Where were you Chris Upson? You said you’d be here!

Knowing how much you like a sound thrashing, I ignored my pulled hamstring and cracked rib (yes the price of Pen Cerrig Calch), and entered Llanbedr to Blaenavon (15m, 4500ft ascent), missing the bus to the start and having to drive like a nutter down single-track lanes to arrive 3 mins before the start.

Nice relaxed run (apart from the hurty rib and bum), chatting all the way with Martin Humphreys of Stroud AC, not much talent on show. He died in style at the bottom of the last hill… and I wandered lonely as an orange, up the slaughtering slopes of Blorenge.

1. Crispin Flower, 2.18 joining an illustrious crowd of Donnellies, Derbys, Forsters, Palmers and McQueens on the attached goblet!!

2-10 rif raf

11 onwards, veteran + female rifraf

Runner, Why do you Run?

This was the title of a Boat-Race write-up exquisitely crafted by Chris Menhennet a few years back. It's a question that occurred to me several times over the first weekend of July, as I lumbered around the Elite class of the Saunders Mountain Marathon trying to stay within sight of Crispin, cursing the horrendous bracken, tussocks and concealed boulders of the first day that cruelly exposed my soft centre, and the fast runnable paths of the second day that revealed the true extent of my lack of fitness.

Perhaps the question should have been, 'Runner, why don't you run?'. Of only a dozen or so training runs I had managed in the previous four months, the longest was the Kilpatricks Hill Race. Thus, with a background of virtually no training, I set off for the Lakes at 1 a.m. on the Saturday morning with a fluttering stomach and water in my bowels. I'd stepped in as a late replacement when Manny suddenly remembered that he's a big girl, and would rather a 5-mile leg of the canal relay than having to dirty his socks on the Helvellyn range and I had serious suspicions that I'd flounder on the first day and spoil Crispin's weekend.

Conditions could hardly have been better on day 1. Overcast, 60-odd degrees and a cloud-base of about 2000ft. This meant that the tops were in clag, but for a struggling donkey with no sweat-glands, the fine mist was pleasantly cooling, and as I had very little part in the early navigation, the lack of visibilty wasn't really my problem. It merely saved me from seeing the monstrous nature of the hills we were expected to negotiate.

The first three check-points were pretty straight-forward, with a fair amount of good running and no real navigational difficulties. Thereafter, starting with a long, long third leg, things started to go downhill. A wall Crispin was climbing succumbed to his considerable mass and collapsed under him. I watched in alarm as he tumbled to the ground from a height of about 5 feet, with enormous boulders cascading around him. Fortunately his generous padding protected him from injury.

I'd gone like a bull at a gate up the first climb (not an entirely new tactic for me, I'll admit) and after a couple of hours running was starting to feel pretty shagged and not a little grumpy. Checkpoints 4-9 were in horrible steep, rocky terrain, and although upping my J.B. and Geobar consumption had restored my spirits, I was having to work bloody hard to prevent total melt-down.

Crispin had a rough patch around checkpoints 7 and 8, during which I rallied to some extent. Leg 9 was a bugger of a contour and the descent to the day's finish was a complete bastard on steep slippery grass and wet rocks, for which my road-shoes had no answer. We trundled into the mid-camp bruised and knackered, and were astonished to find that we'd completed the day in second place, 20 minutes behind the leaders and 10 minutes clear of third place.

Crispin had sounded a bit preoccupied on the phone when I said we'd have to use his tent, as mine was bought to accommodate a family of six. His, it transpired, had been bought specifically for one, and was, by his own admission as we stood looking at it in dismay, 'a bit like a bloody coffin'.

Nothing, however, would have stopped me sleeping like a corpse (fittingly), and after a couple of cans of lager (just to make sure), 5 packets of supernoodles and a limp down to the shores of Ullswater, I crashed out in my sleeping bag and slept, without stirring and with my mouth gaping unattractively, for 10 hours.

The morning revealed a groin-strain, 2 blisters, a swollen ankle, chaffed thighs, bruised toes and shoulders and a mild hangover - 2 cans being more than I've drunk in months.

We'd made the chasing start and set off 20 minutes after the leaders, whom we were not to see for the rest of the day. At each checkpoint we asked for the gap, and it never varied by more than three minutes, which pleased us almost as much as it amazed us. The down-side was that this encouraging progress meant that Crispin wouldn't allow me to stop for a picnic and 40 winks.

On the first day Crispin's navigation had been excellent, with probably less that 3 minutes of the 7 hours spent looking for checkpoints. On the second day it was truly inspired, as time and again he hit it right on the button. The only leg on which we may have lost a couple of minutes was the one on which I volunteered my sole piece of navigational input, persuading him against his better judgement to add distance to his proposed route to take us onto a lovely smooth Land Rover track for a few miles. Unfortunately by the time we hit it I was too shagged to muster much more than a fast shuffle, and comparing leg times with our competitors at the end it emerged that we had lost more on this leg than on any other.

A pig of a climb to the end of this leg (the fifth) took its toll, and after an easy sixth we laboured up the final climb of the day, on a route on which I repeatedly expressed doubts about our bearing. Unsurprisingly, I was talking bollocks, and we dropped bang onto checkpoint 7 exactly where Crispin expected. From here it was a manic descent on a narrow trod to the end. The wind in his sails, the nimble youngster skipped on ahead as I yelped and hopped in his wake, cursing the pain in my groin and feet (8 blisters and two departing toe-nails) with every step.

Miraculously we had held our second place, even managing to take a minute or two out of the leaders. It transpired that not only did they both have fell-shoes, but they also train regularly, which, I'm sure you'll agree, is rather against the Corinthian spirit of the whole thing!

