Alex Halter

I first met Alex Halter at the Moussy Le Neuf ½ Marathon, just north of Paris, in June 1979.  I was running for Spiridon GB, an organisation that supplied good runners (plus me if the real quality wasn't available) to bolster the standard of fields in European races, all expenses paid; Alex had become a friend of the wonderfully eccentric race organiser Yves Seigneuric and brought down a group of runners from his home city of Rotterdam.  After the race there was a magnificent hog roast feast washed down with the local vino, the whole town was involved.  Thus started a friendship that lasted nearly 36 years until I received the devastating news this week that Alex had succumbed to pancreatic cancer.  From diagnosis to death was just 11 weeks - until February he was still running five days a week, oblivious to what was happening to his body.  His funeral was on what would have been his 69th birthday.

Alex and José in 1994

Some memories: later in 1979, at Alex's invitation, I crossed the North Sea from Harwich to Hook van Holland (a journey I was to get to know very well) to run in two races in Holland, a 10 miler (Sep) and a cross country race (Dec) - both with my great Australian buddy, George Thomas (another who died too young), who was working in Amsterdam at the time - and our friendship was underway.  He and his then wife Hilda entertained us royally; their two children Nicole (7) and Tosca (5) were an absolute delight.  The girls are, of course, now into their 40's, in recent years we've often laughed about the great time we had when they were young children.  So strong had our bond become that I went back out to Rotterdam in 1980 to join Alex and his friends in the drive down to Paris (and back) for a repeat effort at Moussy, as well as more partying.  (A crazy journey but remember this was before cheap flights and Eurotunnel and it seemed the sensible thing to do at the time.)

In 1980 Alex invited me to bring out a four man team to compete in the inaugural Barendrecht 100km track relay near Rotterdam.  Not really knowing what to expect we decided to give it a go (aforementioned George plus Steve Rowland and John Pratt joined me).  Unfortunately Steve succumbed quite early to Achilles problems so the three of us struggled on with a mixture of 400, 800, 1200 and 1600's, eventually finishing 2nd in 5h 26m.  It was the start of quite a relationship with the race.  Ranelagh won in each of the next four years in times of 5.01, 4.50, 4.51, 4.46, which if you 'do the math' equates to two hour marathon pace!  We stuck to 400's throughout; in our record breaking year I averaged 68.4 for each of my 62 laps, with our fastest man, Simon Collingridge, a little faster.  The parties after these races were always very special thanks to Alex and his friends, especially in the last two years when some Belgian teams arrived armed with cases of strong beer!

In 1981 it was my turn to return the compliment and invite Alex over to England.  I was still living at home in March 1981 (bought my first flat in Worcester Park a month later for £17k) but my parents kindly offered to put up Alex and a couple of his friends, brothers Jim and Aad Boer.  We all ran the first London Marathon in the rain, a great experience, and partied into the night with Ranelagh friends (and my parents).  Just a couple of months later I stayed at Alex's when running the Rotterdam Marathon in a downpour (11th in 2.29, having been sick in the night before, chez Alex) won by John Graham in 2.09.

In subsequent years our paths crossed on a regular basis.  I ran numerous races in Holland - the Papendrecht 15km being a favourite - and Alex plus his lovely new wife José came over to run and holiday in England (the last time being the Cirencester 10km just a couple of years ago).  Thanks to mutual friends Henryk Paskal and J Pinto, both of whom we met at Moussy, we were invited to races in Poland and Portugal; Alex then joined me in both New York and Barbados for our Sweat Shop tours.  Somewhere I have a lovely photograph of Alex, myself and a good French friend Auguste Lespinas running on the beach in Barbados in our Ranelagh singlets.  Tragically both Alex and Auguste, a top ultra-marathoner, have now succumbed to pancreatic cancer in their 60's despite being running fit and generally healthy.  It can be a cruel world.

Alex with the author and Natalie in 1994

Alex came to our wedding in 1984 (another attendee, Steve Rowland, dragged him off to do the East London ½ Marathon the next day nursing quite a hangover), where he met my godfather, Ian Beers (sadly no longer with us), a French Horn player in the Royal Philharmonic orchestra, who had Dutch ancestry.  He also got on really well with all my family, not least my father (also, alas, departed), a fellow chef.  One of the reasons Alex loved coming over to England was to sample dad's roast lamb.

