the time spread of our arrivals in Honiton was remarkably small;
- nobody seemed to get a p**cture; remarkable, given the state of the roads.
So a couple of thanks to end. First, to Mrs Monmarduman, for exhausting the domestic baking supplies (and I suspect those of at least one medium sized supermarket) to create a fine array of cake and pasties. Much of the cake has been consumed, but not so many of the pasties yet, mainly because my saddlebag is only 15 inches wide, which is way too small to accommodate them.
And second, to Mendip Rouleur, without whom I'd have had to sleep in a hedge until my eyesight had returned to normal, and who was his usual pleasingly cussed and cantankerous self. He's also an indefatigable rider who matches his levels of moaning and faffing with sheer, bloody determination to carry on, come what may, which I very much like. I'm wondering if he and I need to ride a tandem together, me stoking at the back and providing a bit of climbing power, whilst he drives and route finds at the front. The only drawback of the plan I foresee is the proximity of my nose and his backside it would entail. And on that enriching note, here endeth today's lecture on what it's like to ride a bicycle practically 200 hilly miles between dawn and (just after; ok 3 hours after) dusk.
Now for the interesting stuff. First, did I enjoy it? I'm still not sure to be honest. I'd never previously ridden more than 152 miles in a day, and the final 50 miles from Cheddar back to Honiton felt like a slog to be honest. Then again, there are two explanations for that - we had a headwind of varying strength for most of that time, and my eyesight was getting progressively worse. When I've done 200km rides in the past the vision in my left eye has occasionally gone cloudy - like you imagine having a cataract to be - but yesterday was something else. For the last 90 mins I could see virtually nothing out of either eye, and hung on to Guy's rear light like my life depended on it, which in some ways it did. It was really disconcerting riding on unlit country lanes with vision that poor.
Still, it meant that after our midnight veg stew and bread and butter at the organiser's house, there was absolutely no chance of me driving. Fortunately, I'd taken a sleeping bag with me, and I have an estate car, so my filthy bike occupied one half of the boot between 12.30am and 5am, and me tucked up in my sleeping bag occupied the other half. I had to answer the call of nature at 3.26am - I crawled out of the car and stood barefooted on the council car park doing what I had to at the back of the car. It was only when I got up at 5am did I realise that I'd dropped some clothes at the back of the car when I was blindly loading it at midnight....well, you can guess the rest. Oh the glamour, the glamour....
So I didn't enjoy the end of the ride, but the rest of it was good, despite the weather. The route is so called because it uses in several places the old version of a new road where the latter's been built to accommodate greater amounts of traffic, so those roads tend to be fast and quiet, which is good. We also got some nice views of Exmoor and from the Black Down hills. To my great relief and slight astonishment nothing particularly hurt, despite the fact I've done almost no cycling in recent months. Neck, shoulders, back, undercarriage - all the bits that are vulnerable on a long ride - seem to have survived pretty much intact. So's the stomach, despite the vast volume of - let's face it - high carb crap it was forced to endure yesterday. We probably expended close on 10,000 calories yesterday, and that's a fair amount of fuel to have to take in and digest. Apart from a few nighttime thunderclaps my digestive system's been fine; the same cannot be said of my riding companion however...
...for about 40 minutes before we finished he did the bicycle equivalent of an emergency stop, and just as I was about to berate him for his bike handling ineptitude, there was an urgent shout of "hold that, I need to vomit". It seemed a bit churlish to carry on with the original complaint under the circumstances (those circumstances being the peace and quiet of a moonlight Devon night being broken by the sound of a middle-aged man dry retching), particularly as it was my turn to bellow "Stop!" a few minutes later to fix a mechanical - a day of rough roads had caused one of the bolts holding a water bottle cage in place had worked its way loose, the thing had gone sideways and I was pedalling into it.
Other notable features of the ride included:
- kamikaze birds: a blackbird and a (I think) a pigeon both flew dangerously close to the front wheel of Guy, risking both decapitation and hearing my Mr T impression ("crazy, bicycle-bothering, bird fool!"), whilst a generously-proportioned pheasant mistimed his takeoff attempt in front of me, meaning I felt the air of frantically flapping wings as he and I had another near-miss;
- the fact that despite there were only 12 starters for the event, and 2 of those packed somewhere along the line, we constantly kept seeing each other during the day; the time spread of our arrivals in Honiton was remarkably small;
- nobody seemed to get a p**cture; remarkable, given the state of the roads.