It was, despite my hideous lack of preparation, the most enjoyable MM I have done It scares me to contemplate what Crispin could do with a partner who could navigate and run. Even one of the two would be a vast improvement!

I can only find one photo. Beer is evident, and the coffin is almost out of shot lower-right (it was pressed into service again the following year, and there's a better photo - it hadn't got any larger).

Five hardy souls braved balmy sunshine and a gentle breeze on Saturday April 28th to tackle the Erskine Bridge Cross, an annual Christian Aid charity event. The course was similar in many respects to Manny’s notorious 12-Trig Trog, apart from the heather and the peat… and the mud, bogs, forestry and hills. Er – and the bracken and gorse and burns and grass.

In fact it was a 3-hour trudge across the Erskine Bridge and back, and back again, and back agai… you get the picture. The idea was to complete as many 1.25 mile crossings as possible within the 3 hours (although the somewhat lenient time-keeping allowed Crispin to collect his final stamp after 3 hours and 10 minutes!).

Despite the lack of imagination involved in the course design, the event was made interesting by the support and smart-arsed comments from the throngs of walkers – several hundred in all, and by the guy with the microphone reminding the assembled multitude that a world-record holder was in their midst every time Charlie lumbered past.

The views from the top of the bridge were surprisingly lovely, the water glistening hundreds of feet below in the sun. Wonderful air-clarity allowed occasional glimpses as far west as Nova Scotia, and to the east one could almost see Bishopriggs.

Apart from pit-stops (Crispin with his bowels and Charlie with his hair), all five ran strongly for the full three hours, except Archie who stuck to his word and pulled up after two hours and spent the last hour frightening small children and completing a couple of crossings at a pace befitting a man of his advanced years. The deceptive hill that had to be tackled in both directions was a real bugger, and all five Westies reported a marked slackening in pace in the last hour as the heat, the unrelenting pounding of the road and the cruel absence of the promised cakes took their toll.

Final tallies were as follows:

Damon 20 crossings 25 miles

Crispin 20 crossings 25 miles

Charlie 18 crossings 22.5 miles

John D 16 crossings 20 miles

Archie 14 crossings 17.5 miles

Dave Calder bottled out, recording a humiliating zero crossings and zero miles, then hastily decided that the event would not, after all, count in the Winter League

Mark my words – that Crispin lad will go places. [Wales wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I wrote this!]

I somehow managed to talk him into accompanying me to Northern Ireland for a crack at the Belfast Marathon, only a week after our combined exertions on the Erskine Bridge [see this article]. How many runners, let alone hill runners, would see the allure in taking on a road marathon at two days’ notice, a week after a similar distance on the road, especially when the intervening week has been characterised by rotten guts and nights perched on the porcelain?

We travelled on the Sunday evening, Crispin popping immodium and Rennies like smarties, and awoke to blue skies and a steadily rising temperatures on race-day.

The race blurb boasted of a 6000-strong field. 5,000 of these turned out to be participants in the 5-leg relay, run over the same course at the same time as the individual race. This made for an interesting and confusing run, as we had very little idea of where we were in the field as fresh relay runners kept skipping past.

A brace of Kenyans had been drafted in for the event, and duly ran away from the rest of the individuals and all-but two of the relay teams. Further back I set off faster than I’d planned (no surprise there, then) and soon commenced a battle with my irksome bowels that would dominate the middle section of my race. A quick dive for the bushes (posh suburban garden) at 7 miles cost me a minute or so, but I was straight back into 6:10 miling with no ill-effects. 10 miles passed in 62 minutes.

A second whirlwind pit-stop (building site) at 12 miles cost me another minute or two, and 15 miles and my first jelly-baby point trotted by in 1:34. Thereafter stomach-cramps assailed me and I slowed gradually and miserably until a 7:20 22nd mile. Another handful of jelly-babies and a dramatic improvement and guts and spirits returned me to cruising speed, and I happily bagged 4 places in the last three miles to finish 10 seconds shy of my target in 2:50:10.

A few minutes back, Crispin ran a disgracefully conservative race, bouncing unruffled through half way in 1:29 and speeding up for a 1:27 second half and a final clocking of 2:56. Judging by his ridiculously fast last few hundred metres and his look of utter composure at the end, he could knock lumps off this whenever he wants. He ran exactly to plan (I hate bastards who can do that!) and trotted bemused through the latter miles, waiting in vain for the expected ‘wall’.

I joined Crispin as a last minute replacement for Damon Rodwell in the Scafell Class. We failed to match Damon and Crispin’s usual high standard of finishing 2nd, but managed a 3rd place despite a few dithery moments trying to find checkpoints. The 4th team very nearly caught us in a mad dash for the penultimate checkpoint, but we did just enough to hold them off.

The routes started at Gatesgarth farm by Buttermere and crossed the Ennerdale hills for a mid-way camp in Wasdale next to Joss Naylor’s farm at Greendale, before returning back across Ennerdale on Sunday.

A strange feeling of deja vu surrounded this year’s Saunders Lakeland Mountain Marathon, based around Coniston on July 3rd and 4th. Once again, Crispin and I had teamed up at the last minute (the Friday afternoon!). Once again Manny had pulled out with a bruised pinky or some-such. I’d intended to run with Chris Upson, and Crawford was hanging around in the wings as a substitute for Manny. When Chris pulled out with gut-rot on Friday morning, it appeared that fate had once again thrust Crispin and me together. Like last year, when I’d started completely untrained, I ran like a complete donkey on the first day and had absolutely no navigational input, and recovered slightly on the second day.