When I was coaching in the noughties, Alex helped out by finding, through his contacts, some quality races in Holland for my charges: Wendy Nicholls (with Justin [who could forget the Goth bar evening?] and Poppy in tow) twice ran the Papendrecht 15km, losing out only to Kenyans, and also ran the infamous Rotterdam Marathon in a heatwave - the race was cancelled because of conditions after 3½ hours - where she finished an impressive 9th and first non-African; whilst Michelle Ross-Cope bookended her team bronze medal at the marathon at the European Championships in Barcelona by twice winning the highly competitive Schrool 10km in north Holland.

An example of the true character of the man: my mother, now 91, has lived in a nursing home for the last 15 years since dad died - she's got MS and is wheelchair bound - and casually mentioned to Alex when he visited her a few years ago that she put any postcards she received onto a small noticeboard in her room.  Alex said that he'd send her a card on one of his running trips (in recent years he worked with a Dutch operator that takes runners to all the major races in the world).  Not only did he keep his promise but he continued to send postcards from wherever he was in the world, about half a dozen a year, which delighted mum.  What a man.

Alex had a major influence on my life in general and running in particular; I was privileged to have known him and the lovely José.  His loss is so sad and will impact on me for a long time to come.

Life sentence

Short termism is rife in society in general (think politics for example) and, from the perspective of Wrighty's Running blogs, running in particular.  As I'm sure I've groaned on about in previous posts, today's athletes don't appear to take the long-term view; it's all about a quick fix, getting ready for the next race, rather than structured planning going forward.  However, this particular posting has nothing to do with this vexing subject but is about the long term.

As far as I can work out, I have life membership of two organisations.  Out of choice - and cost-effectiveness - I took out life membership of Raynes Park Old Boys Association, my alma mater, although now re-named Former Pupils Society as the school now accepts girls(!); I am also a lifer with the Sunday Times Wine Club, taken out following a bribe of extra bottles of wine if I signed up (I was already a member).

My debut for Cirencester in 1990

To these two august organisations can now be added a third.  I recently received an e-mail from my local running club, Cirencester AC, with a receipt for my annual subscription.  I found this rather odd as I don't have a standing order set-up and I hadn't paid (always was slow!).  Upon closer reading I noticed that the receipt was for £0.00.  A second e-mail followed almost immediately: because I've been a member for 25 years I automatically become a life member and don't pay subs.  (Quite how that impacts on the levy payable to English Athletics I'm not sure.)  Woop, woop, how exciting, my running is now 'free'.  Such is the state of my fitness and health it's hard to call it running these days but I persevere.

There's an irony to this life membership at Cirencester.  I feel that I'm still an outsider and a newcomer to the club - having joined when I moved to Glos. from London in 1990 - because I first joined a running club back in 1974, yes 41 years ago, and am still a member of Ranelagh Harriers.  I think I might be a vice-president but I'm not a life member.  Thus I'm still paying out subs for my 41 year-old club but not my baby 25 year-old.  I'm not bitter, Ranelagh is far bigger and has been going for 135 years; Cirencester was born out of the 80's running boom and is only 30 years old.

Still, Old Boys, Wine and Running should all keep me happy in my old age. 

Grand Slam

Surveying the mass of black vests circling the lumpy field opposite Sparrow's Den near Hayes, Kent I shared Phil Killingley's fear that this was too much to ask.  Not only was Ranelagh trying to win an unprecedented mob match grand slam, four victories in a season, but attempting to do it in the tougher year, with away fixtures at Orion and Blackheath Harriers, the two historically strongest clubs.  Still, thanks to captain Phil's phenomenal efforts a large mob had made it over to Blackheath's superb clubhouse on a Sunday morning, unheard of in mob match history - Blackheath have decided that they get a larger turnout on Sundays, presumably the result of the parkrun effect - although it made my journey easier despite having to leave Cirencester early.

From the start line announcements before the two club crys that rang out along the valley, it appeared that Ranelagh outnumbered Blackheath slightly, both clubs impressively turning out over 60 runners, but was the mix sufficient to get enough near the front to get the scoreboard rolling so to speak?  On that initial 800m circuit it didn't look good: second claimer Jon Pepper was already stretching away for Ranelagh but then it was a mass of black vests chasing him down.  (Phil later stated that his heart sank when he saw the initial position profile.)