So a couple of thanks to end. First, to Mrs Monmarduman, for exhausting the domestic baking supplies (and I suspect those of at least one medium sized supermarket) to create a fine array of cake and pasties. Much of the cake has been consumed, but not so many of the pasties yet, mainly because my saddlebag is only 15 inches wide, which is way too small to accommodate them.
And second, to Mendip Rouleur, without whom I'd have had to sleep in a hedge until my eyesight had returned to normal, and who was his usual pleasingly cussed and cantankerous self. He's also an indefatigable rider who matches his levels of moaning and faffing with sheer, bloody determination to carry on, come what may, which I very much like. I'm wondering if he and I need to ride a tandem together, me stoking at the back and providing a bit of climbing power, whilst he drives and route finds at the front. The only drawback of the plan I foresee is the proximity of my nose and his backside it would entail. And on that enriching note, here endeth today's lecture on what it's like to ride a bicycle practically 200 hilly miles between dawn and (just after; ok 3 hours after) dusk.
Monday, 5 May 2014
The Fear
This Saturday I shall attempt to rode the Old Roads 300 Audax. The number 300 is significant, if inaccurate; the route is actually 308km, or 192 miles in old money. And it's round Devon, where it's quite hilly, and Somerset, which despite the famous levels has some chunky hills too.
So I'm afraid, very afraid, for a number of reasons...
First, I've hardly done any riding so far this year. Running - yes, riding - no. So there'll be no worries with basic fitness, but I'm anticipating the back starting to complain after about 2 hours, the backside after 3, and the shoulders after 4. I'm not particularly worried about pain in itself, but I just hope it doesn't get unpleasantly bad. Which it might, when the previous furthest I've ever ridden in a single day is 152 miles.
Second, there are no bailout options, no shortcuts, no broom wagon. Once we're out there, we've got to be self-sufficient.
Third, the weather forecast; it's looking showery and breezy at this point, though there's scope for that to improve or deteriorate yet; I'm obviously hoping it'll be the former.
Fourth, as well as a lack of riding, I'm not convinced that a marathon (literally) training run last weekend, and a few two wheeled pootles this weekend represents the best preparation. I managed 3,500 feet of ascent both on the run and today's ride, but nevertheless it's all a bit feast or famine. It's part of the problem of working away during the week - it doesn't allow the kind of consistent midweek training that builds a good base for these mega-events. Ho hum, it is what it is.
Finally, however, by far the biggest reason I'm worried is the fear of failure. At the start of February I didn't manage to finish a mountain ultra-marathon in the Lakes, and I'd hate to DNF two consecutive events. Fortunately, I'm riding this Saturday with Mendip Rouleur; he and I have achieved some great things (for us) together on two wheels, so I'm hoping we'll spur each on this weekend. Wish us luck. I'll report back on what happens next time.
Monday, 21 April 2014
Easter Tidings
All is well with the world, so I bid thee Happy Easter, a day late truth be told. My jolly outlook has been brought on my several things, which follow below in no particular order....
- it's dry, warm and sunny, and has been for 3 of the 4 Easter days hereabouts. Not only has this precipitated much power washing of decking and fencing, but two good, long, decent, enjoyable runs. More on those below
- we found someone to re-model our garden, which will include a paved work area sadly lacking at the moment. This has meant that, uncharacteristically, I've not been washing my bikes after the few road rides I've done on them, which in turn has meant that I've been reluctant to go out on them. Time for that to change. The work will also enable at least one bike to live in an outside store, which will mean that the Rourke can finally (after 7 months) leave its nest that is the spare bedroom
- sometimes I run with music, sometimes I don't. Today I didn't, and I was mightily rewarded by my journey over hills, across moors and through forests. The sun shone, the birds sung. I can identify regrettably few birds from their song, but everyone knows the cuckoo's call, and I was treated to one in Macclesfield Forest this morning. Even better, I was running on quite a high ridge at the time, and when I looked down not only could I hear said cuckoo, but I could see it too. Which was nice
- I saw a sheep with a bucket stuck on its head. To post the picture I took would replace the image you've now got in your head, so I'm not going to. But it was as funny as it sounds
So there we are. A couple of bike turbo trainer sessions and two 16 mile runs over Easter, one flat one down the canal towpath on Saturday, and one (very) hilly one today. I've got a 300km bike ride in 19 days time, which is slightly sobering - the furthest I've ever ridden in one day, with virtually no bike training done so far and little realistic prospect of much in the next two weekends. The report on that piece of folly may well be the next post.