By way of contrast, this year I had actually done a little running in the months leading up to the event, and even a couple of races. My awful performance on day 1 therefore came as a nasty surprise, but my transformation on day 2 was startling, and thus unhindered, Crispin steered us to three fastest legs out of the day’s seven.

The weather on the Saturday was absolutely atrocious. Clouds were swirling around Conistion’s roof-tops and on the open hill we were continually battered by hail, rain and a blustery wind that made picking our way through the treacherously slippery boulder-fields very tricky indeed. We had no knowledge of these hills at all, and marking our maps up at the start we were struck both by the length of the course (two hours longer than last year, it turned out) and difficulty of the route-choices.

Perhaps this lack of local knowledge was largely responsible for a couple of navigational howlers that saw us finish the day in fourth place, over 40 minutes adrift of the leaders, but within striking distance of the teams in 2nd and 3rd spots. At one point we lost the best part of half-an-hour trying to cross the River Esk in spate, eventually hacking uphill through waist-high bracken for a couple of miles to the point where we should have been in the first place.

The weather cleared to some extent around lunchtime, but by now we were both pretty shagged and the relentless boulder-hopping and bracken-bashing sapped our morale as much as it did our legs. We reckoned that, with the exception of the lovely fast mile-long run to the overnight camp, there hadn’t been more than a couple of hundred metres unbroken running in the whole day of almost eight hours. Chris was waiting at the finish, having miraculously recovered from his cholera and driven down for the Pike o Bliscoe race. Having perused our map and told us how stupid our route-choices had been, he set off for a hot shower in Penrith – bastard! The instant we had the tent pitched, Crispin retired to his sleeping-bag, from which he was only coaxed out after some hours by the promise of a pint in the Old Dungeon Ghyll just a few hundred meters away.

Day 2 dawned a bit brighter, although we’d had a fair bit of rain in the night, and another flurry just as we were packing up. We made full use of the half-hour route-planning before the whistle, and managed to miss the start, watching hundreds of teams snaking up the first climb while we were still shoving things desperately into our packs. Picking our way through all these stragglers probably cost us a couple of minutes, but this was offset by the adrenalin-rush and frustration. By the top of the first ascent we had passed all but two pairs and a handful of individuals, whom we worked through on the long contour to the second checkpoint.

In contrast to the previous day, I was now running slightly more strongly than Crispin, which gave me the chance to share the navigation. I’m woefully slow at this, and need to stop and think about the map, while Crispin can do it in full flight. The cerebral aspect certainly added to my enjoyment, and I think it may have reduced the burden on my long-suffering companion a little. At least I hope it did!

Sunday was generally much, much more runnable than Saturday, and this combined with the benefit of the half-hour’s route planning seemed to favour us. We fairly romped through the early legs and at the fourth checkpoint were neck and neck with Saturday’s leaders. Fatigue found us, however, and we slowed over the second half. One bit of pretty crap navigation lost us 10 minutes, but this apart we had a very good day and a cracking last two legs on very fast terrain saw us overhaul both the teams we’d had in our sights to repeat last-year’s second place.

The horrible weather and the unusually long first day (which the organiser later acknowledged) led to a very high attrition rate. As far as we could make out, only eight of the 17 or 18 teams that started the elite pairs’ class completed the first day, and at least one of these failed to make the finish. By the time we left for home, almost four hours after finishing, only five teams in our category had been posted on the board.

Interestingly, for second place last year we received a crappy little bronze medal. This year it was an equally crappy gold one. Hopefully we can complete the set next year, although what position we need to aim at for a silver is anyone’s guess...

I can add these photos:-

3 Peaks (too many in my opinion)

Still no word of Gordon R… hope you finished all right.

But seriously now, the Three Peaks race, Sunday 28th April 2002, was a strenuous day out in less than ideal conditions, and a busy day for the St Johns Ambulance folk. I had dashed straight into the first aid tent at the finish (only to avoid the kit check you understand – no hat being a disqualifying offence), and I can heartily recommend it as a return to the womb. No sooner was I in the door than I was coddled and reclining in blankets, fed sweet tea, massaged, informed that my temperature was only 35 degrees, amused by watching other fragged runners taking oxygen and grinning as stupidly as I was, told my shoulder wasn’t actually broken but would hurt like hell for days (true)…. but then how indescribably horrific to have to leave that heated haven, emerging into the rainy gales again.

The first couple of hours were great – easy running up Pen y Ghent (35 mins) with Gordon, undulating descent to Ribblehead (about 1hr30), then across the river as the weather got really nasty, through the bogs and climbing fast up Whernside. I put my foot in a hole and didn’t know whether I could go on for a few minutes, but my ankle found its strength again and I kept overtaking people as the gale and hail got stronger as we came down Whernside with Ingleborough looking really black and bad ahead. And it was. Really really very bad as you climb gently and relentlessly on a silly little duckboard walk, and I was walking, and a Carnethy lady went past (to win), and the bloke with the big ginger hair from Tring AC. Then the vertical ascent, and I was passed by one of those Steptoe lookalikes from Lancashire. Then delicious descent, and after passing Steptoe I was just starting to remember how to run again, when I took an enormous flier, 30 feet or more I reckon, landing on my shoulder, and really wanted to sit there and blub. Struggled on over the slippy limestone pavements and slime and slippy stiles, finished, first aid tent.

24 miles, 4,500 foot ascent. I think I did about 3hr52 (forgot to stop my watch). Winner Simon Booth, Borrowdale. The bloke in the 120 pound diving suit is just arriving at the first checkpoint as I write.