For those of us in the 'engine room', the domestiques in cycling parlance, all we could do was get our blue vests ahead of as many black ones then let the maths happen.  For me that was difficult: after 40 years of mobs I knew the course but as well as being fearful of my ability to keep going on what is without doubt the toughest course on the circuit, I also had the advantage of knowing about the bottleneck created by a stile after just half a mile, so I started 'fast' purely to avoid a queue.  This worked well and with a modicum of fitness built up from regular easy lunchtime running for a few weeks despite ongoing pain in my hip from my Piriformis Syndrome, I was able to retain my position for the first few miles.  Once the brutal hills kicked in I knew that I would go backwards but it was just a question of ploughing on through the mud, over the stiles and up & down the steep undulations.

The reception along the finishing straight was something I'd never before experienced at a mob: all the Ranelagh top finishers were lined up cheering each blue vest approaching; once I'd done my bit I joined in cheering the rest of the team.  It was clearly nip & tuck but there was a big roar when half a dozen Ranelagh runners finished in line.

Phil and the rest of us were still nervous in the tea room awaiting the result.  Eventually the Blackheath President stood up to announce the final score: with some pauses to stretch out the unbearable tension, he eventually gave the news that we craved, a win for Ranelagh and a first ever grand slam in the 134 year history of the club.  What an achievement and well done Phil and his assistants, magnificent.

Phil Killingley with Blackheath President Dick Griffin
and the famous Pelling-Ratcliffe trophy.

In forty years of churning out four mobs a season, I have never experienced the camaraderie pervading the team in the way that it currently exists.  I've finished in every position from 1 to 44 (except 36, must try to engineer that next winter), as well as some more ignominious ones, but my 47th on Hayes Common will always remain my most important contribution to the club in these wonderful old fixtures.

Holy Trinity

There has been some interesting discussion recently on social media about the relative merits of a sub-30 10km against a sub-50 10 mile, which is the harder of the two.  No real conclusion was reached.  Add in a sub-2.20 marathon and you have, perhaps, what could be called the Holy Trinity of real quality running performance indicators.

Sadly, I just missed out on all three: best times, 30.50; 51.00 and 2.23.14.  One conclusion that was reached in the discussion was that beating these times is definitely an indication of a quality athlete rather than just a good club runner, so I have to see myself in the latter category which is something I've always accepted.

There is certainly a connection with these times, other than just being barrier breaking.  If you punch in a 30.00 10k into McMillan's pace chart www.mcmillanrunning.com , the equivalent times come out at 50.09 and 2.20.45.

Could I / should I have done better and joined the top club?  Yes and no is my answer.  At 10k I think I would have struggled to have bettered 30.30 even though I rarely ran the distance in the 80's when at my fittest.  (Five miles was the historical preferred distance.)  I never had the basic speed to run any faster than 4.50 miling.  Five minute miling for 10 miles?  Well, my 51m was done on a hilly course in Wimbledon - three times up Wimbledon Hill from the tennis courts - so there was definitely more time to be sliced off, but again, sustaining sub-5's for that distance was probably always going to be beyond my shuffling running style!

The marathon though is a different matter.  As an endurance based runner the longer distance always suited me, my favourite distance was emphatically 20 miles, which I ran competitively rather than as a build-up to a marathon.  My best marathon of 2.23 was achieved at the age of 26 on the notoriously tough New York course in a torrential downpour; it also involved walking inside the last mile!  I was on 2.20 pace for most of the race but the hills in Central Park just tipped me over the edge.  For various reasons I never ran another competitive marathon although was undoubtedly a lot fitter two years later when I opted in the spring for the famous Finchley '20', which incorporated the Southern Champs, and the Isle of Wight Marathon (incorporating the National Road Runners Club Championship).  I won both but often wonder what may have transpired at London that year where I drove the lead timing vehicle instead!!

So my conclusion is simple, one out of three was attainable but never the Holy Trinity of all three. There is no simple answer to which is the hardest as it really depends on the background of the runner.  I think McMillan has it spot on, they are all equally difficult to achieve.  What I'd love to see is some of today's club runners achieving these targets.  They are very difficult and seemingly out of sight for all but the very best, but they are achievable for the club runner with aspirations and should be seen as a real tangible target.

Then there is the two hour marathon ...

(For what it's worth I think this will happen but it may now take longer than previously thought because of so much current conjecture about how clean the East African runners are.)

