Why can't we British learn to be proud of ourselves?

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The mere posting of this picture will have caused many English people to flinch then shake their heads at me.

In Britain one does not simply "Blow one's own trumpet".....

A while ago I posted the offending picture, above, of my home made medal display on to facebook. I couldn't decide whether it was naff or not so I thought I would shout the question in to the huge empty hole that is facebox. Of course, I managed to forget that most of my friends are English. This means that my posting the picture was seen as huge, in-your-face boasting.

Cue the ribbing....

"Don't be that guy"

"Home-made"

"Show-off"

"Impressively naff"

Of course, being English, the ribbing was good natured leg-pulling that wasn't meant to offend, but it did bring up an interesting issue: Why can't we British be proud of our achievements? And of course, this isn't confined to running; academic achievement or in fact, any sort of personal accomplishment is right in there.

(I should also mention that a couple of people did say well done and there was nothing wrong with being proud, but the overwhelming response was mickey-taking)

Hardly anyone I know displays their medals, and if they do, they are somewhere very inconspicuous. Most people I know put them in a drawer, never to see the light of day. Even wearing a race t-shirt is seen as boasting by some. 

When I started running again I charted my improvement on facebook especially each time I lowered a PB. At first that was ok, my times were slow enough that people didn't see it as boasting, but as I got faster, that changed. I, of course, didn't notice this subtle change. If I had to have a guess, I would say it started about the time I got down to 45 minutes for 10k.

Eventually someone told me that I "Wanted people to know that I took my running seriously" I didn't know what they meant. But apparently mentioning my times was interpreted that way. As I was finishing over 10 minutes behind the winners in any given race, it didn't occur to me that people would see it as boasting. To me, my times are nothing special and I maintain that. My 10k PB, although one I am very proud of, saw me finishing outside the top 500 of the race I set it in! Dominic, my frequent race day buddy's PBs are far faster than mine and even one of my best friends, Mark, who isn't a runner, but just very fit, can kick my arse in a 10k. These are the sort of people that are interested in my times and if I don't mention them, they ask, as I do with them. We take pleasure in each other's progress.

I "won" these for running up and down a big hill twice. Not the socks, I just wore them, that'd be weird

Then I discovered something really odd; people don't mind you saying that you broke your PB on facebook, providing you don't mention the time, but if someone asks you your time, it's fine to mention it.

I know, weird eh?

Another odd thing is that if I posted my garmin page link to a training run and mentioned it didn't go well, I received messages along the lines of "I'd be really pleased to run that speed, you should be happy"

It seems if you are faster than someone else, you are supposed to be happy with your time, even if it doesn't represent an improvement on your times or is even a step back. The funny thing is, they clearly judge themselves against me and my times, but I don't judge myself by the many people who finish in front of me. I simply don't care. I race against my own times only, and occasionally another runner if they are finishing near me and that's about it!

So I have learned to be self-deprecating about my times and my running, that way people don't misinterpret me and think I have suddenly decided my times are somehow good despite never finishing anywhere near a podium!

So it's an odd situation. I work very hard to keep my running progressing. This month has been one of my hardest ever, I am still coming back from the rib injury caused by falling and am not back to where I was. I have run 40 miles in the last week, garmin informs me, which is my most ever, that's how bad I want to get back to it. My PBs, race t-shirts, gummy bears, beer, mug, scars, flatter stomach and medals are hard won. Why can't I be proud of these without people thinking I am boasting? It probably explains why it's not easy to buy things to display your medals in Britain and it costs an arm and a leg for the ones you can get without economy of scale.

So here it comes, catharsis; let's break that wall down. A list of my PBs: 

5k- 19:26

10k - 39:27

1/2 Marathon 1:34:33

Marathon 3:17:45

And I am proud of these times.

And I am almost certain that lots of people now think this whole blog entry is just an excuse to post my PBs. I shouldn't bother to defend this, but I will mention that links to my garmin page are all over this blog so I wouldn't need to go to the trouble as they're all on there!

Wow, that was hard, and lots of my friends hate me now. (Don't worry, none of my friends read this, I know it's only you out there, spambot)

So what is wrong with mentioning these times? As long as I don't bring them up every 2 minutes or interrupt you telling me about your heart operation to tell you them, what is the harm?

The next step- moving my medal display out of the corner in the kitchen where it is seen by only me. I'll never move it over the mantel piece though!

Questions for you:

1) What PB are you most proud of?

2) Have you been accused of boasting?

3) Where do you keep your medals and other winnings?

Race review: Stirton fell race 10th of July 2013

Google earth really fails to capture the elevation of this route. That's 2D pictures for you.

On a hot day in July I entered my 2nd ever fell race at Stirton, near Skipton organised by Keighley and Craven AC. Like a lot of fell races, it basically involved this:
"Ey lad, see ' big hill over theer?"
"Aye"
"Run up it"
"Reet"
"Back down it"
"Aye"
"Round the back"
"Ok"
"Back up it again"
"Yup"
"Then back here"
"Reet, Ah'll see thee later, get me one in"

Once again I wasn't fully fit, the ribs aren't getting worse, but they aren't getting fully better either and on Wednesday mornings I finish a 9 hour night shift at 7am, so I wasn't full of high-hopes, I was just going to enjoy myself.

After much to-do involving meeting in a car park, facebook messages from Fellandalers pulling out and a lovely drive through Yorkshire, Carl and I arrived in Stirton, a tiny village that was now taken over with fell runner's cars. I queued up for my number and paid £3. I chatted briefly to another runner who wished me well and asked how I did after the race, a lovely, friendly touch.