PS perhaps my legs were compromised by a glorious Westies victory in the Black Mountains Roundabout the previous weekend? This 25 mile 6,500 footer was a bit short on serious competition, as even after missing the start by 5 mins and stopping for a midpoint cup of tea with Naomi, I won by 35 minutes!

Rigby goes supersonic at the Brecon Beacons

‘On yer marks’…

‘get set’……………

133 runners start to shuffle…

‘hang on!!’…

133 runners stumble and start tripping over each other, but some are 20 yards down the road…

133 runners are all thinking ‘What, is this going to be the first ever false start in 3000 years of fell running? We’ll tear him limb from limb…’. The starter sees 133 runners glaring (including Scoffers), and knows he doesn’t stand a chance…

‘Oh, go on then’…and we all embark on the Brecon Beacons race, 19 miles, 4500 feet ascent, and the last British Champs race of the year, with all to play for at the sharp end.

At the blunter end, I was sure this was all going to end in tears – just recovering from 3 weeks of gastric flu, and generally feeling pretty down in the mouth about running. Still, I felt good up the first long climb to Craig Pwllfa, and even better striding out along the ridge towards the central Beacons, and I knew there were cars at halfway in case my wheels fell off.

Mark had stayed with us on friday night, and his top tip was to start eating as early as possible. Now this was music to the ears of a fat bastard, so I was tucking in right from the off. And then my colleague Jon was halfway up Cribyn with jelly babies, banana and drink, so I troughed some more, and nearly let Gavin Bland get away. Jon told me that Mark was in the lead, but being chased by lots of evil-looking skinny beggars, and that I was in 31st place.

What, Gavin Bland? some mistake surely! OK maybe he was having a particularly bad day, but I caught him again at the top of Cribyn and said howdyado, and he kind of looked at me with a look that said ‘jeez now I’m being passed by people I never even seen before from obscure southern welsh clubs’.

At first that banana nearly killed me, wrestling it open while chasing some Newcastle chappy along ‘shrapnel ridge’ – a gradual descent after Corn Du, dead fast but chocky and loose underfoot – I tripped and nearly flew 400m into the Neuadd Reservoir below. But it was all the more yummy for that (though I’m sure Ronnie would disapprove of such performance-enhancing substances), and I soon found that the Newcastle man was none other than Dermot, again a bit of a surprise as I’ve never been within a mile of him in anything. He was feeling a bit shady, so I eased up and we chatted along the old railway track for a couple of miles, then found a great line up Pant y Craigiau passing three or four who got caught in the rough.

Suddenly Talybont reservoir was in sight, shimmering deep blue and distant, and so was Tor y Foel, the final hill, looking a long way away, bigger than I remembered, and suddenly making me wonder what I had left. Softmints!

Dermot had dropped back, then came back at me fast and we were catching folk in droves as we found the good lines through some non-descript hummocks. Dermot had to beat Horwich folk for the team prizes, and we caught two big ones.

Then onto the track, a nasty fast burning blistering 2 miles of track, catching Scoffers and a couple of others, feet burning, Dermot creeping away.

And then the moment of truth – Tor Y Foel, can you run it? Well, maybe half of it, sat on the arse of an Eryri who gasped near the top ‘are you Welsh? are you in the championship?’ and, when I said no, seemed to weep for joy and settle into a plod.

I’ve flown down Tor Y Foel before, but this time it was just too steep, and I busted my toes coming down like a granny with cramp (Mark said he and Simon Booth felt exactly the same), then bursting out onto the Talybont dam for the wobbly sprint to the finish.

And Mark finished 3rd overall, a couple of seconds behind Simon Booth, and a couple of minutes behind Nick Sharp who clipped the old record with 2.28.30. Mark was miles ahead of Robby Bryson and Mark Roberts, and is now the British v40 Champion!

I was around 2.55, about 26th place, not sure yet, but about 20 mins quicker than I hoped for. 1st Lady Sally Newman, around 3.10.

The team stuff was all rather complicated, but I think Ambleside won, with Newcastle dumping Borrowdale into 3rd and taking the Vets prize over Horwich.

It was a great day, a great race, and I’ve almost finished drinking Mark’s prizes.

Good ? – oh yes

Rich ? – plenty of prizes

Fell Race? – not really, but a cheeky 6 miler on tracks with 900 feet of ascent. Forest of Dean, near Symonds Yat.

A slightly longer course than of old (in the days when this was Damon’s stomping ground), had us stumbling through a field for a few hundred frantic metres, tripping over sugar beet and tiny little junior runners. The front three started extremely fast, in fact I never saw them again, so I tucked in behind another pair – grizzled and stringy enough make me feel like I was in a fell race after all.

Then up a sharp climb, over the fence onto the road, and then onto the first of two laps. This started along twisty fast woodland tracks back down to the river, then a long varied climb, where someone kindly called me back from a wrong turning before I’d gone too far, up onto the top a of long ridge (the ‘fell’). Very fast along here and back down a grass track, and I was feeling distinctly shagged as we hit a slight climb – I was seriously considering calling it a day and heading back to the pub. Too many people about, so I took it easy into the beginning of the second lap, letting the grizzlies get a lead on me, and then suddenly felt really stong again as we started to climb, and I left them for dead in the woods. But couldn’t get back to the 3rd chap, who was nearly a minute ahead.

The winner, in the horribly good time of 39 minutes, was the course record holder, a v40 called Billy Nott (I think) from Halesowen.

I was fourth just under 46 mins, winning a frighteningly large bottle of Lidl cider for my pains.

