Alive and Well, Busy!

Cousin Sandra got in touch via Facebook to ask if we were OK, it having been a couple of weeks since my last post. Given that I did the Halloween post in advance, it has been even longer since I actually wrote a post. It's easy to lose your confidence once the habit of posting is dropped. What have I been doing instead?

Trying to get the running habit again. I try to get out four days a week:  a long run, a track session and a couple of short runs. I'm taking baby steps with this as it is easy do too much and get discouraged. So far, so good.

Crafting - The Thursday night craft group does a wide variety of things, but often the projects can't be completed in a couple of hours. Even when several sessions are devoted to a project, there is sometimes preparation or finishing off work in between. Two of my favourite things from recent sessions are a pumpkin pin cushion and a jewellery holder. More about that last item later.

The large one at the front is mine!

Knitting - I've moved on from knitting little hats for bottles. I know it sounds mental, but it's part of an advertising campaign and the company that sells smoothies gives 25p to Age UK for every hatted bottle sold. I made forty of the things when we were in France this summer. 

I'm now knitting sweaters for children at a hospital in Nigeria, with a knitting group that meets at Age UK. I think it worries Bill that I associate with so many older ladies; but they teach me cool things and they make me laugh. The local Rotary club collects donated yarn and we knit or crochet the stuff into sweaters, hats, blankets, socks and sometimes toys. This has been a great way to improve my skills. I'm now doing the much easier Continental style of knitting and getting better at correcting mistakes. 

A dead simple pattern, kindly shared by Vivien.

I'm not very fast, but it doesn't really matter;  and knitting a sweater that will be matched to a child that it fits is so much easier than knitting one for a certain person.

Dressmaking - Lucy and I have taken on a dressmaking course that meets once a week. I've been making a shirt with princess seams from a Butterick pattern (5526). 

Pattern selection inspired by Goodbye Valentino.

I've started with  a trial garment first, which is probably just as well, as I've made tons of stupid mistakes. Can't say I've learned a great deal I didn't already mostly know, but I desperately need to practice!  The class forces me to make time for sewing as well as provides some protected time within the class. It is a long time dream to develop my sewing skills, something I can imagine regretting on my death bed if I didn't ever give it a go. Sounds a bit weird perhaps but given the excellent sewing my Mom and my Aunt Rita did, I feel that I'm supposed to try to do this. I'm not sure if I'm going to like the shirt when it's done, but I'll show it to you all the same.

Thanksgiving - We are having 20 people so far (might be as many as 32, RSVPs not due for a few days) for our Thanksgiving party on the 30th. We've been doing some extra cleaning in preparation for this. I've got to get my sewing room sorted back into a guest room in case one of Bill's kids wants to stay over. Sarah and/or Simon generally do this when they come.

More Sewing and Crafting - As usual I've managed to leave my gift-making til late and am frantically working on two main projects to give as gifts. Can't say more about those just now of course but one of them involved working out my own pattern and did my head in, but I found a solution that I can live with. Luckily I have plenty of practice fabric - old sheets and curtain linings - and lots of ideas for using discarded scraps. My gifts for folks in the US are actually ready to go to the post office. It's so early for me to have them ready I can almost worry there is something wrong!

Our WI craft group is going well and though it only meets once a month, the few of us who run the thing still have to make sure there is a presenter ready to lead a project each time. We made felted ornaments last time and will be tackling origami Christmas cards next time.  

Champagne Sub-Group - This is just a small group of friends who all happen to be in the WI. When Vivien kept winning the raffles that included bottles of champagne she insisted that we get together and enjoy them together. Jules dubbed us the Champagne Sub-group. We get together a few times a year for days out, evenings in, visiting other WI groups and just generally having a laugh (with or without champagne). It's lovely to finally have re-built my social life.  We're going to Blyth this Friday to check out a couple of sewing and consignment shops as well as charity shops and probably have lunch somewhere.

I do plan to keep blogging, I just need to figure out where to fit that in...

Some of My Friends are Insane

Some friends of ours were involved a few months ago in doing the Bob Graham Round.  I'd never heard of it and until I collected some articles for a newsletter I edit, I didn't appreciate what was involved.   

