Last one standing

The great thing about still being able to potter round courses at my age is that I invariably pick up a pot; not because I run well but because I'm one of only a few still standing.  Masters running is fun and shouldn't be taken too seriously.  I've often come across irate super-vets in their 60's or older complaining because they didn't win an award even though they were the only finisher at that age group.  I like to think that I do my bit for club athletics (results database, website updates etc) but there is no doubt that officials are becoming harder to find as runners want to carry on racing well past their sell-by date.

I've managed to haul my aching limbs around a few races in the last six months following yet another Achilles led absence.  Having dropped Claudie at Southampton Airport at the unearthly hour of 5am one summer's Saturday, I enjoyed the surreal experience of running a Parkrun on Greenham Common; I then did my first road race in nearly a year with a heartening performance in the Cricklade 10km before, dangerously, racing three times in as many weeks: the Horton Bull Run, a lovely six mile off-roader (see picture); the first mob match of the winter in Richmond Park; and a 10km in Washington DC whilst on a trip to see daughter Natalie who is working across the pond.

In each of the races I was first V55 (usually first V50 too), which only goes to prove the point already made.  Take both 10k's: I ran 38.49 and 38.52 - not bad for an old codger, especially one who eschews any form of speedwork (due aforementioned Achilles) - but pretty sad that I can't even run six minute miles these days.  The Washington race happened to be 30 years to the day since my marathon pb at New York where I averaged 33.50 for each of the 10k's (15.52/16.08 = 32.00 for first 10k was a mite ambitious and explains why I 'didn't get the trip').  Fitness and pace are all relative, of that there is no doubt.

If I can get through the winter without any further mishaps then I'd like to set a few more targets (despite comments above, I feel running is a bit of a life sentence for me for both physical and psychological reasons): going south of 17, 35, 58, 78 and 3 would be good.

Downhill

Unusually, the race exceeded the hyperbole at the recent Great North Run.  What a magnificent contest it was between Bekele, Farah and Gebrselassie up in the north-east, one of the all time epic races.  Raw racing at its competitive best and everybody smiling afterwards, that's how sport should be played out.

The denouement was fascinating and centred on how the two main protagonists handled the steep downhill section just over a mile before the finish: Bekele threw himself down the hill, striding out at full pace and pushing hard, whilst Farah was visibly tensing his thighs and wincing as he tried to stay in control.  The paradox of this being that the guy running faster was actually utilising less energy than the man holding back.  Of course if Mr Farah had signed me up as his coach I could have told him that in advance ...

I learnt a valuable lesson in running downhill when I ran in the Wimbledon '10' in the early 1980's.  The course is a tough one (I think it's still held), being three laps taking in Wimbledon's All England tennis courts as well as the edge of Wimbledon Common at the top of a steep hill.  In one particular year, two miles into the race, I was in a large pack of about a dozen runners contesting, I think, second place (GB international Paul Eales was already clear).  We turned to go down the long steep hill at the end of the first lap; the runners started to coast, dropping their arms, following what had been some hard graft along Parkside on the flat.  This seemed perfectly normal to me, a bit of respite in a hard distance race is always welcome.  One runner had other thoughts though ...

Don Faircloth from Croydon Harriers was a top athlete in his time having won a bronze medal at the Edinburgh Commonwealth Games Marathon in 1970, running 2.12.  He was by now in his late 30's but still a canny racer.  Instead of coasting, Don kicked hard down the hill - just as Bekele did at the GNR last week - catching us all by surprise.  I decided to go with him; at first it felt very uncomfortable, being difficult to overstride, punch the arms and work hard down the hill, but running alongside Don I soon got used to it.  At the bottom of the hill we turned left along by the tennis courts, I looked behind and there was no-one there.  We'd broken the pack and taken some 30 metres out of them.  We did the same on the next lap and were fully clear of all opposition.  My young legs managed to get the better of Don's ageing pins near the end of the race (see photo, guy in distance was lapped), which netted me a pb of 51.00, a time I never bettered despite the severity of the course (in truth I hardly ran another competitive 10 miler).  We had a great chat after the run; Don told me that it never ceased to amaze him how runners, even the very best, ease off down hills just when they have everything in their favour: the ability to stride out with gravity helping and without over-expending energy, which can then be utilised to kick again along the ensuing flat section of a course (i.e. the corollary of kicking off the top of a hard hill climb).