A while later, with absolutely no to-do, we set off up a country lane towards the hill that would be our torturer. It's name is Sharp Haw (no childish giggling now) The starter didn't give us any spiel at all, there was no starting line and no air horn. Off we went.

The first part on the road isn't very steep so I maintained a decent pace as we trotted along. As always, I decided I needed to get in some decent speed while I could. The route turned off the road and Sharp Haw loomed in to view, looking menacing. I knew next to nothing about the route of the race, which was perhaps for the best. I over heard someone say the second ascent would be hard. A least I now knew there was going to be a second ascent.

I managed to keep running until I was about half way up the first time, but then slowed to a walk. I was the first person around me to start walking, and this time, it wasn't as fast as the people around me who were still running. I tried to maintain as quick a walk pace as I could, but I was already dying and sweat was dripping off me like a faulty shower.

Mercifully the top of Sharp Haw arrived and I threw myself in to the descent. The runners in front of me had opened up a substantial gap of a few hundred metres, but I slowly reeled them in and by the time we started the second ascent, I had over taken a few of them. They returned the compliment soon after when I had to walk up hill again. Each time there was a flat or down hill section I would catch the runners in front with relative ease, but they would then pull away on the up hill as I just couldn't keep running. 

By the time the top of Sharp Haw arrived again I was desperate for some down hill and off I plunged, once again catching the runners in front. We didn't have to return right to the start point in the village so the finish arrived quickly, in a field, next to the van they had used as the race office.

My prizes for finishing have to be the favourite race rewards I have ever received and here they are with the once-white socks I wore on the day:

One of the most fun parts of the day was chatting to Simon afterwards, who, unbeknownst to me, had been hot on my heels the whole way around. He had nearly caught me on each ascent, but had watched me pull away on the descents. He had witnessed my not-quite-long-enough leap over a bog that soaked my right foot and blackened my socks as I staggered and spluttered my way around.  It's an odd and pleasing feeling to know a good runner like Simon sees me as a target and to know I am spurring him on to faster running.
We also chatted to Carl and Christine, other members of Fellandale about their races and the upcoming Leeds 10k after cheering them through the finish.

I had gone out a little slower in this race than at the Otley fell race in an attempt to keep running up the hills, but it hadn't even nearly worked. I like to think I am a brave descender and able to move quickly when going downhill but I really need to keep working on the ascents. If I can get to the point where I am running up hill for the majority of the time, my overall pace is going to improve dramatically.
I finished 46th out of 98 in a time of 47:37 Simon finishing a minute and 22 behind me. The winner clocked 37:04. At least I was in the top half, and they kindly knocked 3 years off my age too. I must look young. Yes, that's it. I look young.

Here's the run on Garmin connect. As is my recent tradition, I forgot to turn my GPS off at the end so ignore the time.

All in all a really enjoyable and friendly no-frills fell race, just the type I hope to be doing for many years to come.

Run review: The classic Malham round with an extra twist

The stunning Malham Cove.

A Friday off work and with the world my running lobster, I decided to set off for Malham, a truly beautiful corner of the world. I have walked the classic Malham round on many occasions and the appeal of running in "the wilds" without navigating was very appealing. The classic round is not much more than 6 miles however, so I decided to extend it somewhat. A trip round the back of the tarn seemed to fit the bill.

Usually, the round is thus: From Malham to the cove. Up the 300+ steps to the top. Along one of the valleys to the tarn. Lunch at the waterside, then down through Gordale scar, along past Janet's Foss and back to Malham. I didn't feel that 6 miles would justify an hour's drive so I decided to add on a little "getting lost" session behind the tarn to extend the run to about 10 miles. I know my way around part of the back of the tarn (It's only one path, it'd be tough to get lost) but didn't know exactly how to keep going right around the back then join up with the path back to the cove. Still, it didn't look that hard. I decided to do the route in the opposite direction to usual, that way I would be able to take the path I knew around the back of the tarn and then find my way from there. What could possibly go wrong?

I could forget my map.

But I would never be stupid enough to do that, would I? Hmmmmm, good job I committed it to my photographic memory before I set off *cough*

Malham: Yorkshire cliche No5.

 Having avoided the wooly "traffic" in Malham, I set off for the Janet's Foss. This involved a run down a track that follows the side of a lovely stream and through a forest. Even though I wasn't running fast and the way was easy and flat, I was already blowing quite hard soon in to the run. It had to be due to there being some actual heat for once!  I started to receive the first of many odd looks I got from the walkers that day. It wasn't that long ago I was one of those walkers looking with incredulity at the runners. I didn't pass a single other runner the whole day.

On my way to Janet's Foss. The wild garlic was out in force

It's not far to Janet's Foss but by the time I got there I already needed a rest, so I stopped and took some photos and had a drink.

Janet's Foss is a little waterfall if you didn't know. Faeries live here. Yes they do.

The next stop was Gordale scar, also, not very far away. I have never climbed up the scar, only down, so it would be a new experience. The scar is very dry at the moment, so I knew that it wouldn't be too difficult.

Shame there is nothing in this pic for scale; to give you an idea, the bottom waterfall is probably about a 30ft drop

The climb proved quite easy with the lack of water and was great fun as always. 

The view from the second, higher waterfall looking down through the scar.