The Passage of Time

Athletics Weekly did a piece this week on Steve Jones breaking the world marathon record in Chicago as it is now 30 years since he famously ran 2.08.05.  For reasons that will become apparent this kick-started my memory bank.

Here's a statistic that will be mind blowing to all.  Firstly, bear in mind that it took 15 years for the world record to come down a mere 28 seconds, from Derek Clayton's 2.08.33 in 1969 to Jones' mark. Now digest the fact that in 30 years Jones' 2.08.05 has been beaten 615 times and the world record is now 2.02.57 (Berlin a couple of weeks ago).  Nearly all of these times having been run by either Kenyans (about 90%) or Ethiopians.  To say the event has been hijacked by East Africans is an understatement in the extreme.

The feat of Jones breaking the WR was big news and featured highly on all the main news bulletins in 1984. It was therefore quite an event when a bunch of us from Ranelagh stumbled across him just seven days later.  We had a decent pack of runners in the early 80's and we often used to pick races some distance away for the chance of picking up a team prize and having a few beers.  Thus a bunch of us we trekked down the M4 to run the Swindon Half Marathon.  We arrived at the school registration hall to a buzz of excitement, had our arrival been leaked to the local press, did our reputation go before us?  No, Steve Jones had decided to run the race.

from left at a race in Holland: Collingridge, Wright, Hedger, Pautard

It was a most surreal experience running around the bleak industrial estates of Swindon with the newly-crowned world record holder.  There were six of us in the lead pack for the first few miles before Jones eased away to win in around 66 minutes.  The team race was very exciting as we (Ranelagh Harriers) won by a single point with 3rd (Simon Collingridge), 4th (DW chasing down my flatmate) and 6th (Steve Pautard) ahead of Swindon Harriers (2nd, 5th, 7th).  Jones was running for the RAF; not only did he do the Half just seven days after Chicago but he'd also run a xc race for the RAF in the week.

Commonwealth Games & Piriformis Syndrome

With my piriformis syndrome injury (look it up) and subsequent two broken toes (don't ask) keeping me off the gallops, there was plenty of time to take in the Commonwealth Games on tv.  It has been quite a summer of sport on the box - Test cricket, Tour de France, World Cup, Open Golf - but it's hard to beat the raw nature of competitive athletics, that's if the BBC had deigned to actually show some, rather than dwell on labourious studio chat with inane grinning and ill-informed comment (the magnificent Michael Johnson aside).  Steve Cram was clearly annoyed when not being able to introduce the 800m athletes, even though they were on screen, because gobby Gabby was talking up the 'unbeatable' Rudisha.  (I say again ... ill-informed.)    Whilst on the BBC subject, I switched across to the red button a few times, in the hope of actually seeing some live athletics, only to have to listen to the appalling commentary of Kathryn Merry, who I'd have expected to be far more lucid.

Highlight for me was Shelley's superb pb win in the marathon, leaving a trail of Africans in his wake down the road.  Ever since the late George Thomas took me under his wing back in the 1970's, I have been an advocate of the Australian training methods.  They don't over-complicate things down under but merely decide what best structured weekly training suits the athlete and then stick to it 12 months a year, every year.  Sessions are hard, long runs are long but the other mileage-filling runs are at a very easy pace.  The top runners then prepare for specific races - Shelley shied away from the big city spring marathons this year - and perform at their best when needed.

On the track it was a bit worrying that no Britons won a gold medal (I don't count relays although where did Hudson-Smith appear from on that last stage?) at what is generally not the highest standard, notwithstanding the Jamaican sprinters and Kenyan distance runners.  There were some cracking races, though, with the men's 10,000 and 800 being particularly good to watch.  Where the BBC (not Cram or Johnson) got the idea that Rudisha only had to turn up to win the latter race is beyond me.  Amos had not only thrashed Rudisha in the recent Monaco Diamond League event in an impressive 1.42 and bits but was also only just behind the great man in his world record at the London Olympics (a race I viewed again this week as I watched the fascinating BBC3 documentary on Rudisha).  I was astonished to find out from old chum Rob Wise afterwards that Amos was a ridiculous 6-4 odds to win, money for old rope.

Glasgow seemed to put on a good show overall; the great British public never cease to amaze me with their attendance at sporting events.  In any other country the morning athletics would be sparsely populated with paying spectators, the events after all are just clearing out the dead wood before the main event, particularly in championships such as the CG where the standard drops alarmingly.  Yet each morning the stands were full.