PS Sorry Damon – I couldn’t make it to the Blaisdon Jelly Leg (too much medicine last night), and they said this is its last year.

A beautiful epic Bob Smith Traverse (all six 800m summits of S Wales), in bright sun snow and ice on saturday. 20 miles run, 25 miles bike, with 2635m ascent. Decided and planned late friday evening!

Some bits very difficult, plenty slides and falls, all quite slow. For those with maps (Chris) … Started at the last farm N of Llyn y Fan Fach, over Fan Brycheiniog to road at 854 222, then across the bogs and tussocks to Crai dam 889 219. Coffee, chat and shoe change, onto bike, over to Heol Senni then long climb up to Storey Arms toilets 987 198 for hot rice pudding and coffee. Then up to the three Beacons summits, Duwynt, Corn Du and Pen Y Fan, and down to Cwm Gwdi 023 247, for pizza, via the most dangerous descent ever with huge sheets of sloping ice – sore arse and elbows. The lanes were too icy for my cunning shortcuts, so went down to the Brecon bypass, then via Llanfihangel Talyllyn across to Pengenfford and then Cwmfforest 186 289. Totally shagged, and having to get off to walk up icy steep hills. This is the longest bike ride I’ve done for at least 8 years!

Munching whole nurseries of my little jelly baby friends on the climb up Waun Fach, with deep snow and dead cold feet. Then as the sun started to set behind Mynydd Troed and the Beacons behind me, the snow all started to go orange and pink, the sky deep blue and a big half moon and it all felt great. The athmosphere disturbed only by my mobile phone going – Naomi nipping the ear, and after a 5 minute chat I realised I’d dropped my glove when hauling the phone out of my pocket – 300m back down the hill but too cold to go on without.

From Pen Y Gader Fawr, I couldn’t drop down quickly into Grwyne Fawr (usual BST finish) because Jon my support couldn’t drive all the way round. So I had to retrace my steps back over Waun Fach, and down the steep slopes to Cwmfforest again, almost dark now, plenty big cats about…

Total time 7 hours 35 mins.

Huge thanks to Jon, for agreeing on friday night without any idea what we were going to do, driving 110 miles to all the right places, and cooking the best tinned rice pudding ever.

Lending weight to the 15-20 mile/per week training philosophy advocated recently by Rodwell/Gallagher, I just ripped 5 mins off my marathon PB in Cardiff this morning, after preparation that made last year’s last minute dash to Belfast look like a carefully planned campaign. I wasn’t sure whether to run at all, as mugs full of green gunge have been exploding from my head for a week, but when you’ve forked out £15 there’s really no choice.

We all stayed overnight in a fleapit with broken beds and lethal electics, on a road where the traffic was at its heaviest at 3.30am, and a few metres from the Mardi Gras festival site. So it was a bleary me that lined up at 8am with about 1500 others, on a beautifully crisp and sunny morning.

A strange course really, looping around and around the city then taking a 10 mile out and back, all uphill on the out and down the back. It all seemed like they’d had trouble making up the distance.

Cardiff hasn’t staged a marathon since 1986, and they seemed to have forgotten what the mile markers are for. There were plenty of them, and they were in the right order, but the size of the gaps needed work. My second mile was very respectable at 5.07, but later ones were over 7 minutes. I was aiming for under 3 hours – maybe it was this total confusion that sneaked me through halfway in around 1.26 and over the line in 2.51.

Winning time 2.33 (no Kenyans).

No race T-shirt, but a bottle of moisturiser and a PG Tips monkey instead !?

PS does anyone (else) pee on the move? Any tips?

Just checked the results for Westies….Mark Forrest (have we met?) sorry I didn’t say hi !!

OK I ran the second half with my eyes shut, after passing the pooey man with the brown smeary legs, but I thought I’d spot a big W if there was one. But according to the results, I must have passed you at around 20 miles…

Splits:

Mark

KM10: 0:38:33 KM20: 1:18:26

HALF: 1:22:46 KM30: 1:58:51

KM40: 2:42:11 FINISH: 2:52:19

Crispin

KM10: 0:40:22 KM20: 1:20:40

HALF: 1:25:03 KM30: 2:00:06

KM40: 2:39:03 FINISH: 2:47:11

Anyway, hope you enjoyed it!

I had a horrible knee, after mashing it on a rock at Pen Y Fan previous weekend, and that kept me v slow in first half, until the pain spread over my whole body thus rendering it not quite so worrying.

The power of the marathon to reduce a man to jelly never ceases to amaze me. The moment I crossed the line, I was transformed from a 6.15-miling machine, feeling like I could go for ever, into an hobbling freak. I couldn’t have started running again for anything, even to get away from a conversation about foot-plant technique with Marcus.

And the large bag of groceries they kindly give you doesn’t exactly help – it took me 15 mins to walk 400m to the pub where my ‘supporters’ had gathered (in preference to the actual race route which was a bit drizzly and lager-free).

And now, 3 days on, I can still barely walk – stick to the hills my friends!!

The current bout of excess wind contributed greatly to the jollity of Ffordd y Bryniau, 9 miles, 2000 feet, 82 feet running. Having driven through and around numerous fallen trees, barely able to see the road for stuff, I found the rendezvous completely empty. As the wind was too strong to get the car door open, I cursed for a while, decided it must have been cancelled, then toddled off to see Caerphilly castle. The ridiculous scale of Caerphilly Castle suggests that it was built by a man with a lot of enemies, or perhaps a very small willy, but anyway it was shut because of the wind, and just to support this one of the towers was leaning at a very interesting angle. So I ate a pack of Mr Kipling almond slices and drank a bottle of coke. Then I decided to go for a run anyway, and drove back through the debris to the car park, which of course was now full of cars and runners. I’d forgotten to put my clock back.