- it's dry, warm and sunny, and has been for 3 of the 4 Easter days hereabouts. Not only has this precipitated much power washing of decking and fencing, but two good, long, decent, enjoyable runs. More on those below
- we found someone to re-model our garden, which will include a paved work area sadly lacking at the moment. This has meant that, uncharacteristically, I've not been washing my bikes after the few road rides I've done on them, which in turn has meant that I've been reluctant to go out on them. Time for that to change. The work will also enable at least one bike to live in an outside store, which will mean that the Rourke can finally (after 7 months) leave its nest that is the spare bedroom
- sometimes I run with music, sometimes I don't. Today I didn't, and I was mightily rewarded by my journey over hills, across moors and through forests. The sun shone, the birds sung. I can identify regrettably few birds from their song, but everyone knows the cuckoo's call, and I was treated to one in Macclesfield Forest this morning. Even better, I was running on quite a high ridge at the time, and when I looked down not only could I hear said cuckoo, but I could see it too. Which was nice
- I saw a sheep with a bucket stuck on its head. To post the picture I took would replace the image you've now got in your head, so I'm not going to. But it was as funny as it sounds
So there we are. A couple of bike turbo trainer sessions and two 16 mile runs over Easter, one flat one down the canal towpath on Saturday, and one (very) hilly one today. I've got a 300km bike ride in 19 days time, which is slightly sobering - the furthest I've ever ridden in one day, with virtually no bike training done so far and little realistic prospect of much in the next two weekends. The report on that piece of folly may well be the next post.
Sunday, 6 April 2014
Lakes 42: DNF
Yesterday I started, but did not complete the Lakes 42 mountain ultra-marathon. It was my choice to withdraw just after the halfway point, without pressure on anyone else's part or regret on mine today. What follows, therefore, is not excuse-making nor justification; it's just explanation.
So let's deal straightaway with why I chose to drop out. It wasn't, contrary to what I half expected before I started, due to problems navigating - there were plenty of people out there who knew their way round, and the paths in any case were reasonably obvious; you just had to choose the right one. It also wasn't because I was struggling physically - at the point I stopped (22 miles and 4000 feet of ascent completed out of 42 and 9000 respectively) I was lying 25th out of 85 starters. It WAS, however, because I was concerned for my safety, and that of anyone who might have to give me assistance.
Let me explain that - the weather was awful in the Lake District yesterday. At 'normal' level that manifested itself in constant rain and a temperature of 7c. Up in the mountains, the temperature was 2c before windchill, -5/6c after windchill, and that was in the context of the rain being of a temperature and ferocity it felt like you were taking a cold shower. I'd been over High Street (the highest point in the eastern Lakes) in those conditions, and it was kind of ok. However, by the time I got to Wythburn church, the 5th checkpoint out of 10, I was getting quite cold. Wythburn is the start point of the ascent up Helvellyn, and one of the organisers arrived at the checkpoint when I was there to provide an update on conditions. It wasn't pretty - the wind was strong, the rain was as reported, visibility was no more than 5 metres, and there was a dangerous cornice very near the route - a formation of snow that overhangs the mountain, meaning if you step on it you're in for a big fall.
Two things struck me at this point. First, compared to the majority of the other participants I was a novice - I'm not a seasoned fell runner or climber. Second, I'd skimped on mountain-specific kit in my preparation - sure I had everything warm with me that I owned, but a rainjacket that's suitable for a bike just doesn't cut it in those conditions. I'd gambled on the weather being kind-of-ok, and it most definitely wasn't. Now, even that might have been ok had I been able to change a few strategic bits of clothing (base layer, socks) from wet versions to dry versions, but even that wasn't possible because I'd arrived at Wythburn 50 minutes ahead of when Mrs M and I had agreed she'd turn up there, such was my progress at that point.