On reaching the second waterfall there is a long set of rough-hewn steps to negotiate before running along a valley to the tarn. The climb up the scar and the steps isn't for the faint-hearted and I have scared the life out of several people with it, but in reality, it's really not very hard; if you've ever climbed at all, you wouldn't struggle and I have got several people down through it who have never climbed before.

The run continued through the gorgeous countryside in glorious sunshine and it wasn't very long before I arrived at the tarn.

It wasn't actually dull, but I can't be arsed to correct the light in photoshop

As I got around the "back" of the tarn, I stopped at a beautiful viewing point and had a bite to eat and a drink. The clif bar went down especially well. The deuter waist pack is just large enough to carry the things I need on a warm day.

Nom, nom, as they say, nom

Now it was time for the adventure to start; find my way around the back of the tarn with only the magnets in my head and a vague recollection of a map to go by. I basically navigated by heading in the direction I thought the cove was. Amazingly, it worked and I soon found the road I needed and headed down the valley towards the cove.

The valley isn't very long and I soon hit the famous limestone pavement.

The limestone walk is slippery as the Devil's banana skin in winter, but this day it was dry and easy to run on. The cove itself is, essentially, a giant cliff. Once upon a time it was a waterfall bigger than Niagara, but that was a few thousand years ago, so I missed it.

The view from the top of the cove is stunning.

The looks of incredulity increased tenfold as I ran down the steps of the cove but everyone was very kind in making sure they gave me enough room to get by.  

 Looking back up from the bottom of the cove steps. These are just the first few....

 Always nice to linger at the bottom of the cove.

A quick trot across the ancient stone bridge and I was on the path back to Malham, which was getting a bit over grown.

I was happy to provide a moving buffet for a variety of flying insects as I moved along the path and they certainly dined out. Hope I was tasty.

The run back to Malham flew by and I settled down in one of the local cafes after discovering it wasn't possible to buy a newspaper in Malham!

The moist carrot cake was absolutely delicious and even better, the waitress decided the last 2 pieces of it were too small so gave me both to make one giant slice. Maybe I looked like I need it after 10 miles.

The local wildlife is very friendly/cheeky.

Malham is a truly beautiful place to run and navigation is pretty easy, which is always a bonus to me! I picked a lovely, if rather hot, day. Bonus! If you haven't been to Malham yet, why not?

Here's the run wot I did, as seen in google earth.

My Garmin had a strange freak-out and decided that I had also run back to Leeds afterwards and drew it on the map, yet didn't add the distance. Odd. But here's the run on Garmin connect

Race Review: The Humber Bridge Half Marathon 30th June 2013

We ran over this. Jealous? You should be.

Awesome- In the true sense of the word

If you've driven east along the M62 until it becomes the Clive Sullivan way, in Hessle, near Hull, you will have experienced the sense of awe as the Humber bridge appeared in the distance, filling your vision, and dropping your jaw open.
Majestically, this breath-taking structure strides out over a mile across the Humber estuary, landing (or taking off, depending on your point of view) in Barton-Upon-Humber in Lincolnshire. Finally finished in 1981, 7 years over-due and millions over budget, I stood on the approach to the bridge as a 6 year old watching the Queen shuffle past me, close enough to throw some rotten fruit at. Unfortunately I didn't have the presence of mind to shout "Get a job you tax-dodging, inbred sponger!" but still.

Each of the 2 towers of the bridge climbs to over 500ft, scraping the very sky and visible for miles around. My favourite statistic about the bridge is that the towers are 2 inches further apart at the top than  the bottom, because of the curvature of the earth. That's how vast it is. Weighing over 500,000 tonnes in total and with 44,000 miles of suspension cable, it sways up to 10ft in high winds (Don't worry, it's supposed to!) Jeremy Clarkson once famously said of the bridge, "It's just like the Golden gate bridge in America, only bigger."
When driving towards Kingston Upon Hull, where I grew up, and for all those people who also did, the sight of the Humber bridge announces that you are home. And what a truly magnificent sight to greet those lucky East Yorkshire folk.
When built, the Humber Bridge was the longest single span suspension bridge in the world and remained so for the next 16 years. Although it has now been relegated to number 7, it is still the largest bridge in the world that you can walk and cycle over on the purpose built paths ether side of the bridge.

Perhaps now you've grasped some of the excitement I felt at finally being able to take part in the Humber Bridge half marathon. I had been meaning to enter for years but something had always managed to get in the way. One of my motivations for taking running up again a few years ago was wanting to emulate my brother who has 2 Humber Bridge medals. My Dad also ran the Humber Bridge marathon twice before the event was consigned to history.

No race of halves

The race itself starts at 9am as an attempt to avoid the worst of the heat (if there actually is any) so it was a very early start from Leeds to arrive in time. I assumed that the Clive Sullivan would have a queue down the slip road to Hessle so didn't want to risk missing the start. As it turns out the queue started much farther up, but I avoided it with my local knowledge and parked up 10 minutes away to enable my legs to warm up with a brisk walk.
Underneath the bridge is a very large country park and a vast, under-used car park area where the race village had been set up. It's traditional for me to complain about the toilets at every race, but this was a particularly large "intercourse at height". The queues for all 7ish (not an exaggeration) of the loos was huge. At least they'd had the forethought to put in some urinals for the men to ease the congestion a little. I hate to imagine what it would have been like without them. After waiting in the queue for 10 minutes and realising that there was no way I would reach the front in time, I nipped in to the thankfully plentiful bushes. I know, I know, TMI.