Five minutes til the start, and full of bloody cake!

Off we went up Mynydd Rudry, everyone going weeee in the wind and trying to stay on the hill, then we turned full into the teeth at the top, and …stopped. A beautiful sight, about 20 runners all doing a kind of Michael Jackson thing, and those with hoods going backwards at 3 knots. Save yourselves, cut them free, we yelled, but for some it was too late.

We all quickly adopted our own bizarre technique (some crabs, some drunken buffalos) til we were back in the woods and from then on it was plain sailing down every wrong turning possible. I ended up at the back twice, the second time after 4 miles. Only those who’d done the race at least 3 times before stood a chance of finding the route, and one of the guys who did the extra mile with me was never seen again. Not that the organisers seemed to care, when I asked whether anyone might be wanting to look for him. I suppose the dangers of these wee hills are not so great, though there was a fair chance of being eaten by a pit-bull in the valley sections. Anyway, after about 45 mins I was wondering why we were constantly heading into the gale – surely we had to turn back soon, or was the wind changing?

Clawing places back – the industrial estate section suiting my technique perfectly – then onto the ascent of the last hill, and I flew round those hairpins (more road). Then onto the hellish steep hands-in-the-bracken climb, keeping controlled and ready for the final descent where I would certainly fly past those two ahead. Strange, lots of people at the trig point, and some mad bloke sprinting past me and then collapsing at the trig….. err, that was the finish. Oh well, sixth, and only 6 mins behind the winner who knew the route really well.

Still puzzled by the wind direction, I asked if it was far back to the car park. It is 9 miles, we’re now on the Garth, we started at Rudry. Ah, a point-to-point, how amusing [I had only shorts, vest, thin pertex top, no lift, and it was blimmin freezing!].

Prize-giving in the pub, and the first 25 were in for a real treat, for the sponsor (InTech Systems Automation “Do your systems need automating?”) had kindly donated some drink mats – please see below pic*. A strange choice, as the mat claims to be “hand-made in Wales”, but then everything is a bit strange in the Valleys.

1. Tom Gibbs MDC 62mins

2. A.N. Other Les Croupiers

6 C Flower MDC (ouch) 66 mins

10 Emma someone (unattached, but in national team) 68 mins

Team prize MDC

The image (*) has gone astray, but I think I still have that mat somewhere and must add a picture if I can find it, as it was amazing – a kind of drink-mat model of Castell Coch.

3rd youngest comes 4th at Nant Y Moch Skyline.

Last saturday in Wales, 30 lined up to the wild cheering of a couple of local shepherds and set off to traverse the Nant y Moch Skyline (12.5m,3900′)….After about a mile (and tripping one guy up) I found myself in the very unexpected position of leading this happy band through the tussocks. This was fun for a while, because I hadn’t the foggiest where I was going, so I zigzagged randomly around some hillocks hoping someone would pass me and take the strain. But they were all enjoying the slipstream effect from my love-handles, and obstinately followed my wombling. Now I hate being followed, as Damon will vouch, and will do almost anything to avoid this. Usually the only options are to run faster or to take a raving route choice, so I promptly hurled myself into a 100metre bog. This had the desired effect, losing me a good 20 places. Having amounted some serious oxygen debt (what does that actually mean?) getting furiously out of the bog, things were much more interesting as I fought my way through the zimmer frames and support bandages to rejoin the leading pack. The next 10 miles were relaxed, 6 of us navigating the controls, a bit of chat, nice views etc, until the big climb of Plynlimon, when I got left for dead. Recovered at summit, caught one Mercian on long fast traverse, another on final climb, and flew down long rough descent to finish. Could do better if tried harder, as my school reports always said. Nice race, if you’re ever in the leftish middle bit of Wales that weekend. Tomorrow…Cribyn, Welsh Champs, 5miles, 3100feet

1 Stephen P Jones Eryri MV40 2.10.51

2 Andrew Yapp Mercia MS 2.10.55

3 Trefor H Jones Eryri MV 2.12.29

4 Crispin Flower Westerlands MS 2.12.53

5 Andrew Carruthers Halesowen MV40 2.13.38

6 Andy Davies Mercia MS 2.14.13

7 Roger Lamb Mercia MS 2.14.59 etc

1st Lady Angela Brand-Barker

Black Mountains 17m, 5200ft, 27/09/2003

Indeed they were, Pen Carrig Calch looming over the start in the piccy village of Llanbedr, drizzle and cloud hanging low. On the start line it was hard to banish the bad memories of a grim run last year, bonking horribly and getting cuffed by Upson! And this year he’d chickened out of the rematch with excuses about jetlag etc.

Julian Bass stormed the first hill, PenCarrig Calch, stringing us out straight away, and by the top (28 mins) I felt like I’d had me chips already. But then the long run out over Pen Allt Mawr and along the tops got my heart rate below 220 again, though I started getting stitches that kept coming all race.

Tricky decisions about when to drop off the ridge into the Grwyne Fechan (that’s the Feckin Groin in English), but Ifor Powell and I went as far as we could on the tops for a straight line hurtle down, while everyone else took shorter diagonals through steep rough and bracken – maybe we were quicker, though Ifor stopped for a dump so lost a valuable 4 seconds.