One final thought: in the cycle road race on the last day of the Games, Geraint Thomas had a puncture in the last couple of miles, having opened up a big lead on the last lap.  It took an age for the neutral supplier to fit a new wheel but eventually he got going again and held on to win a thoroughly deserved gold medal.  The silver/bronze medal cyclists closed within 20 seconds or so of him before he got going and I wonder whether they would have let him win had they caught him.  It would have been a wonderful way for the CG to finish and I have a feeling that this may have happened, such is the mutual respect of the cycling fraternity.  Sadly we shall never know.


To finish, a snap from my last race.  I was already struggling with my hip problem but as it was a local race and I wanted to at least use the fitness I'd garnered over recent months before another lay-off, I decided to run, starting slowly and moving through the field.  It went well, especially overtaking Wendy, also taking it easy, after 3km.  My last run for a couple of months.
 



 

Back on the roads

The awards were presented by ascending age groups, eventually the moment came ...

The winner 

"first V55 and overall race winner ..."

there was an audible gasp from the assembled throng as I edged through to collect the trophy, grey hairs flowing in the wind.  Yes, an outright road race victory, my first in 20 years, well past my sell-by date but all the sweeter for that. I'd won the Horton Spring Bull Run, a lovely 4.3 mile race through undulating country lanes near Chipping Sodbury.

Two youngsters went haring off at the start, they told me afterwards that they clocked the first mile in 5.10, which is why I was nowhere near them.  I ambled along in their wake but quite quickly realised that one was quickly coming back to me; once I'd gone past him and got into a good rhythm, it was clear that the leader was also coming back. Sure enough I caught him at two miles, ran straight past him and didn't dare to look back for the rest of the race.  I won by two minutes!

Prior to Horton I ran two hard races on the roads.  Having enjoyed some off-roaders, I wanted to see how my fitness translated into standard distances.  The Maidenhead '10' has been going for 61 years and attracts a good field; this was going to be an excellent test so I decided to go out at a good pace rather that ease into the race and play 'catch-up'.  The plan worked well; it was so good to be in a competitive group early on - albeit a little frightening as I was unsure about whether I could sustain the pace - and the competitive juices flowed.  A final time of 60.54 was far better than anticipated (albeit a long way from the old training run adage of 'if it's an hour it must be 10 miles') and a real boost.

Two weeks later I lined up for the Worcester ½ Marathon at Sixways rugby stadium.  Recovery from Maidenhead hadn't been easy and I felt weary from the outset on a bumpy, rural course.  Apart from struggling on a couple of the hills, I maintained a fairly consistent pace and finished strongly for 6th place overall and another age group victory.  It's sad that a time of 82 minutes can be so high up in such a large field (c 800 finishers) but this old man isn't complaining. 

Where were the bluebells?

To get back into racing mode I thought a couple of off-roaders would set me up nicely.  Thus the last two weekends have involved some of the best countryside this fine land can produce.

Showing a clean pair of heels (literally) to Keith & Ed
at the start.  Gibbet can just be seen.

I last ran the Combe Gibbet to Overton '16' in 1990, yes 24 years ago.  It's a beautiful course taking in the Wayfarers and Test Way plus Watership Down, with some stunning views from the mainly high level tracks before dropping down into the Berkshire village of Overton.  Fellow mavericks Keith Firkin and Ed Morris - both building towards the Marlborough '33' in a few weeks - took the opportunity to join me and both appeared to enjoy it as much as I did despite some muddy conditions in places and an easterly head wind.

I did my usual thing with an easy start that saw me, according to later pictures, about 25th early on. Gradually picked off the faster starters, reaching my final finishing position of 9th by about halfway. Sixteen miles was a bit of a push for me but just when I started to struggle at around 12 miles a lady, to whom I will eternally be grateful, was dispensing jelly babies.  One of those sustained me through to the finish with muddied legs and blood pouring from my knee (no, no idea).  A highly recommended race.

A hundred metres left and both
feet off the ground!

Although it took a few days for my legs to recover - what a pleasure to be suffering from fatigue after a race, its been a long time - I was determined to have a go at the Bluebell 12km at Collingbourne Ducis, south of Marlborough, not least as Claudie is away in France for a week so I had time on my hands.  Good decision.