This is basically a fell running race with the clock, over 42 peaks totalling about 18,000 feet, and ranging between 62 and 72 miles.  You choose some aspects of your route, or maybe this is to do with varying GPS measurements.  This has to be completed within 24 hours in order to qualify for club membership.  Of course that means that for part of the race, you'll be running up (and down) mountains in the dark; this makes the longest day in late June a very popular date to choose.  Joining the club entitles you to a group get-together for dinner.  Every other year.  There has to be an easier way to get a social life, I say.

© Map courtesy of the Bob Graham 24 Hour Club

Colin and friends spent their weekends for months in the Lake District doing reccy, finding pacers sufficiently fit to keep up, planning strategy and the logistics of food and clothing.  Some areas need road shoes, other require fell shoes.  Someone had to do the 'ungodly hour' part to supply food and such in the middle of the night.  He'd planned to do it last year, but things fell through.  However, it all finally came together this year.  Colin did it in 23 hours and one minute.   

I wonder if it niggles him, that one minute.  I've heard many a marathon runner regret going over the aimed for hour by a few seconds.  Colin is quoted as having said at the end, "Never again."

In my experience it's usually best never to say 'Never'.  If he's crackers enough to do it once, I'm guessing there's at least half a chance he'll do it again.

It's a Beach

I was tucked up all cozy in bed, deep into the latest Kinsey Millhone thriller and Bill supplying cups of coffee when a thought of metal drifted through my mind. Seriously. They don't call it 'steely determination' for nothing. Last night I had sort of made a promise to myself I'd go for a run this morning and it looked like I was going to end up keeping it. That metallic thought was telling me to just grit my teeth and get it over with. I was finished with the book in a few pages and proceeded to collect running gear.

It was raining out and the wind had been blowing earlier but I comforted myself it was calmer now. Soon as I was out the door I knew different, it had just shifted direction, coming in from the North East, straight off the sea. Down on the beach I was thinking this was the dumbest idea I'd ever had. The noise of the sea and the incessant, deafening rush of the wind were like two March lions roaring. My arm was insufficient shelter from the needles being driven into my face. At times like this it's always good to lie to yourself. 'You can see the end', I said, 'You only have to make it to the end of the beach, it's right there in front of you.' Of course that was not the end, only the turn around point, but with the wind at my back it had to be easier.

Being lazy, I was down near the surf on the wet part, much more solid and easier to manage than the soft sand at the top. However, this meant dealing with the streams either coming down from inland or created by ravines in the sand, I don't know. To the left of the rocks in front was a pond about calf-deep. I went to the right through the shallower stream feeding the pond. The shock of the cold water through my shoes was almost electric. I could almost imagine the North Sea laughing at my protest that it was supposed to be spring. Still, at least both shoes were wet. I hate it when only one foot is wet, I feel unbalanced. And in some ways the cold of my feet helped offset the heat of my upper half. I had on plenty of layers and I was probably steaming, the outer layer being completely soaked.

Sure enough, as soon as the wind was at my back it faded to a gentle whisper. The rain stopped. As I trudged Mt. Olympus back up to the road I noticed the top portion of my jacket was nearly dry. I passed a bank of grass dotted with thousands of yellow and a few purple crocuses. 'See, sea, it really is spring', but he'd forgotten I existed by then, if he'd ever noticed. Still, the last bit wasn't bad at all.

Bill was waiting for my return to go out on his run, why I'm not certain, but there it is. As he let me in the front door and went to get his jacket he asked 'Was that terrible? Or just awful?'

I had my answer well rehearsed: 'It was lovely'.

Martin's Name is ---

It was just at Christmas that Martin was talking like a runner: about his routines, his goals, what was hard and why he kept at it. Boring, to any but another runner; I was really pleased to see his enthusiasm, especially as one of his Christmas gifts was a pair of technical running socks. He mentioned a 10k race he was going to do. Not thinking about, going to do; he was aiming to get in under an hour. Bill thought it would be good to encourage Martin and so we put this race, near Manchester, on our calendars and duly entered it.

In the intervening time, in fact for the last year or more, Helen and Martin have been redecorating their house in Swinton, a suburb of Manchester. You saw the building of the deck and the acquisition of two dogs. Dogs and decorating seem rather at odds to me, but Martin assures me they are only maniacal when we’re around. It was good fun to visit periodically and admire the lovely new colour

schemes and the new, or improved arrangement of existing, furniture,

the impressive all-new and re-arranged bathroom installed with the help of brother Simon.