So, I was wet, cold, and without the right kit for tackling Helvellyn in bad conditions. My running shoes, in addition, are great for trails, but not so great for mountains - I'd already fallen over (mainly on grass thank God) half a dozen times by that point. The last thing I wanted was to fall over or otherwise injure myself (exposure would have been another contender for that), and cause the local mountain rescue people to have to come out. Maybe that's defeatist, maybe it's not obeying Rule 5, but to me, yesterday, it felt sensible. Pain may be temporary and glory may last forever, but death is permanent. OK, that's a little melodramatic, but you catch my drift.
Anyway, those are the circumstances of my abandonment. I had, at that point and as I mentioned above, still covered 22 miles of Lake District mountains and hills over the course of 5 hours 20 minutes, which is comfortably more exertion that a standard marathon, so what of the event till that point?
Well, it was a 6am start, which meant being out of bed at 4.15am to prepare, travel the 12 miles to the start at Askham, register, be briefed and leave. It was as we were being briefed I realised I'd made another error - I had the largest, seemingly heaviest backpack of any other starter. There's a 'compulsory' kitlist for the event, that includes survival blanket, headtorch, spare batteries, whistle, first aid kit, etc etc., and you had to sign to say you had all those things. It was clear to me that most people had nothing like the full kit - there rucksacks were far too small - but I guess the organisers are happy as long as you sign to say you've got everything, as that absolves them of blame if anything goes wrong. Not only did I have the full kit (again, a novice's error I suspect), but I'd supplemented it with 2 litres of water in a bladder (volume unnecessary, bladder too bulky), spare clothes that proved to be useless, a loaf's worth of sandwiches and 24 gels/jellies/energy bars - again, more than necessary. My pack was pretty heavy for walking on the flat, let alone running up mountains with. D'oh.
Anyway, the half of the route I did took us south-west from Askham and up to High Street. At relatively low levels the views were brilliant, but by 6.30 we couldn't see anything beyond 15 metres, and that's the way it stayed until we descended from High Street into Patterdale via Angle Tarn (which is beautiful). Back up through Grisedale Forest was where the weather really closed in, and after the descent from Grisedale Tarn we reached Wythburn, which is where the story above unfolds.
I enjoyed what I did - but in retrospect I just wasn't prepared for the combination of conditions that came together yesterday. Doffed chapeaus to those who finished. I'm not downcast in any way; apart from it still feeling sensible, I'm also telling myself this was my Mo Farah London marathon moment (he did half of it last year as a recce for doing the full event this year). However, who knows? It does feel like there's unfinished business though.
So let's deal straightaway with why I chose to drop out. It wasn't, contrary to what I half expected before I started, due to problems navigating - there were plenty of people out there who knew their way round, and the paths in any case were reasonably obvious; you just had to choose the right one. It also wasn't because I was struggling physically - at the point I stopped (22 miles and 4000 feet of ascent completed out of 42 and 9000 respectively) I was lying 25th out of 85 starters. It WAS, however, because I was concerned for my safety, and that of anyone who might have to give me assistance.
Let me explain that - the weather was awful in the Lake District yesterday. At 'normal' level that manifested itself in constant rain and a temperature of 7c. Up in the mountains, the temperature was 2c before windchill, -5/6c after windchill, and that was in the context of the rain being of a temperature and ferocity it felt like you were taking a cold shower. I'd been over High Street (the highest point in the eastern Lakes) in those conditions, and it was kind of ok. However, by the time I got to Wythburn church, the 5th checkpoint out of 10, I was getting quite cold. Wythburn is the start point of the ascent up Helvellyn, and one of the organisers arrived at the checkpoint when I was there to provide an update on conditions. It wasn't pretty - the wind was strong, the rain was as reported, visibility was no more than 5 metres, and there was a dangerous cornice very near the route - a formation of snow that overhangs the mountain, meaning if you step on it you're in for a big fall.