I’ve already blanked out the climb of Pen y Gadair Fawr – 400m ascent on bracken and tussock, with 4 false summits. Me third starting the climb, with Andrew Carruthers (last year’s winner) pulling away fast and Julian almost out of site. Then the descent where I took Chris up the garden path last year, this time executed to perfection, easily finding the magic tunnel – the one true path through acres of head high bracken into the Grwyne Fawr (?Big Groin). And I could see the dismay on Andrew’s face when he found me 50m behind him again on the climb up Chwarel y Fan (untranslatable).

Another fast ridge for 2 miles, then down into the woods, avoiding another brambly detour enjoyed by me and Chris last year. Through dark forest past tumbledown farms, hanging onto Andrew but sure he’d get away on the last climb. But maybe he’s only really good on rough stuff, as I found myself catching him. Tried the old psychological warfare as I came up to him, chirpy voice… “do you think we can catch Julian?”…”No” came the grumpy response and I had a 50m lead on him within a minute.

A fast run in from Crug Mawr past Blaen yr Henbant, and I almost did catch Julian in the end, though I never actually saw him.

1. Julian Bass 2.45

2. me 2.46 (15 mins faster than last year!)

only 31 runners, a real shame as v good organisation, great race and generous prizes. Maybe next year Chris??

So I fear I’m going to be a mid-pack shuffler, which sadly means waiting 5 minutes in a queue at every stile in these over-priced yet bizarrely over-subscribed events. I will try to enjoy the occasion, and I will be roaring for Sally to win her first v70 prize!

But… as a fell race organiser myself, of the grass-roots variety, I feel a tiny bit of loathing of this style of commercialised profit-seeking events; please note: £29 to enter. Yes that’s twenty-nine pounds, £29 sterling to participate in a trail race on roads and bridleways adding up to about 9 miles in length.

These races have a marvellous trade-marked strapline that I confess to finding particularly obnoxious:

“Inspiring races in beautiful places” TM!

I’d like to suggest some alternatives:

“What will you be sellin’, to enter at Helvellyn?”

“Fancy going running? Yippee, we saw you coming”

“We make runners poor, yet they still come back for more”

and, if you put on that Ozzy accent,

“Disappointing races, at extortionate prices”

Only kidding, I’m really looking forward to it, and just wishing I could run free again…

I’ve broken the full route into 13 legs with a pair on each leg.  Stewart Bellamy and I are doing three legs - about half the route overall - the first leg from Herbert’s Quarry to the Black Mountain ridge, the main Brecon Beacons hills from Fan Llia to Allt Llwyd (in the dark!), and the last leg along Offa’s Dyke path to Llanthony Priory.

I’ve not been out to the Western end of the route since we last did the Traverse in 2004, and needed to check my estimated timings for this section, so I took advantage of the fantastic weather this weekend to take the family over there and recce the route.

It’s an amazing drive; not long after turning left in Trecastle views of the Black Mountain ridge start to break the skies over the forestry, then reveal their full striking form when you clear the trees to cross the moorland. I wish I’d stopped to take a photo – maybe next time. Then down the wiggly lanes to Twynllanan, on to the A4069, and climb the hairpins to the quarries. The family dropped me off and headed back to Llandeusant and the car parking area below Llyn y Fan Fach, where much fun can be had in the stream.

I’d had a hard run at the Cwmdu Race the day before, so set off very cautiously from the quarry car park in sunshine and a chilly wind. The first summit of Garreg Lywd was reached in 11 minutes, the second (Foel Fraith) in another 12. I love this area – completely deserted, good underfoot, skylarks larking about, limestone, what more could anyone want…

I then took a rubbish line across to Garreg Las, dropping a bit too far South, but there’s not much choice once on the ridge, and it’s a case of picking a line through the limestone boulders ‘til you reach the prehistoric Carnau’r Garreg Las, seen here behind a very sweaty me…

I forgot to take my split time here, in my excitement at tripping over the endless boulders (and beginning to revise my declared love for this area!). But it’s soon back onto the grass as you swoop North and then ENE to cross the swampy ground before the final climb to Bannau Sir Gaer. Here I am halfway to the sky…

and finally reaching the end of the leg in 1 hour and 08 minutes, bang on my estimate for the leg. Here’s a shot from the changeover point looking East along the main escarpment towards Picws Du and Fan Brycheiniog:

I jogged back down the track by Llyn y Fan Fach to meet the others, who were having fun in the stream as predicted (Robin had found a raft fashioned from twigs and string).

I was carrying our “SPOT” live location tracker, which we will be using during the event to show our location in real time. This does work, but there are some disappointing aspects. For example the position is only recorded every ten minutes (and in practice often not even this often), leading to a massively approximated result (there could be nearly two miles between sample points on downhill sections for a runner). The GPS locations are very inaccurate, often up to 100m off the correct location. The embedding script they supply to allow you to show the location map within your own website uses the old deprecated Google Maps v2 API, and seems to have trouble keeping up-to-date with the readings on the SPOT server. It just feel like it all needs a little work to bring it up to date, but overall it’s worthwhile kit to show supporters and participants where we are on the route at all times.

Saunders MM 2012 VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

Naomi and I entered the Saunders “Kirkfell” class this year; Naomi’s first MM, and my first really long outing since busting the knee. The forecast was terrifying but in fact we started at Wasdale Head in warm sunshine, and the whole weekend could find nothing worse than a bit of cloud and drizzle.

Here are the course descriptions for anyone who fancies tracing the route… this being the information competitors are given at the start of each day.