It was an increasingly cute house but when they started thinking about extending the kitchen, Simon pointed out that they might not get a return on that investment, maybe they should just look at buying a bigger house. I think he made the comment partly in jest, but that is just what they did.

From a house built in 1920-30s with three small bedrooms, living

and dining areas, a tiny kitchen and a garden shed, they expanded into a new one with four bedrooms (one en suite with shower), living and dining rooms, breakfasting kitchen, utility room, a downstairs toilet (and sink), another full bathroom upstairs, a back garden, a garage, and off-street parking for two cars. I thought it was rather an extravagant way to get out of doing the trail race, but that’s exactly what Martin did: he managed to organise moving day to fall on the race day.

I normally love off road races, but now realize I’ve not normally done them in winter. It was a partial two lap course and so there were large human torpedoes shooting past for a while. I’d not realized this and it took me a long while to come to terms with having to do the course again. Steep and deep are the applicable words: hills one can only tippy-toe up, ankle deep mud that sucks at one’s shoes. I told you about the race where my main goal was to finish without falling down. The aim here was to keep both my shoes. Bill’s GPS indicated that he’d run an extra tenth of a mile, probably in avoiding puddles of unknown depth and seeking slightly more traction-able mud (as if). It would have been a beautiful course through woods and fields in summer, but my money says they don’t do it in good weather; Brits are like that.

Though I’d changed shoes, by the time we drove to Helen & Martin’s old house, the caked slime on my tracksters had dried and there was no way not to leave crumbled mud on the bathroom floor. A nice cup of hot tea had done a lot to restore me and by the time I got out of the hot shower I felt nearly human again. Martin and Helen kept apologizing for the state of the house, but I just told them to give it a rest; I know of no way to move and be tidy for guests at the same time. We went out to a pub for dinner.

The next day we helped Helen unload the loft while Martin went to get his big rental truck with the electric lift on the back. Simon and Rhiannon drove up to assist; Simon didn’t trust them to be able to re-assemble their furniture properly. We sent Helen off to buy some rope or laundry line as the truck company didn’t supply it. Martin had a friend about his size along for help loading the furniture. Martin was clearly excited about the move, bouncing around from this to that. With both H&M very busy at their jobs, there had been little time for preparation and nothing was labelled. I don’t envy them their unpacking. They’ve only taken 2 days off work, the pair of them, and not even the same two days, so the settling in will be gradual. I gather Helen had moved the priority stuff more carefully, ie her clothes. Makes perfect sense to me.

Once I owned Grandmother’s furniture all my moves were planned out with lists and labels, sketches and room measurements to save movers having to do more work than necessary. Before that everything pretty much fit into the back of my 1972 VW Karmann Ghia.

When we left with Bill’s car full to follow Helen and Rhiannon to the new house before we were on our way home, the truck was about a third loaded, an odd mix of furniture and shopping bags with no securing ropes in sight.

I could only hope that Simon’s engineering sense would save them from shattered furniture, but having watched him and Martin move a washing machine full of wet clothes, I wasn’t certain. I have heard of this being done, but thought it a comedy sketch. I never expected to see it in real life.

Starting over again with re-decorating didn’t seem to daunt Helen in the least. She said they’d live with the neutral magnolia walls for a while until inspiration struck (I see purple in their future, that being the colour of the upstairs carpet). Plenty of work to do with getting the garden sorted. The garage will be a playpen for the dogs (at a kennel for a few days) until that is paved, turfed, whatever.

It remains to be seen what will happen to Martin’s Man-Utd posters, relegated to the loft at the old house. I will admit that I witnessed Helen promising Martin a Man-Utd room in the new house before the deal was done;

true, she had a funny smile on her face. I still think she should have left the posters in the loft. By the time he missed them, it would have been far too late to retrieve them...then again, maybe not the best. She'll know better than I what she can get away with.

Oddly enough I remembered having enjoyed moving in the past (I did it 9 times in 11 years once, or was it 11 in 9?). Never more than when moving do I feel so wealthy: one comes face to face with ALL one’s stuff. Also, there is a peculiar sort of nesting pleasure gained from arranging one’s possessions in a new space. It occurred to me that I could replicate this by just removing everything from a room at a time and re-organising, but I don’t have the heart to inflict this on Bill just for my own amusement. We move stuff in and out of the loft on a continual basis as it is. (I just sent another bag off to the RSPCA yesterday).