I had been warned about the notoriously tough course for this race with the killer hill at about 9 miles and adding this to my lack of training due to the still-sore rib injury, I knew a PB was never going to be on. The long-awaited summer heat would also be another toughening factor.
Eventually the runners lined up on Ferriby road that crosses underneath the bridge on the Hessle side. I turned around to look back and the dip of the road afforded me a fantastic view of pretty much all 2000 runners, apparently a record field. I had taken pain killers to dull the inevitable pain from my ribs and hoped they would last the race out.
The race is pretty much uphill for the first 3-4 miles. The course starts with a loop around to the approach road for the bridge before hitting the bridge itself, so basically, all uphill. Standing still on the start line I was sweating, so by the time I hit the not-so-subtle hill that is the bridge itself, I was already struggling. I have seen the amazing view from the bridge on many occasions and felt the feeling of vertigo when staring upwards from the bottom of the towers, so I perhaps wasn't as distracted by the setting as a first timer might be. I could do nothing to stop myself concentrating on just how difficult this was feeling and how my ribs still hurt.
Towards the south end of the bridge there was a brief respite from the climb before hitting what I felt was the worst hill of the day- the slip road up to the roundabout above Barton. It was interesting, as always, to see the way different runners took this hill, some over taking me and some falling behind me.
Left at the top of the slip road at the roundabout and down a long, long, looooooooooong hill in to Barton, followed by a loop around this pretty little market town. Usually a long descent like this would have me shouting, "Free speed!!" and hitting it as hard as I could to make up for the slow ascent, but today, I felt I had to save some for later and I just didn't have it in me. At this point the sun was really beating down and I grabbed water at every water stop, a thing which I don't usually do, but I needed to wet my mouth. Mercifully the route through Barton is flat once you've got down the first hill.

And so it continues

The miles ground on and the thought of the hill at 9 miles was playing on my mind. In my only other 1/2 marathon, the Great North Run last year, I had been wondering when it would feel hard. I had cruised along for mile after mile feeling fantastic. This one was the polar opposite. I wondered if it would feel easy at any point, if I would fall in to that wonderful rhythm-place where it feels so easy that I could carry on for ever. It didn't happen. But at least I knew about the giant hill to come and it wouldn't come as a surprise to me.

Hilly? Naaaaah

Turning down Far Ings road, a Barton resident had set up a hose pipe from the front door of his terraced house which many runners took advantage of- hope he's not on a water meter! A little further down the road another Bartonian shouted offers of "Magic beans for the hill" They were jelly beans, natch. I declined as I find it hard to chew on the run, but she did make me laugh.

Under the bridge again, this time on the south side when up popped Gravel Pit Lane, so named because when you've run up it, you want to be buried in a gravel pit. I heard the hill referred to by many scary names on the day - "3 hill mile", "Killer hill", "Cardiac hill" and some just referred to it in expletives.
As I started up this hill, the runner next to me looked up and exclaimed, "Oh shit! This wasn't in my training plan!"
"Don't worry," I said, "It gets worse"
I started slowly and turned down the proffered wet sponges half way up. 3/4 of the way up I suddenly realised I could run faster and I started to over take a few people, but I wasn't sorry to see the end of the hill. A quick jaunt back to the roundabout followed and down the other slip road and once again back on to the bridge to face the deceptive curve, with the end now in sight.
Once again I was trundling along very slowly, but as the bridge went on I got a little stronger. I started to speed up and began over-taking people who had sped past me ten minutes beforehand. There were people littering the path who had clearly "hit the wall" and were struggling badly, perhaps deceived by the "easy" hill of the bridge.

Excuse me Sir, but do you know your race route looks a little bit, erm, well........phallic

At the end of the bridge the route curves sharply left and I found myself running alone. The crowd on the corner gave me a huge, galvanising cheer and I could have hugged every one of them. Just the sprint back down to the car park and the finish to go. Pretty much all the crowd gathers at the finish and it feels good to run through them at the end.
My time at the GNR last year had been 1:34, pretty pleasing on my first ever half and at the Manchester marathon I had turned around at 1:35, so I had every reason to believe that I would do ok here. Sadly, given the rib injury curtailing my training and the fact it was still bothering me on the day, I came in at 1:37. Another race to put in to my all-too-bulging folder marked "Not too bad, all things considered."

The winnings

Here's me finishing at about 22:50 on the video, running like a hippo, only slightly less graceful.
http://youtu.be/ZZblY6nyElM?t=22m45s

Overall race impression:

I know I always complain about lack of loos, but this time it was ridiculous and really needs to be sorted.
The route itself is incredible, especially if you've never been to the Humber Bridge before, but it is challenging and don't expect a PB, it's just too hilly and the chances are it will be a hot day at the end of June.
The crowd is sparse and subdued, especially on the south side in Barton, but the finish makes up for it a little. The race village is excellent with a great atmosphere and plenty of stalls so you can fill your face with food afterwards.
I did wonder how the rotary club manage to undertake such a huge organisational nightmare for only 2000 runners and still make a profit, but the long list of sponsors on the back of the t-shirt explains that. And fair play to them for attracting that many backers!
It's a little disappointing that the t-shirt is cotton and not tech material, but the race is cheap to enter so you can't complain too much and the medal is more than acceptable.
All in all The Humber Bridge Half Marathon is a fantastic race to have under your belt.