Lesson learnt by Mo hopefully.

Footnote: as well as using this in races, it's also sensible in training because it gives legs the opportunity to run faster than they could otherwise manage (especially true for old gits like me who can't muster up a sprint on the flat if I tried).

Contrary dairy

Yes, still alive just about.  At least I think that's what my Garmin would tell me if I had one.  It has been an interesting couple of months since I last posted, not least because of an important discovery.

It seems that I have more in common with Paula Radcliffe than previously thought: as well as a lousy running style, we share the same best time for the New York City Marathon (2.23.12, for which she won about half a million dollars in 2004 and I collected a finishers medal in 1983, not that I'm bitter); we have both been involved in three World Half Marathon Championships - she won three, I coached an athlete who ran in three; and now, it seems, we share the frustration of living with a dairy, or lactose, intolerance ...

Whilst refraining from giving all the gory details of this unfortunate ailment, some indication needs to be portrayed to understand the ramifications of this intolerance.  Over the years I've always had problems with 'gut-rot' especially when running in the evenings.  I've experimented by eating more, eating less, eating at different times and different foods, all to no avail.  Many years ago I accepted that my constitution was such that I'd have to live with the problem, one that is not unusual amongst runners, a fact that helped me tolerate my affliction.

In recent years my issues have become markedly more apparent: once in Venice with Bill Leggate after Wendy's World Half, I ate an ice cream and within 20 minutes was in desperate straights ... eventually I had to dash into a café and straight to the toilet - thankfully vacant - for immediate relief.  I didn't leave a tip but felt sorry for the next incumbent.  There have also been other times, particularly after eating out, when the ramifications of going for a creamy dessert manifested themselves within minutes, sometimes creating very awkward situations.

I've generally cut out creamy products since these escapades but to be brutally frank my stools have remained 'loose' in the extreme.  About a month ago I decided to cut out milk - I liked a bowl of cereal in the morning - and the positive impact was virtually instantaneous.  I've tried lactose-free milk and soya milk, both work well but I prefer the latter on the occasional bowl of cereal.  I still need to adapt my diet accordingly so that I am able to replace the goodness in minerals and vitamins produced in particular by milk, but that will come with time.  In the meantime I am much more comfortable and confident walking about town ... I've had some really difficult experiences that cannot be written down here.  The relief is, quite literally, palpable!

Recent times have really wearied my body, there's not much left to suffer and I'm only 56.  Oh the joys of running being good for your health!  In the last five years I've suffered ailments to most of my body:

shoulder, neck, hip (all probably arthritis), hamstrings,
adductor, abdomen, Achilles (x2), heart palpitations, MS leg spasms
and that's before we venture above the neck ...

Whilst nothing compared to what some poor souls go through, that's enough problems for a runner to know when his time is probably up!  No doubt the next issue will be RSI after pounding out all this nonsense on the keyboard.

Oh for the days when running seemed so easy (pic: Ranelagh ½ 1984)

The beauty of our sport seen from a different angle

Running, by its very nature, is an insular sport.  There is no passing of the ball to a teammate; calling your partner for a run; tackling your opponent; or reacting to a volley from across the net.  Just you and the distance to cover as fast as possible and ahead of as many as feasible.  This insularity means that although we chat about each others performances over tea and a bun, or a pint, we are really only interested in our own result and next race.  Being injured and old (maybe even wise now) I've been able to see the sport from a different aspect in recent times.  I've watched races; cajoled willing athletes to train hard, both on Tuesday nights through the winter on the Chesterton circuit and the odd Saturday on the Royal Agricultural College's manicured lawns; helped a few people with some sage advice; and even written some bits & bobs for Cirencester's website and Facebook pages and for Ranelagh (readers, await my piece on how running has changed over 25 years, it will be published soon ...).