Two things struck me at this point. First, compared to the majority of the other participants I was a novice - I'm not a seasoned fell runner or climber. Second, I'd skimped on mountain-specific kit in my preparation - sure I had everything warm with me that I owned, but a rainjacket that's suitable for a bike just doesn't cut it in those conditions. I'd gambled on the weather being kind-of-ok, and it most definitely wasn't. Now, even that might have been ok had I been able to change a few strategic bits of clothing (base layer, socks) from wet versions to dry versions, but even that wasn't possible because I'd arrived at Wythburn 50 minutes ahead of when Mrs M and I had agreed she'd turn up there, such was my progress at that point.
So, I was wet, cold, and without the right kit for tackling Helvellyn in bad conditions. My running shoes, in addition, are great for trails, but not so great for mountains - I'd already fallen over (mainly on grass thank God) half a dozen times by that point. The last thing I wanted was to fall over or otherwise injure myself (exposure would have been another contender for that), and cause the local mountain rescue people to have to come out. Maybe that's defeatist, maybe it's not obeying Rule 5, but to me, yesterday, it felt sensible. Pain may be temporary and glory may last forever, but death is permanent. OK, that's a little melodramatic, but you catch my drift.
Anyway, those are the circumstances of my abandonment. I had, at that point and as I mentioned above, still covered 22 miles of Lake District mountains and hills over the course of 5 hours 20 minutes, which is comfortably more exertion that a standard marathon, so what of the event till that point?
Well, it was a 6am start, which meant being out of bed at 4.15am to prepare, travel the 12 miles to the start at Askham, register, be briefed and leave. It was as we were being briefed I realised I'd made another error - I had the largest, seemingly heaviest backpack of any other starter. There's a 'compulsory' kitlist for the event, that includes survival blanket, headtorch, spare batteries, whistle, first aid kit, etc etc., and you had to sign to say you had all those things. It was clear to me that most people had nothing like the full kit - there rucksacks were far too small - but I guess the organisers are happy as long as you sign to say you've got everything, as that absolves them of blame if anything goes wrong. Not only did I have the full kit (again, a novice's error I suspect), but I'd supplemented it with 2 litres of water in a bladder (volume unnecessary, bladder too bulky), spare clothes that proved to be useless, a loaf's worth of sandwiches and 24 gels/jellies/energy bars - again, more than necessary. My pack was pretty heavy for walking on the flat, let alone running up mountains with. D'oh.
Anyway, the half of the route I did took us south-west from Askham and up to High Street. At relatively low levels the views were brilliant, but by 6.30 we couldn't see anything beyond 15 metres, and that's the way it stayed until we descended from High Street into Patterdale via Angle Tarn (which is beautiful). Back up through Grisedale Forest was where the weather really closed in, and after the descent from Grisedale Tarn we reached Wythburn, which is where the story above unfolds.
I enjoyed what I did - but in retrospect I just wasn't prepared for the combination of conditions that came together yesterday. Doffed chapeaus to those who finished. I'm not downcast in any way; apart from it still feeling sensible, I'm also telling myself this was my Mo Farah London marathon moment (he did half of it last year as a recce for doing the full event this year). However, who knows? It does feel like there's unfinished business though.
Sunday, 16 March 2014
Sheepish
Never let it be said that sheep are thick. Ok, they may tend to mindlessly follow each other when they're panicked, but stupid? I think not. This is what happened today.
I ran up the same steep hill six times, a couple of minutes up it, three of four minutes back round a little loop to the base again. Hill repeats; painful, boring, necessary. And at the bottom of the hill was a field full of pregnant sheep, which I naturally passed each time.
Ascent 1: sheep lying down, dozing, the odd eye opened in my general direction
Ascent 2: sheep think "hang on, you're a man, and we haven't had our breakfast yet". Cue some standing up, and a bit more interest
Ascent 3: nearly up the sheep standing up and quite a lot of baa-ing
Ascent 4: all the sheep standing up, all at the fence, manic baa-ing, mainly along the lines of "YOU'RE A MAN, GIVE US OUR BLOODY BREAKFAST!"