Injuries, Ultrarunning nights and Mo Farah's incredible move at The European Team Championship

Please say hello in the comments if you manage to get to the end, I feel lonely on here!! You can also tweet me: @scott_leach 

My mountain bike attached to my new implement of torture/boredom- the turbo trainer

This week I have continued to battle with the rib injury I sustained last week with my epic face-plant fail, so my "running week" consisted of turbo-training, an ultra-running night and the European Team Championships in Gateshead. So let's start at the beginning.

The rib injury that I got by taking a quick face-down inspection of the floor at The Chevin last week is still very painful. A quick trip to the doctors confirmed that I hadn't put a hole in my lung and I left with some powerful pain killers. Of course, this left me wondering how I could keep up my fitness whilst I am unable to run. It seemed there was only one choice as anything that involved upper body would be very painful. An exercise bike. I don't dare cycle on the road as the jolting would hurt too much so I decided on a turbo trainer as seen in the picture above. For those of you who don't know, it basically transforms your road bike in to an exercise bike. An extremely generous friend, who ought to know better, took pity on me and bought me an early birthday present of an elite turbo trainer and very good it is too. I dislike cycling at the best of times, but at least I can do this in front of the TV with athletics/tennis/cricket to distract me.

INJINJI!! (Must be shouted in a kung-fu film style) Couldn't resist this new pair at Accelerate.

On Thursday night I made a trip to Sheffield to Accelerate, the best running shop I have ever come across. My main job involves me walking around shopping areas across the whole of Yorkshire and sometimes further afield. The one type of shop I never pass without going in is a running shop, and if it's an independent, all the better! In the course of my job I see a lot of running shops! I have grown pretty tired of listening to the total rubbish that is spouted by the "knowledgeable" assistants in the biggest chain (who shall remain nameless) so it was a real pleasure to meet Chris in Accelerate and hear him talk sense. The first thing that impressed me was when he told me that Accelerate only stock neutral shoes. Blimey!!

So, back to the point- the shop have started to run Ultra Running evenings and I attended my first one on Thursday. A short film about the Transvulcania race in Palma provided massive amounts of motivation to step up to ultra running and this race has now been entered on to my ever-increasing list of "must dos"  

This was followed by a talk about the West Highland Way (WHW)  race by John, a veteran of 11 finishes. The WHW is 95 miles long and is run in June each year. John explained the stages of the race, and then it got very interesting as we started to fire questions at him to find out his personal tactics and ploys for getting around such a long race. The best part was a story he told to us:

He was running through the night many miles in to the run when he ran past a house. In the garden was a row of big flowers. In between each flower he could see woman's face turning their heads backwards and forwards. In his exhausted and sleep-deprived state he could just about work out that it was an hallucination, but he tried to decided which bit wasn't real. The women's faces, he concluded, must be the hallucinations.

A while after the race he decided to revisit the spot so he could check on what he had seen. As it turned out, there were no flowers in the garden at all- the whole thing had been in his head. It just serves to show you what ultra-runners put themselves through!

Deb then gave us a talk on the Ultra-Trail Du Mont-Blanc. Debs explained that she was used to doing extreme events and had raced for 24 hours before, but never in a purely running race. She entered the UTMB  on pretty much a whim and it had clearly been one of the best experiences of her life. She explained it with an excited enthusiasm that seems like it hasn't diminished despite the years since her race experience. She raved about the incredible crowd and made us all want to sign up right there and then, if any of us had the points required to enter it or managed to beat the incredibly quick-closing ballot for this now extremely popular event.

After the talks there was an open discussion on all things ultra including kit and training and many a good tip was picked up and funny story told. An excellent night that is soon to be repeated. You will not regret spending your evening there! I picked up a couple of things before I left including some more Injinji socks (I never race or run long in anything else now) and some Clif Bars which may look like squished up squirrel poo, but they taste great and are made from entirely organic ingredients. If they're good enough for Scott Jurek.... they're far too good for me, but I'll eat them anyway!

Gateshead international Stadium. that's Mo Farah leading the 5000m

Saturday found me at the Gateshead International Stadium for the European Team Championship with 7 friends and boy did we get lucky as the 2nd day on Sunday was conducted in torrential rain! 

Mo Farah's outrageous run in the 5000m will live with me forever and I am pretty sure I will tell the story many times over, but back to that later...

The stadium proved easy to get to and was well set up. The lack of toilets and concessions stands inside had been thought about and extra facilities had been set up outside; all you had to do was get a free pass-out bracelet. 

Our seats allowed us a wonderful view of the women's pole vaulting. And what an incredibly impressive set of athletic and, dare I say it, sexy women, they were too! Sadly our seats were a little too low to gain a great view of the 100m and the long and triple jumps on the other side of the stadium, but other than that, they were great. I was amazed about just how much was going on all the time. It was great fun trying to keep up with all the things being flung around the stadium as the track and field events over-lapped. You see much more in person than you ever do on TV!

We really had got lucky with the day I picked as we witnessed, amongst other things,  Jessica Judd's fantastic winning performance on her senior début, the  men's 4x100 team actually passing a baton without dropping it and Mo Farah essentially taking the p@#% out of a European field of athletes. If you didn't get to see it, here's what happened:

Mo set off slowly, actually at the back of the field for the first lap. He slowly moved up and then was content to sit behind whichever other athlete lead the field for the next few laps. A lap or so out he claimed the front spot with consummate ease, but it was when the bell went that I witnessed the most outrageous piece of running I have ever seen.

