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.

 

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.

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.

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...

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.

The Book of Revelations

Yesterday was a day of revelations, though none biblical as it happens. Only the recent rain is that. Anyway, yesterday's were, in chronological order as the day unfolded:

- Mrs Monmarduman can get up early at the weekend for something other than a car boot sale. When I announced last week that I was going to have to leave home at 7am (on a Sunday) to get to Keswick in time to start my mountain running skills course at 10am (it doesn't take that long, but I had to add contingency and the faff factor on to journey time), I completely expected to be going alone. However, the good lady wife announced she too fancied a day out in the Lake District. So darn me if she wasn't out of bed voluntarily and with no incentives or threats at 6.30am. What a nice surprise it was too.

- I met the winner of the Nicest and Politest Man in the UK 2014 competition. His name was Dunna, a Dubliner resident in Glasgow, and was the only other participant on the course, there having been two dropouts during the week. He arrived late, apologising profusely for his tardiness, though he should have been also sorry for the dilemma he's placed me in, namely whether I can reinforce national/racial stereotyping by revealing the reason he was late. Oh sod it. We were supposed to meet in the car park at Booths supermarket in Keswick. His Celtic ear however meant that he turned up at Boots, and wondered why no one was there. It was hard not to laugh, to be sure. He was however, as I say, the most delightful and considerate running partner through the day; one of life's genuine nice guys.

- I'm not as crap at map reading as I thought I was. Though I can now take proper bearings and navigate by compass alone. Which is nice. And necessary, as it turns out that's what I'll have to do on the mountain marathon at the start of April.

- talking of which, navigational skills will probably be just as important as fitness in determining the time I manage in that event. This is quite a scary prospect, not least because I'll be doing the event alone rather than with a partner, which is how a lot of people do it apparently.

- back to Mrs Monmarduman: she walked nearly as far as we ran during the day. Whilst the miles we did were fairly extreme, being off marked paths for much of the time in bogs and on rocky fells, and were done in a screaming, freezing wind, we didn't do that many of them; 7-8 perhaps. Mrs M managed to resist the temptations of the Keswick Pencil Museum (I sh*t you not); she does have a heart condition after all, and that level of excitement could have been dangerous, so she took to the countryside too, knocking off a good few miles of walking herself. She had roses in her cheeks, as they used to say in the 1950s, when we met back up in the afternoon.

- finally, and a bit boringly, clothes matter. I had 6 layers on yesterday and was shaking with the cold at times, and was certainly colder than the other two, who each had 3/4 better quality layers on. Might have to spend some money.

So there we are. I haven't covered the stuff I learned, though contours are indeed king, and DDTT isn't a type of explosive, but it was a good day. Just need to do some more training now, of both the running and navigating kind.

Such a cliché...

...that all this running has found my Achilles heel. Literally, in this case - both of them. Yup, for the last couple of weeks after runs the right Achilles has been sore, as has the underside of the left heel, which, it seems, is just a different manifestation of an Achilles problem.

So I consulted my favourite doctor (that'd be Dr. W. W. Web), who said that Achilles pain can be brought on by any one of the following:

- front foot-landing running (that's what I do; saves lots of other problems)
- speed work (check; lots of sprints round Regent's Park recently)
- hill running (I only run in the hills at the weekend)
- not doing enough stretching of the lower legs, calves in particular (erm, yes again; oops)

So I'm now doing a new set of exercises three times a day to try to get the soreness out of the damn things. I'm still running, which perhaps isn't wise, but the discomfort is at its peak in the first couple of hundred yards of a run, and then it settles down. So whilst that's the case, I'll keep going. Which is just as well, as I'm off to Keswick this Sunday for my mountain running skills course; it's a practical course, so there'll be plenty of time on my feet.

And that's not unlike the next couple of days....I'm in London, as per usual, and there's a Tube strike over the next 48 hours, so there's four walks of two and a bit miles coming up. I don't mind actually, but I hope the weather turns out a bit kinder than the forecast.

Back to the running. Training at the moment consists of a few short runs in London during the week, and a couple of long-ish hill runs at the week. Marathon training suggests that you gradually increase the distance of your weekly run till you reach 75% of marathon distance. Training for an ultra-marathon is different. If you do 75% of an ultra, you're basically going to be knackered for several weeks afterwards, leading to reduced training that's not going to move you on; so that's to be avoided. Instead, you do two medium to long back-to-back runs at some point in the week, the theory being that on the second you've got some residual tiredness from the first. So that's what I'm doing. We'll see how successful it is in due course - but it's leading to a few Sunday afternoon snoozes at the moment, and the consumption of quite a lot of porridge - which, I've discovered, is a lot more interesting with a splash of Jack Daniel's over the top. And on that happy thought, enough for now.