Heavy overnight rain plus a dose of logging by the Forestry Commission meant that the course was quite demanding, with deep muddied ruts making maintaining balance difficult at times.  It quickly became evident that the standard wasn't high as a threesome pulled away and I eased into fourth after my usual easy start.  I soon picked off the third place man although the top two were well clear at this stage.  By halfway I couldn't see another runner in front or behind, nor could I see any bluebells!  Sadly the wood had been decimated by the logging.  I felt stronger and stronger as the race progressed; I don't remember ever feeling so relaxed in a race.  Having caught a glimpse of the second man up ahead with a couple of miles to go I kicked on and pushed hard but was not quite able to catch him.  A real confidence booster none the less.

This weekend was made even better by hearing that my old running chum Rob Wise, making a comeback after many years away from the sport, cracked 20 minutes at a Parkrun yesterday and that Rachel Barber-Brock, whom I've been giving a little bit of advice recently, ran 3.05 at today's Manchester Marathon, a pb by 14 minutes.

Definitely time for a whisky with Mahler's 3rd thrown in.

The Bard

"In the highly unlikely event of a plane landing on the course during the race, please take evasive action."

Thus spoke the race director at the start of last Saturday's Shakespeare 10km on an old disused airfield near Stratford-upon-Avon.  I've heard some pretty strange things uttered on race start lines over the years, usually by mayors in their robes and chains or Norm Lane on top of a ladder at Bourton, but this was definitely a new one on me.  Apparently the airfield is still registered as such so would come into play in an emergency - I half expected MH370 to make an appearance - although given the numerous potholes around the course any sensible pilot would enschew the offer.

This was certainly a race with a difference, in fact four races in one; all on the start line together: 5km (1 lap), 10km (2), half marathon (4), marathon (8).  Sadly the race numbers didn't differentiate between distances so it was hard to work out who one was racing against.  The 5km 'lap' made life even more interesting consisting as it did of a star-like structure with five 'arms'.  Thus course was, essentially, out & back five times with a u-turn at the tip of each arm.  Of course the wind blew hard, making conditions pretty tough for all on the bleak flat landscape.  But it was fun; second guessing who was running what distance was intriguing and something I got totally wrong.  A negative split gave me a respectable time especially as I'd been laid low once again in the week leading up to the race with the consequences of eating cream cake (lactose intolerance kicked in with a vengeance).

With the race being on a Saturday, it was possible to get out for a decent long Sunday run just like the old days.  It is understandable that most road races have to be on Sundays these days but it does make life difficult for runners.  We were very lucky in years gone by when all races were on Saturdays: a good social with a few pints after the race then a long recovery run on Sunday morning made for the perfect weekend.

Weekends are so key in the training cycle of most runners who work full-time that they need to be utilised as best they can.  When I was at optimum mileage, my training week was set-up by how much I did on the weekend.  Typically it would go something like this:

Saturday: easy morning 5 miler; afternoon 2 mile warm-up, 8 mile race (mob match for example) at tempo pace, starting slowly, easing into the race, then running as I felt, 3 mile warm-down.  (Although I raced most weekends, most events were treated as tempo runs.)

Sunday: morning lsd of around 20 miles; late afternoon 3 mile recovery jog followed by large whisky, the Sunday papers and Rachmaninov's piano concerto blasting out on the stereo.

So, before getting into the working week a good 40 miles had already been ticked off.

Slaughter of the Heathens

Yes, still here.  This rarity, a blog from Wrighty, is dedicated to a Ranelagh chum David Rowe.  Not only does he openly admit to reading my efforts but he has a trigger on his system every time that the blog is updated.  Wow!  DR is a serial blogger himself as well as being an excellent photographer - the two go well together - so I should flag up his site for avid blog spotters: http://rowerunning.co.uk/  His musings from last year's Hawaii Ironman (Kona Diaries) are definitely worth scanning, especially for any others who, in DR's words, 'move across to the dark side of triathlon'.

Including school fixtures, of which there were many, I've been racing in Richmond Park for 45 years now, yet I've never seen it as wet as it was for the last of this season's mob matches against old rivals Blackheath Harriers.  Add in gale force winds, which at least conspired to blow the rain clouds away and avoid further topping-up, and conditions were tough in the extreme.  With a turnout of 75 we well and truly thrashed the Heathens for our first hat-trick of wins against them since 1923.