A split second after the bell went Mo literally jumped and started sprinting away from the pack like a startled rabbit. The crowd immediately and spontaneously jumped to their feet. He began to put distance between the rest of the runners and in seconds was already metres in front. I could only imagine how demoralizing that must have been to the also-rans in the race. Mo had been toying with them. The race was so easy to him he could just cruise along then blow the field away as he pleased. The final time was very slow for Mo which perhaps explained his tactics.
Here's the last lap on the BBC website. 

I had a brilliant day in Gateshead and can't wait to go to another meet there but I have to say, what a sad reflection of this nation's taste in sport that an amazing event like this failed to fill a relatively small stadium when the tickets are an incredible bargain at £17 each, when you consider a bunch of men-children falling about on a football pitch can command triple that and fill much bigger stadia. It's just wrong. Add to that the fact that this is the first time the championship has been held in the UK for 13 years and I am baffled as to the relative lack of interest in the event.

I could go in to much more detail but I am sure I have waffled long enough. I hope your running week has been enjoyable as mine turned out to be, despite the absence of actual physical running.

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Twitter : @scott_leach

A Runner's Guide to Face-Planting

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Some fine reading to be had in them thar books

face-plant

 - vb 1. (intr) To fall on to one's face, usually during a sporting activity, as a consequence of tripping and falling, often in a way that is humorous only to the on-looker and not to the face-plantee.

- n 2. The act or instance of falling on to one's face.

As a child I played lots of different sports but I don't remember having face-planted very often. Perhaps it's not the sort of thing you choose to commit to memory. I do however, remember chasing a player down the wing during a rugby league training session, as our paths coincided I flung myself at his legs. Somehow I managed to make a huge mess of it and speared myself in to the floor, face first. Nothing more was damaged then my dignity and I quickly got up and played on.
A few years later I managed to face-plant from my bike. I was crossing my old school's running track on my racer when I misjudged lifting my front wheel on to the grass. I went straight over the handle bars and snapped my collar bone. My audience was about 20 school children.

As I wasn't a skate boarder and parkour hadn't been invented my chances to face-plant whilst a child were perhaps limited. As an adult, the consequences of a face-plant can be much more serious. You could break the bottle of wine you've just bought, smash the screen of your smart phone, break your neck of femur or all three.

So, with no race this weekend I planned to hit it hard in training. Of course, as a mouse, my plans oft gang agley....

On Wednesday I trotted around the Chevin with Simon and Phil of Fellandale, following Phil as he plunged down banks and off the paths, thoroughly enjoying myself. Half way around the run, Simon managed a poor-effort of a face-plant. He didn't really get his face right in to the ground and did little to no damage, apart from possibly his pride. Phil and I, not being morons or children, knew that these things can be serious and actually, they're not funny. So we asked if he was alright. He has a pretty serious long race coming up and has been preparing and training for it for a long time, missing it due to  fall on his local run would be a disaster. So we were pleased to see him bounce back up with no real problems and carry on. 

We talked about falling as we carried on running and I decided to shout out, "Oy! Fate! You're a big girl's blouse, come here while I tweak your nipples and give you a wedgie" Not literally of course, but as good as. I waxed lyrical about how I rarely fall. How I have a low centre of gravity and that though I may trip and/or stumble, generally, I regain my feet. Oh no, I don't fall often....

Fate didn't like this and obviously believes that revenge should be delivered on a chilled platter. On Friday this week, it donned an apron, prepared a lovely meal, turned up in the Chevin with a clean tea-towel draped over an arm and hid behind a corner waiting for me.

I don't have a problem, I can give up trainers any time I like

I woke on Friday quite excited. A whole day off, no injuries, a car full of petrol and the world was my running lobster. After talking myself out of an attempt at the 3 peaks, I decided to do a couple of laps of the Chevin with full pack as training for getting used to carrying what I would need on a long trail/fell run.

Fate must have been in a good mood that day as she did try to warn me. I forgot my GPS watch and instead of taking this as a sign of not to run, I decided that I would have lunch at the Cheerful Chilli, read a bit more of the Brownlee brothers' book, then nip back for my watch. Even when it turned out the Cheerful Chilli was closed, I didn't take that hint, I just changed plans to eat at home instead. 

Yes- I know I could have run without the watch, but as my first training run with full pack, I really wanted to see what distance I covered and at what speed.

Later that afternoon I returned with my watch and set off running. I was already blowing hard with 2k covered when I rounded a corner. A very innocuous corner on a very well made and even part of the trail. A split second later I found myself lying face down on the floor, wheezing for breath, winded.

Looking behind me it seems I had tripped over a rock. Not even a small rock. A big rock. An obvious rock. How the hell had I missed it? I had just run directly through the forest, off the path, managing to miss roots and branches and covering completely uneven ground with no problems and I had tripped over a giant rock, smack in the middle of the path. It wasn't even hiding, it was obvious. Or it was fate sticking out her foot. Yeah, that's what it was. Well played fate, well played.

There was no stumble from which to recover,  no warning at all. I wasn't able to brace myself or lessen the fall in any way, I had already hit the ground before I knew what was happening.

I was grateful no one else was around, not because of the embarrassment factor, but because I hate having to wave away the offers of help and assuring them I am ok.  When I got to my feet, everything felt reasonably ok and I walked for a minute to regain the breath that had been knocked out of me. When I tried to run I discovered a sore patch on my side, just below my right pec, that was pretty painful. I stopped again and walked to give me a minute or so more to recover then I tried to run again. No chance. I knew my running was over for the day.