So, leaving Helen and Rhiannon to await the arrival of the truck, we made our weary way home by way of the Lake District.

I dumped the filthy running shoes on the garage floor next to the washing machine to wait their turn after the running clothes. It’ll all come out in the wash, as they say, but meantime, Martin owes me a hard race. Come to think of it, two excited dogs, bare soil in the back garden and new carpet might even it all out…but I wouldn't wish that on Helen. He'd just better keep training, is all I've got to say.

How Many Halves Make a Goal?

It is a sad fact that as you get older you tend to run more slowly. It does depend on when you start training, mind. I started at 40 and did my best times a few years later. I might have further PBs in me if I worked harder at it, but I have other priorities just now. I mainly just run for health and for fun these days; anything else is gravy.

As I understand it, the muscles can cope with the stresses and strains of hard training for about 15 years before they lose the ability to incorporate more muscle fibre (or something like that). I must admit to being a bit grey on all the specific physiology. One can still run perfectly well, but just not at appreciably faster speeds. We have 60 year olds in the club that used to crank out 6 minute miles and still easily do 8. At my best a few years ago I never got below 8 minute miles for a ten mile race, so it is more genetic than anything; but age does tell.

The thing is, once you aren’t improving your race times and you accept that you aren’t going to, there has to be another motivation. Most of us need some sense of making progress, of improving in some way. Many people just discard all their PB (personal best) race times before a certain age and start over chasing best times since age 50, or some such. Others go over the top with mileage, plodding on for 2 or 3 hours at a time. One guy, Ron Hill, aged 72, has run every single day for the last 46 years, or something crazy like that. Some runs only have lasted 10 minutes, but he hasn’t missed a day even when practically on his death bed. Impressive, but mental.

Then there are the traveling runners. I mentioned, a little while back, the 100 marathon club. This isn’t so much about mileage, I don’t think, as it is about travel. One marathon, 26.2 miles, a week is nothing for your average road runner if that’s all you do. The point about this, besides wearing the t-shirt to the pub, is getting out and seeing the country with your friends. These folks tend to be retired and whilst they are by all means fit, they are just plodding through the miles.The running part sounds hopelessly boring to me, not to mention really expensive for the quality of travel experience one would have.

Our friend, Bob, recently set himself the goal of running 100 half-marathons. This makes a lot more sense to me as a half generally only takes 2 or 3 hours and if you are fit you can have a shower, a good lunch and go back to normal life. Already having 70 under his belt, this is a very realistic goal. I’m guessing he’s been running about 25 years now.

I got to wondering if a person ran 200 half-marathons, would that be the same as being in the 100 Marathon Club? Halves are my favourite race distance, but Bill remarked the other night that he was beginning to favour 10Ks (6.1 miles). I’ve only done 13 half-marathons so far, so 200 is a long way away! Maybe I could just add up the miles on my race log (986 race miles in 14 years) and aim for 2,610 miles, the equivalent of 100 marathons? That might take a while, too.

We runners can spend endless hours poring over running logs and playing with numbers. We really are a boring lot. Good job we have each other to inflict ourselves on.

Racing on Ice

It was easily the stupidest thing I've done all year if not this century. That was my main thought all the way around.


If I've said it. once, I have said it a million times, I don't run when it's icy. It's not worth it to me to train when am risking an injury. So why on earth did I do a 10K race in Yorkshire on snow and ice? Because I had a number, I've done it in the past (different weather) and enjoyed the scenery, Bill and Bob were going, I'd said I was going to do it, all pretty lame excuses.

We literally skated to the start. I nearly didn't even get there, I was so frightened of falling. Just before the race began, one of the marshals announced that yes, it was icy, but so were the town streets and one could break their leg just walking on the sidewalks. Great, I said, I feel really reassured with that. Then the gun went and we were off. The first mile was about the worst. The women around me were swearing a lot and none of us jogged more than a dozen steps at a time, I'm sure. When I finally got to the first mile marker I looked at my watch: 17 minutes!! Ridiculous.