After another difficult winter for me, not helped by a tooth abscess necessitating root canal work, I was just glad to be able to run round at a half decent pace on the first half of each lap, before the aforementioned winds and puddles, that were more like sink-holes, dictated survival rather than competitive running was the name of the game.  Was pleased to beat Chris Owens for the first time this winter, albeit afterwards the 2013 V60 World Triathlon Champion said that he's currently training hard but doing little running.

My only Wynne Cup victory, unlikely though it seems at this early stage of SLH mob 1982.
Other Ranelagh: Riley, Harvey, Currie, Forrest, Hedger, McLachlan, Wise, Peace
Click on picture for enlarged view.

Ranelagh has had an excellent season: the men finished sixth in the highly competitive Surrey XC League Div 1; the women won promotion back to Div 1 and the club won three out of four mob matches, only losing very narrowly (one runner would have made the difference) to Orion Harriers.  A lot of credit has to go to the new club captain Phil Killingley - an appropriate winner against Blackheath and therefore Ranelagh club champion (the prestigious Wynne Cup) - and his team for instilling a great team spirit.  Not only are numbers turning out to the mobs but there's also an enthusiasm pervading the start line mass and support for fellow runners finishing down the field.  Members are turning out because they want to not because they've been press-ganged into running.  Wonderful to see.


 

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?

Over the edge.

By the very nature of our great sport, dedicated runners always train "on the edge", always striving to gain that little bit extra without putting so much pressure on their bodies that injuries and illness result, thus making that extra effort counter productive in the extreme.  I'm far too old for all that nonsense these days but I'm still striving to get the balance right.  Unfortunately, when you get to my age, having run for over 40 years, the first 20 or so without any science or decent shoes (today's runners would not believe what Tiger Cub shoes were like), it doesn't take much to tip me into the 'dark' side.

At the end of a year that has seen my running improve no end - certainly beyond my dreams 12 months ago after three years of health issues - I have tipped myself over the edge to the extent that my right Achilles has flared up again and that familiar Wrighty hobble has re-emerged.  It all happened at the Eynsham 10k, a race I'd never done before but was keen to compete in as it's up there with Bourton as one of the fastest courses around.

In all my races this year I've started cautiously and gradually moved through the field, much to the annoyance of others, not least because of my shuffling action which kind of 'takes the p*** as I float past far more elegant runners.  This is, however, a very frustrating form of racing because I'm always 'crossing the gap' in cycling parlance, and therefore never really running in the right group at any one time, leading to frustration at the end.  So at Eynsham, with a couple of decent results behind me I went off at a faster pace than usual.  It wasn't a suicidal pace but one that I recognised very early on was probably five seconds per km faster than I would be comfortable with over the full distance.  Sure enough the little group that I was hanging onto started to drift away at about 6km, a difficult 2km ensued but then I settled back into a rhythm and finished strongly for my fastest time of the year, albeit I know there is another minute to come off at my current fitness levels

Felt ok after the race and did my usual couple of miles easy warm-down during which I felt a slight twinge in my Achilles.  Next day I went out for a steady lunchtime run with Adrian as I had the day off work, but I immediately knew things weren't right.  My right Achilles was not happy.  Two weeks later, Kinesio tape on my ankle, pain permanently etched in my mind if I try to run, I realise that at Eynsham by pushing that little bit harder and stressing my legs more than I should have reasonably done, I've put myself back a few months. Not a good end to the year but nobody to blame except me and can't really complain as the year has still gone far better than planned.  Time for a rest.

Mob match course in Richmond Park

Footnote to my mob match article last time.  Talking to a running friend in Cirencester this week who has been injured for a year and is just getting back, a comment he made resonated strongly with me.  He stated that he very nearly gave up and threw in the towel, thankfully he's now back training and will hopefully make a full recovery.  Back in 1987 I was in that position and got so close to giving up: I'd just become a dad; had an annoying running injury; was in a stressful job; and seriously thought I had a serious long term illness (jury still out on that one).  As a consequence I didn't run for six months as I wallowed in self-pity (and enjoyed changing nappies).  I was only 30 but as far as I was concerned running was over for me, the golf course beckoned.  One thing changed that, a mob match loomed on October '87: I thought long and hard, surely there was no way I could even contemplate 7½ miles after my idleness ...  Yet something inside me said 'go on, have a run, what's the worst that could happen?', so I went out a couple of times in the week leading to the race, just for a short jog, felt awful, yet decided on the morning of the race that 'Hell, if I don't run I'll be on the slippery slope and will never recover.'  I ran, it was hell but I got round in 50th place, got a great welcome back, found my enthusiasm and rediscovered this fantastic sport.  That one day was so important to me.