On the way home I did a couple of errands with the pain building in my ribs. By the time I got home it was becoming difficult to move. I assessed my injuries and was amazed at the amount of damage I had managed to do to myself. Grazes above my right eye, my right shoulder, my right forearm, a knuckle on my right hand and the outside of my right knee. By far and away the worst is the injury to my ribs. Also, to make it a little worse, I had to face up to the fact that most likely, the injury to my ribs was caused by landing on my own arm.

Seriously though, how do you manage to hit the floor with 6 points of contact?! That has to be some sort of talent.

If only I had looked more like this on Friday

The next morning getting out of bed was a real ordeal. Moving any part of my upper body was agony. I hadn't cracked a rib or punctured a lung, but moving anything on my body shot pains through my whole torso. Applying ice just made it further stiffen up and caused more pain. Thankfully, applying heat, via a heat-wheat pack loosened it off and lessened the pain. 

This morning I woke up in a slightly better state, I had managed to get comfortable in bed and had slept well. I'm still stiff and I think it is going to be a while before my next run, but at least it's beginning to get better. I now begin another battle to be better before my next scheduled race, the Humber Bridge half marathon in 2 week's time.

Telling Simon about my fall and how I felt silly after having told him about how I rarely fell, he mentioned that he had felt pretty silly that he had been talking about the grips on his numerous different trainers just before he had fallen. Fate, what a fickle little madam. 

So to summarise, if one wishes to face-plant effectively with maximum impact, one must:

1) Ensure to have thoroughly pissed off fate by telling everyone of how unlikely you are to fall, or something similar.

2) Go straight to ground at speed, no stumbling which could lessen the impact or enable you to brace yourself.

3) Make sure one has an audience, preferably of giggling school children.

4) Make sure someone has it on video so you can be laughed at around the world via the wonder of youtube.

5) If you can land in muddy water to cause a spectacular splash, this is all the better.

6) If performed in front of an audience, ensure you ask for marks out of 10

Race review: The Otley Chevin Fell Race. 5/6/13

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Last week I finished reading Richard Askwith's, required-reading-for-all-fell-runners-book, Feet in the Clouds. This week, I felt like I stepped straight in to the pages as I entered my first ever fell race on the Otley Chevin. The course is simple; start from Station road in Otley, run up the huge hill that is The Chevin, a small loop at the top, then straight back down again. And what a wonderful, exhausting, terrible, punishing, joyous, fun-but-not-fun, experience it was.

I picked up my Saloman trail runners, selected a pair of shorts, donned my Manchester marathon t-shirt (probably a faux-pas at a fell race) and headed out. Half an hour later I arrived in Otley, a lovely little market town just north of Leeds and I was about an hour early. It's only a small place so I expected to see a little marquee set up and a few people milling around; I didn't. Hmmmm, best check to see where it actually starts.....

I parked very close to the start on Station Road where a small hand full of runners were milling around next to the ricketiest folding table you have ever seen, oddly it was never used and a good thing too as I nearly knocked it over when I grazed it slightly later on.
Station road is a cobbled street with beautiful Victorian stone houses on either side. If you created a street in a studio to scream "Yorkshire" you really couldn't do any better unless you included ferrets, pigeons and a small boy with bread in the basket of his bike. A battered sign, leaning against a wall, marked the start of the race. Having never been to a race like this before, I wasn't quite sure what to do; even the other club races I had been to before I had signed up for on line. Luckily I over-heard someone giving directions to registration, which turned out to be in a small shop front of a plumber's merchant. At least I think that's what it was. I filled out my details, signed the bit that promised I wasn't likely to keel over and die half way up (a blatant lie on my part) paid my £4 and picked up my number.

Looking around the assorted runners as they arrived was a scary experience. I have never seen so many incredibly fit-looking, sinewy people in all my life. Almost every one of them looked like they could sprint up Everest, wrestle a wild boar at the top, then carry it back down and make every one a bacon butty before the sun was over the yard arm.

I got talking to a friendly guy from Otley AC. He told me a little about the race and we idly chatted about our running history. He mentioned that the worse part of the race was a tarmac section that was really punishing. I misunderstood him entirely and said that it would probably be the only section I'd enjoy. I found out just how right he was later on and just how much I'd misunderstood him.
I was trying not to notice the way the Chevin looked down on us all with a black scowl from so high up. I have run around the Chevin enough times now to know that it can be a tough place to run, but I had never stared up at it from the very bottom. From this angle, if it was a person, it would be a socio-path with serial killer tendencies.

Yes, that's definitely a noose

I soon spotted some of the guys from Horsforth Fellendale and said hello to Simon, who, impressively, recently ran the Fellsman. You can read about his epic run here:

Simon has run the race before and gave me a few welcome tips, "Don't get frustrated on the steps, it'll be congested and you won't be able to over take"  As it turns out, by the time I got to the steps, running was out of the question, I was so tired. I think more than one person told me that I had picked a tough race for my first ever fell outing.

The starter stood on a wall with an air horn and everyone lined up at the imaginary start line. He counted us all down and caused a large laugh as he failed to get the air horn to work; the field set off running anyway, then laughed again as the horn finally went off 5 seconds later while everyone sprinted up the cobbles.

Judging the pace of this race was going to be impossible for me as I didn't know the course and had no idea exactly how to run to the top of a 925ft peak and remain alive at the end. I decided to tuck in behind Simon and use his pace.
The first section isn't very steep up Station road, then the route turns along a very brief flat section. I couldn't decided on whether to use the flat section to get in some quick running while I could and unsure as to what I should do, I adopted a moderate pace. Tentatively I moved passed Simon, also unsure if that would be a wise move. Another turn, some tarmac, then the route turned past a white building  that appears an intimidating height up the hill when viewed from the bottom.