Mind, after that it was beautiful when I could manage a look around. The course went across several snow covered fields that sparkled in the sunshine and through some forested areas that were heavenly. Also down country trails where the only safe place to run was in the crunchy snow on the edges -- you know, where people let their dogs poop, and where all the hedges you might grab are the thorny kind. There was a hill that everyone climbed just about on hands and knees, looking for any purchase that would take them up, not sliding down. That was when I stopped thinking of it as a race, but as an obstacle course instead.

I thought it would be not a race of the quickest but of those least afraid of falling (the winner did it in 38 minutes which everyone deemed impressive -- and suicidal). I was at the back with all the other chicken women but gradually overtook a handful. For all that, there were stretches that were dry and I did manage to relax enough to make use of the advantage.

Some got pretty tired towards the end of the race, given it took so long to finish. I'm sure I did 10 miles, not 10K what with all the detours I took to avoid the ice and find safer ground. In a couple of places marshals had to help me across icy bits. On the last, steeply arched, bridge the marshal wore cleets and literally dragged me over the ice, as he said he'd done everyone.

There were people out having walks and they were good about telling us where it was safest, as did the marshals. One woman remarked, "You are so brave". "Nope, just stupid." was my answer.

My goal was to finish without falling and I made it back in one piece, though I expect that will be the longest 10K I ever run. Good job I'd trained for that half marathon, not for just a 10K. The training stood me in good stead.


Then came the next challenge: the ladies' changing room at the rugby club, next to the men's, was in a concrete building with a stone floor and no heat. The showers were hot and brilliant but of course as soon as you stepped away the floor was so cold it almost burned. Getting dressed I was unbearably slow, being tired, cold and stiff. Two other women came in to change, neither chose to shower. One looked at me and said again that I was brave. I didn't bother to answer. I'd made the decision to get cleaned up because I knew we were going to have a nice pub lunch in town and I didn't want to be sticky and smelly. It is just part doing these races, roughing it to get cleaned up after. This picture was in the ladies' loo in the club house; some sort of tribal custom I guess.


We ended up having a 'carvery' lunch, with servings of both roast beef and roast pork with crackling (and we could have had some chicken chasseur), roast parsnips and potatoes, mashed potatoes, cabbage, carrots, Yorkshire pudding (which is not a sweet but something between pastry and a bread roll), mushy peas and gravy. I didn't pile my plate near as high as Bill and Bob, but it was still a struggle to shovel it all down. But shovel I did, enjoying every bite. Bill noticed this place did a really reasonable meal at New Year's Eve and we might go there next year.


I did manage to snap a few pictures from the road, but I mostly slept on the way home.

Wet Med Half

If it all started badly it was completely my fault. Not finding the photocopy of my passport until later, I put it in the scanner to make a copy – and left it there. I only came to realize this at 5:26 am after we’d picked up Bob and were almost to the airport. After I’d ransacked my purse to be certain, Bob pointed out we still had 30 minutes to get home and return to the airport. Don’t you know we all silently watched the numbers on the clock and the speedometer, cursed every slow car and damned the red lights. I did my mad dash up and down the stairs, house keys in hand, and Bill pulled into an airport car parking slot at 6:01. As we had checked in online and had no luggage, we just joined the security queue with our carry-on bags. By the time we sat down on the plane 30 minutes later we were all very awake, wide-eyed with adrenalin.

We were on our way to do a half-marathon race in Europe. I won’t say where because I try to be anonymous here and race results are published on the internet, but it was on the Mediterranean and when Bob had done it a few years ago it was in sunny, 60 F./ 16 C degree weather. It was a fateful run for him as he took a bad fall that eventually required surgery to correct the damage done to his neck. Not one to be put off, he was going back and it would be his 69th half-marathon proper, i.e., races 13.1 miles / 21 kilometres long. It was Bill’s and my first half for over 3 years.

Over the years the three of us have traveled to many races together and we fell into the companionable pattern I find quite comfortable. If Bill spaces out, Bob is still focused. If Bob gets uptight, Bill knows how to make him relax. On the odd occasion when they both panic, that’s when I remain calm. They follow me picking up what I drop and carrying what I can’t. I find three brains carry the travel burden more easily than two and guarding the luggage whilst others visit the shops or the loo becomes that much simpler. We often share a family room to make the travel cheaper. It may sound very odd, and the occasional hotel staff has eyed me suspiciously it is true, but my first year with the running club was a real eye-opener.