Eulogy to Ranelagh

Well it was a long time coming but last Saturday I churned out my 150th mob match for Ranelagh Harriers, that's 1,125 racing miles on Wimbledon Common, Epping Forest, Farthing Downs, Hayes Common and, of course, Richmond Park.  These traditional races between two clubs started back in the 19th century and I joined the pantheon of participants on 21 December 1974.  Ranelagh's fixture card stated that all members were expected to run in the mob matches - as the name implies it is all about getting as many people out as possible - and I took it rather literally having only missed one (it would have been my 98th consecutive) due to flu, I've not missed one since. (I remember once flying in on the red eye from New York on a Saturday morning and running a mob match that afternoon.)  The biggest field, excluding the centenary races of both Ranelagh & Orion, which were mass mob matches, was against Blackheath in 1988 when 192 toed the line, not bad for two clubs.  Amazingly, a total of 187 turned out in January 1985 to run Blackheath's tough course in deep snow drifts - health & safety wouldn't allow that these days - a race that I managed to win.

I was very kindly presented with an engraved tankard after the race so I took the opportunity of both thanking and eulogising the club with the following note in its regular newsletter:

"I was very touched and surprised with the presentation for my 150th mob match on Saturday.  Thank you so much, it means masses to me.  Difficult to know how to   respond - hence the lack of a speech - but I think the whole thing comes back to Ranelagh Harriers incorporated.  This club has meant so much to me over the past 38 years for which I have to thank, once again, my old chemistry teacher Jim     Forrest (who himself has clocked up 117 mob matches)who persuaded me to run the  mob match against SLH in December 1974 and join this great club.  It really is 

 rather sad that I've been available for 150 Saturday afternoons since then but   in many ways this again reflects so well on the club because the four 'mobs' are the first things that go in the diary when the fixtures secretary publishes the  year ahead every August.

 I remember once, some twenty years ago, an Australian member Geoff Nicholson (he once ran 19.59 for the Thomas Cup course) said he loved the fact that he'd been  back in Australia for a number of years but knew he'd be able to walk into The   Dysart Arms, as it was, and be able to pick up on a conversation with a Ranelagh member that he'd started a few years earlier. Sadly The Dysart is not what it    was, but the clubhouse has usurped this and The Roebuck at the top of the hill 

 replicates the pub atmosphere as I found out this weekend.  Two old members from the 1980's, Dave Muckersie & Rob Wise, ran the mob match, their first time 

 back at the club for some 25 years.  They were welcomed back by those who knew 

 them in such a lovely way, conversations flowed as if they'd never been away.  

 That to me is the ethos of Ranelagh and long may it continue.

 Sadly because I live so far away down deep in the Cotswolds, I don't know a lot  of today's members but that's a good thing because it means the club continues 

 to move forward.  Long standing members are important but the driving force 

 behind the club must be those who are around today.  

 The standard in yesterday's mob match was of the highest order, it was just a 

 shame that Ranelagh couldn't compete at the front with what is an incredibly 

 strong Thames outfit.  It does, however, beg the question that if they can do it why can't we?  Ranelagh has so much going for it, a wonderful clubhouse, vibrant membership, captive marketplace ... I just think a bit of belief, positive 

 thinking and concerted group effort can take the club up to another level.  

 Ranelagh has been closely involved with two major seismic changes to the sport 

 in recent times, namely the London Marathon and Parkrun through Chris Brasher /  John Disley and Paul Sinton-Hewitt, two events that have changed the sport 

 massively.  The club should be incredibly proud of these achievements.  However, for  running to continue to prosper, the club system needs to survive and races  such as mob matches, which unlike most athletics events involve everybody who 

 turns up and therefore personify club sport, must be seen to prevail. Ranelagh 

 turned out 60 plus yesterday, a decent number but not as many as should have 

 been there.  This may be partly because of Parkrun: participants are besotted by taking part in this fantastic event but I think there needs to be a bit of 

 balance here, by all means take part in parkrun but don't forget club athletics  at its best and the joys of running on different courses with the camaraderie of team sport. This has to be so important in keeping the club spirit going forward and getting Ranelagh up to its 150th anniversary, by which time I may well be up

 to 200 of these damn races!

 Ranelagh Ranelagh Rah Rah Rah!"