I started to walk long before I saw anyone else start. Luckily my challenge walking experience meant my walk was pretty much as fast as the people running around me. I tried to adopt a run 10 metres-walk 10 metres strategy. Not long after the steps started, I abandoned the strategy and just walked. I was trying to keep the speed up as much as possible, but with sweat dripping from every pore and failing to gasp in anywhere close to the amount of air I required, it was, literally, an uphill struggle.

Mercifully the the path turned right at the top of the steps and levelled out somewhat. I tried to cruise to regather some breath. I wasn't able to.

Once again, Steve Prefontaine spoke to me, asking me how much guts I had, in his strange Yorkshire accent (I've never actually heard his voice, so naturally, to me, his accent is pure Dales)
 "Does thee have the guts, lad?"

After 2.8 BILLION steps. (I counted them all) the relief at seeing surprise view car park was muted. Although I was pleased to reach that point as I knew it to be the very top of the Chevin and it would all be down hill after that, I was still blowing incredibly hard. Too hard. Here I am, reaching the top in around 13 gruelling minutes:

 Many thanks to Woodentops for this fantastic picture. Now, why do I run with my thumbs up?

So the expected relief that came with the down hill bit never arrived. I may not have the iron will of an Olympian, but I do have enough desire that cruising down the hill after the immense effort of getting up there just wasn't going to happen. I kept pushing as hard as my burning muscles and lungs would allow.

We plunged back in to the forest and I accelerated. I started to reel in the runners in front. The forest seemed to flash by and we rounded the white building very soon (I really must find out what it is!) telling me there wasn't much further to go.

Through the small yard and I was staring down the steep tarmac hill that the Otley runner had mentioned. We had run up it, but it hadn't registered with me. Free speed! I thought. This was a chance to really open up, the only question was how fast did I dare to go?

I passed a mountain goat who was complaining about this stupid hill

Otley runner's words soon started to hammer home. My feet were beginning to burn within seconds of hitting the tarmac and I was reaching what felt like a dangerous speed. Did I engage my quads and cause those to burn and also slow me down, or did I just go for it? I settled for a half measure. It was still enough to reel in and pass 2 runners including a young man in his early 20s who I would encounter a little later. Unfortunately, slamming that hard in to tarmac injured my left heel. Thankfully it was only a bruise to the soft tissue which was better inside 4 days and during the race, I didn't feel it.

A trot back through the tiny industrial section as the young runner behind me caught me with every step, and we were back looking down the cobbles of Station road. As usual, my brain informed me I had absolutely nothing left and a sprint would not be possible. In fact, you should give up and walk, nay crawl, to the finish. Actually no, hot-wire a car and drive down.

Back in the real world and the young runner behind audibly upped his pace, I could tell from his breathing and foot fall. I idly wondered if I would be able to out-sprint him. I tried to up my pace and managed a tiny amount. I heard the young runner respond. I pushed a little harder and actually found something there. There was less than 100 metres of steep downhill cobbles to go. I always tell myself with 100 metres to go, no matter what, you can manage a sprint. After all, what does it matter if you collapse over the line? Everyone would be impressed, I am sure!

The relentless downward progress continued with everything on fire, it was taking all my will power not to just give up and walk; then wonderfully, I heard the young runner give up. He wasn't going to catch me. I was way happier than that should have made me. But still, I had heard the challenge, responded, and won my own little race. Perhaps a little bit of Dom's heightened determination was beginning to sink in. There is no logic in thrashing yourself to finish one place higher when you are nowhere near a podium finish, but it's that very attitude which slows you down, and it's rejecting those thoughts, believing in racing whomever you are up against, regardless of your position, that spurs you on to greater things. Honestly, it felt like a small break-through in that I was able to force myself to "beat" that young runner....

Who had the most guts, Steve?....Me, lad, me!

There was no finish line as such, just a small funnel created by ribbon and some traffic cones and I was confused as to where the race finished (other runners coming in behind me had the same trouble and many ran way past the official finish) Then I heard the time keeper call out a place, which sadly, I was too tired to commit to memory, but I realised I could stop running.

My time of a little over 22 minutes (I forgot to turn off my GPS at the end, so ignore the last split and overall time) would have placed me around 20th last year when just under 100 people raced. This year's field was something like 120, so we shall see what happens when the official results are published. 

After the race my legs continued to shake for quite some time and it took me far longer to recover from any road race I have ever done, including much longer races. I continued to gasp for air for far longer too.

Soon I had the unexpected pleasure of cheering in the other Horsforth Fellandale runners. Having never been part of a running club before, it really was a great feeling to stand at the end talking  to the other runners about their races. Simon felt he could have gone harder, but his only real aim for the race was just to get up and down in one piece, probably due to his training for the brutal 10 mountain challenge he is undertaking soon. 

Race Summary:

I had to be pleased with my run in my first ever fell race. I finished in a respectable time, in a respectable position. Although I walked much of the uphill sections I doubt I could have paced it much better as I don't think I am capable, yet, of running very far up a hill so steep. So, small injury aside, I couldn't have hoped for much better. Bring on the next one!

Update:

I finished in a slightly disappointing 42nd, although the official time I was given is a good 30 seconds more than I estimated it to be! Ah well, next year!