Today was a classic example: with Claudie away in France for a week visiting her mother, I had some spare time so offered to support Ed Morris in his annual attempt at the Marlborough Downs Challenge, a 33 miler taking in some fabulous countryside, including the Ridgeway, Tan Hill Way, the famous White Horse, Kennet & Avon canal, Devizes, Avebury's ancient stone circle, and the venerable Marlborough College.  I thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  I first saw the athletes come through after just a couple of miles, by which time they were already well spread out: as well as Ed running with his brother, down from Yorkshire, at this stage, Cirencester fielded Andy Hindson, Rupert Chesmore and the evergreen Liza Darroch ("I just hope I don't get lost" she uttered to me), seen here running up through a bluebell wood.  For me it was an exercise of logistics not of running - at the same time I had a real desire to be out there running in the beautiful surroundings whilst also knowing that I didn't envy what lay ahead - as well as numerous big climbs the early morning sunshine was forecast to turn into squally showers on an already windy day.

Apart from a few strategic arrows, the course is not marked so the onus is on the runner to navigate around (there are nine checkpoints, so no short cuts).  Despite not running in the race and having plenty of time to study my OS map, Wrighty made a navigational error!  I decided to watch the leaders drop down to the canal just north of Devizes, in a village called Horton.  Sure enough I found the village and the bridge on the canal, so parked up, checked my map, filled my pocket with jelly beans and took Ed's water bottle.  It was a mile jog along the canal to the swing bridge where I'd pick up the runners, the idea to be then to run the mile with Ed back to my car.  I waited at the bridge for the three leaders coming through after about 13 miles, they ran over the bridge and turned right along the towpath - I'd run from the path going in the opposite direction!  Had the leaders gone off course?  I almost signalled for them to turn left but thought better of it - good decision Wrighty as I'd picked the wrong bridge, there are two in Horton!

I didn't want to get involved in any traffic in Devizes, so whilst the leaders negotiated that stretch before the long haul home, I took the opportunity to find another excellent spot to watch the others coming through at 12 miles.  Thence to Avebury by car before turning back along the A4, parking up and walking a good couple of miles back up towards the monument atop Cherhill Down.  Eventually the lead runners could be seen as dots on the horizon: despite being 23 miles into the race there were still three runners within a couple of hundred metres, although it appeared that one had gone off course whilst in the lead.  Soon enough Ed appeared over the hill, smiled for the camera (see shot) and we ran together for a couple of miles, his metronomic pace helping him to pick up one runner and close in on another.  I saw him once more with just a couple of weary miles to go - a few jelly beans passed between us - before I departed desperate for the mundane need of fuel for my car, what a metaphor for what I'd seen today compared to the lives we lead.

Bobbing head & Iron Lady

So it appears that the great Paula Radcliffe's (PR) racing days might be over.  It's always sad when such an iconic figure bows out; especially so when the timing isn't all it should be because of injury.  PR's career was pretty special, winning World Championships on the track, road and cross country; competing in five Olympic Games (with a best of 4th); European and Commonwealth gold medals and records; plus sundry world records on the road, the stand out performance being her amazing 2:15:25 at London 10 years ago on 13 April 2003.

Sadly, of course, she'll be remembered for all the wrong reasons.  The Athens Olympic Games of 2004 was the start of the vilification of PR after she dropped out of the marathon.  The gold medal had been virtually hung around her neck before she started the race, such was her domination of the sport at that time, but an injury just before the Games, together with her reaction in her stomach - the runners nightmare - to the anti-inflammatories and the intense heat of the Greek summer, all contributed to her not finishing.  She got a hammering from the press and public, most unfairly in my view, and in many ways was never quite the same again.

An incident in 2001 tells us a lot about PR and helps to show what went wrong in recent years.  Straight after finishing 4th in the Edmonton Commonwealth Games 10,000, missing a medal by less than a second, she and her husband Gary Lough, a top athlete himself, had a raging argument on the track in front of the whole crowd and millions watching on tv.  He wasn't happy with the way she ran her race, having effectively ignored what had been discussed in advance and paid the price.  PR was stubborn ...