Ascent 5: "You're not going us our breakfast are you?" Much less baa-ing, wandering away from the fence
Ascent 6 : all sheep lying down again, nearly all with their backs turned, the only ones that weren't with looks on their faces that definitely said "ok, you can stop taking the p*** now".
So, sorry to the Sutton Lane Ends flock, I didn't mean to taunt you. I should also apologise to my Achilles too, for it was tough on them. I've decided to blame my achy Achilles on this winter's weather. You see, normally I intersperse the hill running with some nice flat runs, but all the flat routes have been pretty much waterlogged for the last couple of months, so nearly everything has been vertiginous - to the detriment of my lower legs. Still, not many running weeks left now. And then it's back on the bike, which I have to say I'm quite looking forward to...
Monday, 24 February 2014
The Strassburg Sock
After last year's too-small smalls (emergency pants bought in a French supermarket), another in my series of irregular articles on cruel and unusual punishments masquerading as underwear. This time it's the Strassburg Sock, and it singlehandedly (though that should possibly be singlefootedly) is responsible for four nights - and counting - of broken sleep. Here's the offending item:
Sexy little beast, isn't it? And yes, that really is a strip of material connecting the toe to a band that runs round the calf, pulling the toes up into a permanent 45 degree angle.
As intimated above, it's nightwear. But why oh why are you inflicting this upon yourself, do I hear you cry? No? I'll tell you anyway. It, apparently, is an effective and natural remedy for heel pain, including the Achilles, from which I have been suffering in recent times. And I have to say I'm noticing an immediate difference. I ran two hilly half-marathons on Saturday and yesterday, and contrary to recent experience after such exertions, my first few steps this morning were not sanctioned by the Ministry of Silly Walks.
The theory of the thing of course is that it very gradually stretches out the calf and Achilles whilst you sleep, which is supposed to accelerate healing. When I bought the thing of the interweb this time last week I naively assumed that as the thing had "sock" in its title, it would come as a pair. Wrong. Just the one appeared. I have to say I wasn't tempted to buy a second - the thing is absurdly expensive for what it is - but even if I had been there would have been no need. The night before last I was so uncomfortable in it at 3.23am I switched it from my right leg to left leg, and that seems an ideal arrangement - both Achilles feel better.
Tis a good job Mrs Monmarduman is now in France for five weeks however, for there is much thrutching (Cheshire word I believe) and a rustling of a night-time when I swap legs, undoing and redoing two velcro straps.
So there we are. I'm managing to manage the pain while carrying on running, and hopefully there's even a recovery brewing. Anyway, it's nearly time to don the thing for another night of joy, so I'll take my leave.
Sexy little beast, isn't it? And yes, that really is a strip of material connecting the toe to a band that runs round the calf, pulling the toes up into a permanent 45 degree angle.
As intimated above, it's nightwear. But why oh why are you inflicting this upon yourself, do I hear you cry? No? I'll tell you anyway. It, apparently, is an effective and natural remedy for heel pain, including the Achilles, from which I have been suffering in recent times. And I have to say I'm noticing an immediate difference. I ran two hilly half-marathons on Saturday and yesterday, and contrary to recent experience after such exertions, my first few steps this morning were not sanctioned by the Ministry of Silly Walks.
The theory of the thing of course is that it very gradually stretches out the calf and Achilles whilst you sleep, which is supposed to accelerate healing. When I bought the thing of the interweb this time last week I naively assumed that as the thing had "sock" in its title, it would come as a pair. Wrong. Just the one appeared. I have to say I wasn't tempted to buy a second - the thing is absurdly expensive for what it is - but even if I had been there would have been no need. The night before last I was so uncomfortable in it at 3.23am I switched it from my right leg to left leg, and that seems an ideal arrangement - both Achilles feel better.
Tis a good job Mrs Monmarduman is now in France for five weeks however, for there is much thrutching (Cheshire word I believe) and a rustling of a night-time when I swap legs, undoing and redoing two velcro straps.
So there we are. I'm managing to manage the pain while carrying on running, and hopefully there's even a recovery brewing. Anyway, it's nearly time to don the thing for another night of joy, so I'll take my leave.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)