I wouldn’t say the bus that took us to races was quite like the women’s changing room at the gym where most disrobe more or less in plain sight. It’s more like a co-ed changing room where everyone strips off under a towel or a t-shirt or behind a bench. I suppose if you wanted to look there would be plenty to see, but everyone seems to avert their eyes and get on with changing from wet and sweaty to dry, warm clothes with a quick semi-wash in between. Any long (2-3 hour) Sunday morning training run invariably involved jogging in circles while some member of the group or other dashed into the bushes for a moment, coming out hurriedly tucking and tugging at clothes. One just gets used to these things and as long as everyone is courteous it works just fine. At least in hotel rooms Bob and I can take turns changing clothes in the bathroom, infinitely more civilized, not to mention comfortable. I suspect other odd groups of runners in the club are similar. When we travel with single men and woman Bill and I have split and shared rooms to save them single supplement charges (ie, a couple pay say £50 for a room; a single would pay £25 plus maybe £15 single supplement. It's not exactly fair, but that’s how it is over here).

Anyhow, the next hiccup was at our destination when the battery in the tour operator’s bus was dead.


Everyone got out and the guys gave it a push start. The hotel lobby was lovely, decorated with loads


of poinsettias for Christmas. Our room was at the far end of the first floor and it was glacial. The heater seemed to only heat itself and not much more.


We walked the half mile or so to the location of the start/finish as Bob remembered it, but as a new stadium had been built in the interim we weren’t sure about this being the same. I had a burning pain in the front of my left shin that worried me. Shin splints only improve with rest and I was upset that the dash up the stairs, the long sit on the plane or some other unknown factor would prevent me from doing the race for which I’d done up to 2¾ hour training sessions in the dark, wet evenings.

That night the tour rep seemed more intent on standing in front of an audience with his mic and visiting with old chums and clients than on giving out our race numbers. We were consequently late to dinner and having been up since 4 am I was so irritable I could hardly stand myself. We did our usual preparations before bed, pinning race numbers on shirts and lacing electronic chips onto our shoes, laying out clothes, etc. In spite of the fact that the room was still freezing and I put the blanket and my coat over the bedspread for warmth, it was a relief to be horizontal and finally drop off to sleep.


The next day the weather was almost as forecasted: 9 degrees C / 48 F and breezy winds but not quite what I’d call heavy rain, just very persistent. We were all given green bin bags with holes for head and arms to wear down to the start. I always find being in a sea of adults so dressed a bit surreal, but I suppose that is part of the fun of participating. I had thankfully brought winter running kit and was reasonably comfortable, which obviously marks me as less than competitive. I’d rather pull off layers when too warm and tie the arms around my waist than shiver miserably at the start. The front runners seem to insist on bra tops and bikini bottoms with gloves and blue skin. It’s enough to make a person grateful to be slow.

I felt pretty good for the first half, no injury niggled at all. The second half was hard work as I knew it would be and the last few kilometers a struggle. I did manage a finishing sprint of sorts around the race track to the finish line. I was well pleased with my time, 2:18. Bill and Bob had a good race between them, with Bob finishing just in front of Bill. Bill has always been the faster runner, but as Bob has consistently done the endurance training, it is never certain who will finish first. They both finished within seconds at around 1:52, just under my best ever half marathon time of 1:53. Though they were both relatively pleased with their race times, that information gave them both pause to consider how much slower they have become.

We all walked back to the hotel and took turns showering. Then down to the bar for a bit of anesthetic and then an afternoon nap to rest the weary legs. We enjoyed our buffet dinner, eating far more than was wise,


but skipped the post-race party which was due to start at 10pm, our bedtime. All in all, I can’t say that the tour group we used added much value for us. The race was organized by the local town council to promote off season tourism and I would consider doing it again, as it was a reasonably good course. I wouldn’t bother with the tour rep, however, as we could do our own race entry and hotel booking and get a taxi from the airport.

That afternoon Bob discovered that a patio door hidden behind a curtain by his bed out in the hallway was not latched. The small draft being shut off aided the heater enormously; enough so that during the night I was able to remove the two layers of clothing I’d added to my PJs. It wasn’t the first time we’ve traveled off season to the Med and I’ve slept in my clothes. I started to type ‘to stay warm’ but there was a whole week in the Algarve where I never did get warm; I still can’t laugh about that experience.