This might seem a bit radical but in many ways PR became the sporting equivalent of the late Maggie Thatcher in politics.  They both ended up being more important than those around them and thus decided to do everything in their own blinkered way ... with disastrous consequences.  On the face of it distance running is not a complicated sport, it's not rocket science as someone once put to me.  Granted, that is true in many ways - although in that case why are there so few decent runners around these days compared to the past - but at the highest levels just slight adjustments can make all the difference.  The job of a good coach / mentor is to monitor this balance, it can't be done by the blinkered & driven individual who can't see the wood for the trees.

One example to finish: last summer before the Olympics (and before she'd withdrawn from the British team), PR ran in a money-making half marathon handicap race in Vienna against Haile Gebrselassie - she started about seven minutes ahead of him, based on their pb's - her only race in 2012, a crazy decision made even worse by the fact that she was still on antibiotics following an infection.  Somebody in her team or UK Athletics should have told her not to run but she did and suffered accordingly.  That was the story of her career for most of the last few years.

Rarer almost than a hen's tooth

When I first joined Ranelagh in the mid 1970's - I was, of course, very young at the time - I found it hard to understand why we raced against Orion Harriers every season in a mob match.  The races were so one-sided, in our favour, that it felt like the All Blacks up against Nether Wallop's extra 'C' team.  It didn't matter so much for our biannual home fixture in Richmond Park but in the days before the M25 was built, it was a real trek across London on a Saturday, via such salubrious spots as Leytonstone, to reach Epping Forest and then find it was a no-contest as Ranelagh invariably had the first 10 finishers home.  (This was on the basis that said 10 runners had managed to stay on the course, never easy when it was marked by bio-degradable orange paper in the midst of the forest's autumn fall; one year the top six all arrived at the finish from different directions).  The one saving grace to me at the time was the always enjoyable supper in the evening washed down with beer, risible jokes and singing.

The fortunes of running clubs are cyclical however; in recent years Orion have been dominant, not just against Ranelagh but the other mob match clubs as well.  That's the beauty of long standing contests like mob matches.  Take Ranelagh v Blackheath for example ...

In February Ranelagh won on Blackheath's tough course at Hayes in Kent.  Scoring 28 a side we prevailed relatively narrowly thanks, in part, to a great start with nine of the first 11 finishers, led by my fellow Cirencester man Chris Illman, who thus defended the F B Thompson medal as first man home (see picture, I'm on there in the deep and distant past).

There was something special about this win, it was Ranelagh's first on Blackheath's course since 1971.  No, I didn't run that year but Steve Rowland, Ranelagh's current president, ran both races and Alan Hedger, who always attends mob matches, was there having run 42 years ago.  There had been an even bigger celebration in 1971 as that was the first away win since 1922!  Yes, Blackheath have always been the dominant club and still lead the overall series 70-23, the race having started in 1907.  But Ranelagh is slowly turnng this round with an 8-6 lead since 2000, so it could be said that we are doing an Orion on Blackheath.  That's why I run mob matches despite only having one functioning leg.

This picture appeared in Athletics Weekly
the week after the race; my second image in
the magazine in 45 years of running.

Sadness and hope

Sadly the year started with another death of a friend from Ranelagh.  Mike Rowland was a lovely man who shared my love of cricket and running.  We also had something else in common, race walking: when I wasn't good enough for the 1500m team at school, my long legs were drafted into the 1500m race walking event instead and I promptly won the borough and county titles.  I know, most will say that I still race walk given my lack of knee lift - just being efficient folks - and sometimes I wish I'd kept at it because I'm sure there would have been openings at the highest level.  Trouble was that I never really enjoyed it.  Mike drifted into walking after running cross country.  Having run a couple of London Marathons, he then proceeded to race walk them each year, collecting 26 finishers medals for his troubles and leaving plenty of "runners" in his wake.  His daughter has been granted a late place in this year's London in memory of Mike.  He'll be sadly missed.