Day 1

Theoretical straight line distance 23.1 Km

Minimum possible ascent 1395 m

Start 181 104

1. 182 109 Reentrant, Southeastmost
2. 214 110 Gully 675m
3. 216 090 Stream Junction
4. 207 077 Stream Bend, Southeastmost
5. 199 047 Sheepfold
6. 144 033 Gully Bend 225m
7. 119 060 Wall Bend
8. 090 076 Finish Day 1

Day 2

Theoretical straight line distance 19.2 Km

Minimum possible ascent 1025 m

Start 090 076

1. 097 097 Stream Bend
2. 108 096 Stream Junction 12:30
3. 138 065 2m Cairn
4. 159 088 Small Tarn, Southwest End
5. 159 102 Tarn, South Side East End
6. 168 117 Wind Gap Col
7. 186 118 Knoll, North Side
8. 177 105 Sheepfold (boulder)
9. 186 088 Finish

We started up Black Sail Pass after an easy first CP, then ESE to traverse the North side of Great Gable below Windy Gap to checkpoint 2 on the N side of Green Gable.

Over GG and part way down Aaron Slack, cutting across to Styhead.

Down into Lingmell Beck to CP3, then a steep climb back up to the Corridor Route. This and the next checkpoint were almost identical to ones I had visited in the Scafell class in 2011 with Ben Crowther, although we were moving in the opposite direction this year.

Between Lingmell and Scafell Pike into Lingmell Gill, then round the W of Black Crag to traverse the flank of Scafell to a sheepfold checkpoint between Broad Tongue and Quagrigg Moss. West (through the bogs) up the flank of Illgill Head to nip around the upper section of Little Grain Gill, then contouring around the E side of Whin Rigg at about 460m.

Next was a fast and steep NW descent to the well-concealed checkpoint in the gully. Then down to bridleways through farmland, through Woodhow, Scale Bridge, and Gill farms, including a “moment of uncertainty” at a path junction, as the Harveys maps are not great in enclosed fieldscapes (that was my excuse, anyway).

Across the road and up the track to CP7, then awful bog-and-tussock tromping to mid camp at Scalderskew Farm – a uniquely dreadful stretch that had me wanting to ask for my money back. Naomi found the first day pretty tough, but we made a steady pace and there were some interesting navigation problems. The route choice between CP5 and 6 in particular had me scratching my head for the hour leading up to it.

We finished day 1 in 06:47:39, in 30th place out of 102 starting teams. The weather was kind, and we had no rain and very few midges while we brewed up our noodles and chatted with the Chepstow crew.  As in 2011, half our foil containers had ruptured during the run, leaving only two small ones for all the cooking. I might take a proper pot next time as this is a risky strategy for the saving of a few grams. The balloon beds were great as usual, and this time we had balloon pillows too!

Day 2 started up the forestry track to Worm Gill, then ENE then across Cawfell Beck and around the W end of Hause to cross the River Bleng (a lot unfamiliar names). We traversed the SW flanks of Seatallan, then as we approach Greendale Tarn we met Joss Naylor bounding down the misty hill with walking poles and two collies. This section was all a bit of a procession. I’d not experienced this in previous years doing the Scafell class, as that has around only 20-30 teams entered, and I’ve usually been in the chasing start on day 2. We tried to take clever route choices, but there wasn’t much choice to be had really, and were usually others in the same class in sight.

Above Greendale Tarn we descended just NW of Standy Gill to Nether Beck, which was slightly hair-raising on wet ground.

Then we climbed beside Black Beck to CP4, then at last managed to leave the crowds as I took pretty much a straight line routes from there to Scoat Tarn “South Side East End” (other teams went further West to reduce the ascent, but the Harveys map suggested that area was pretty wrinkly so I stuck to the better ground and less distance. To be honest I don’t think it made much difference, as we met a team at Scoat Tarn who we had been with previously.

Then we climbed steeply to the saddle between Red Pike and Little Scoat, then followed the path to Wind Gap in cloud. There was quite a bit of staggering around boulder fields here, and cutting across the South side of Pillar was also hard going. But from there is was fast running down to the final checkpoint on the N side of Looking Stead, with the finish in sight.

We dropped directly down onto the Black Sail pass path, leaving it at Gatherstone Head to go for our final sheepfold. By now Naomi was running more strongly than at any time over the two days, and our last mile and a bit to the finish was pretty good.

It was great to sit in the freezing stream at the finish, before the final endurance test of undercooked bean stew.

We finished day 2 in 04:43:15, 25th on the day and 28th overall. We were 11th mixed pair out of about 30, so all in all pretty good going. For me it was a very different event from being at the sharp end in the Scafell class, but it was great to do it with Naomi and to get round without any navigational howlers.

Will we be there next year…? Watch this space.

The entry list for Kirkfell features 36 mixed teams, one being us of course – stiff competition.  Most appear to be husband and wife pairs – I bet divorce rates shoot up in July.

We’ve done a couple of training sessions together, the first in disgusting weather in the bogs and tussocks around Fen Nedd and Fan Gihirych. That was pretty dispiriting as we got very cold and wet, and had to miss out a couple of our checkpoints to get home when promised.

The second session (last weekend) was much better, with 7 checkpoints negotiated successfully around the eastern end of the Brecon Beacons range; perhaps 10 miles in all, taking about 3 hours, which is what I was expecting. Naomi had run in the winning ladies relay team at Man v Horse the day before!

My knee is holding up so far – a bit achy afterwards, but fine a couple of days later.

We are now starting to sort out kit, food and general logistics, speculating about where the course may take us, and kind of looking forward to it.

I’ve spotted that they have the logo of the Wasdale MRT on the web site, but not the Cockermouth or Keswick teams… could this mean we are sticking to the Wasdale and Eskdale areas?