Despite only running 13 miles in January, I feel a corner has been turned.  Some long standing issues appear to be getting resolved and although my Achilles problem is still and, frankly, always will be with me, I feel mentally fresh and positive.  I'm enjoying taking the Tuesday evening sessions at Cirencester AC - despite the bitter weather - and got a lot of pleasure from watching the club utterly dominate the Oxford League cross country fixture at Swindon Lawns, a technical testing course full of twists & turns, hills and mud. Our ladies embarrassed the opposition with 1st, 2nd & 4th (Wendy Nicholls, Jo Emery & Jane Wassell) in the three to score event; the men also swept to victory led by Chris Illman and Adrian Williams.

Despite a theoretically dry month in January - I had, after all, to try to fend off impending weight gain as a consequence of aforementioned 13 miles - wine and beers did pass my lips.  There were two birthdays to celebrate on the same day, although I spread them out somewhat.  January 20th was the big day with the joint celebrants being my lovely, long suffering, lady wife Claudie and epic Facebook blogger Paul Barlow.

Claudie and Cathie Cowell enjoying

Cirencester Park in mid-winter

I also had a glass or two with Natalie when in London after she'd given me the grand tour of the ITN studios.  It was quite surreal to see and be introduced to a number of reporters and news readers who are normally faces on the screen but here were just like any other office workers going about their daily jobs.

Onwards & upwards!

Basta!

My old running mate Gavin Jones is a sensible chap. A few years back I cajoled the old boy back into the sport after too long in the wilderness; he ended up winning the World Masters V50 marathon title in Sacramento in 2011 and has rewritten all Ranelagh's V50 records.  He even ran a 100km race, on a whim (!), this year "because he'd never done one before and he wanted to know what it was like".

None of the above sounds that sensible but he's now seen the light: Gavin lives in Rome; Basta in Italian means 'enough is enough'.  Over the last few years, the pair of us have been swapping messages about the ravages of time and how our bodies are breaking down.  We've had remarkably similar ailments: Achilles, adductors, abdomen (the good old AAA's).  I keep trying to make comebacks; he's made one and is now packing up his racing shoes for good (or so he says).  As I say, what a sensible chap.

I am not sensible, if I was then Basta would be in my vocabulary by now and I would be on the golf course.  With immense patience - certainly more than Roman Abramovich ever reveals - my training has been built up very carefully over the last 18 months: just small incremental increases in weekly mileage; no speedwork; good warm-up/down with each run; regular stretching and specific exercises etc.  It brought results, with a modicum of race fitness returning, but it couldn't last ...

Despite a prevailing ache in my Achilles, there was a mob match to be run just before Christmas.  I turned up at a very sodden Richmond Park, started very slowly alongside Andy Bickerstaff who was complaining of one of his worrying irregular heart rate episodes - makes my problems banal in the extreme - and started to enjoy the run.  Sadly, Andy called it a day early on (Basta!) but I ploughed on, picking off faster starters despite two weeks of idleness ahead of the race, and without putting in any effort.  My only aim was to get round, time and position were irrelevant.

With less than two miles to go I was cruising along in contemplation of my imminent first pint of London Pride at The Roebuck on Richmond Hill, when suddenly I felt what seemed like a stone had been hurled at the back of my ankle.  My Achilles had 'popped'.  I had no choice but to walk to the finish, or rather limp, stopping at each deep, cold puddle to immerse my ankle in the icy depths.

My fear was a partial rupture, such was the intensity of the initial 'pop' and ensuing pain, but my trusted and experienced physio in Cirencester, Helen Hall, examined me carefully and was convinced that it's only a scar tissue problem that should be sorted by ultrasound, deep massage, Kinesio tape and heel raise work plus some steady exercise bike work to maintain general fitness.  Three weeks down the line, my mileage for 2013 stands at zero but I have completed 150km on my bike, burning off a lot of the Christmas excess.  I'm certainly a lot more comfortable walking around and might even try to jog for five minutes in a week or two.

Next is Blackheath's tough course, can I get round?

And so the process starts again ... 

So who is the sensible one: Gavin or Wrighty?