Our return journey was more complicated because of Easy Jet having cancelled the direct flight after we’d committed to do the race. Instead we flew into London’s Stansted, took a train into London, another train back up to Newcastle, and the metro back to the airport to our car. I was enchanted by the London Liverpool train


station, having never seen it before. Bill uses it often for work trips by train and we would have spent time there admiring the architecture but Bob was keen to be at Kings Cross, ready for the next train. I love Kings Cross as well, but didn’t take pictures as it was all bundled up in scaffolding and plastic. You’ll know just what it looks like however, if you are familiar with Platform 9¾ from Harry Potter films. Carrying my bag up and down stairs at the train stations was rather challenging, but doable. We’d spotted the marathon runners at the first airport by their weary limps. We had about a 9 hour journey all told, but were still home sooner than if we’d waited for the connecting flight.

As I said, I’m pleased with my time – I’d have settled for 2½ hours, so 2:18 is great. The last time I attempted a half marathon 3 years ago, I didn’t finish. The first mile was uphill and did me in just trying to keep anyone in sight. Half way around a lovely man jogged along with me explaining that he had just turned something like 76 and didn’t mind being last, so I didn’t have to be. I could bear to be last, but not to take 3 hours and not to have this nice old man wait for me. I caught the sweeper bus back to the start, rather than keep everyone waiting another hour to go home.

Half-marathons were once my favourite racing distance and I would like to remain fit enough to finish as well as I did this weekend. I don’t want running to take over my life again, but I may be tempted to see if I can whittle down that 18 minutes a bit…

Racing the Sun

If you’re a runner I can tell you that after having a training buddy and a goal, the next best thing to have is a blog. For one, you can bore everyone rigid discussing your training regime; also, during those long solitary trudges one can mentally compose and discard any number of posts.

Continuing up the Northumberland coast, for my long runs I drove up to Druridge Bay. I realize it’s daft and extravagant to drive this 40 mile round trip, but the coast line is the carrot that has kept me going this far. I’ve been to Druridge Bay a couple of other times and remembered its stunning beauty. The first time was to take a university colleague to visit a burial site for foot and mouth carcasses. We had to put on paper suits and rubber boots and get our feet sprayed with disinfectant before leaving. The irony of slaughtering the animals to start, then burning and burying them at a nationally designated site of outstanding natural beauty…never mind, that’s a rant for another day. The second time was when Bill and I cycled up there and back once, in my much fitter days.

My plan, which I discussed with Bill, was to park in the designated car park and run north on the cycle trail, perhaps reaching Amble, then to turn around and come back. In the event, the car park turned out to be just a small dead end road with a potholed loop at the end with maybe a dozen cars strung along the sides. I didn’t find a trail extending north from the car park, just a gate to a field without any signposts. Also, the long drive made my first priority to find a loo. Near entrance to this road, overlooking the beach, was a large concrete bunker surrounded by sand dunes and with no observable entrance. I decided the ladies’ room was a sheltered corner of the structure. My running club has taught me to do shocking things, I know.

Then, as beaches often do, this one pulled me out to admire its graceful curve, its blue and white waves, its long sweep of clean tan sand with only 2 or 3 other people in the distance. The sun was bright and the sound of the rushing water seductive. So I ran north along the beach, crossing a couple of streams that left me ankle-wet, but none the worse. At the end of that cove I found a trail that connected me to the signposted bicycle trail I was supposed to be on and I followed that through a village, Low Hauxley, and out the other end. I was passed by a couple of cyclists and I passed some ramblers, chatting away, coming the opposite way.

It wasn’t until I came into sight of Amble, approaching my 68 minute turnaround time, that I started to worry about the angle of the sun. I had used the rain that morning to justify my usual late start. This hadn’t mattered much the previous week, but now my run was a little longer and the day a little shorter. Neither country lanes nor bike trails are lit at night and I certainly didn’t have a flashlight with me (nor a map or a phone). Going back via the beach might not be an option as I’d no idea when the tide should be in or what those streams would look like on my I return.

As soon as I turned I realized I’d had such an easy run because of a strong tail wind and a slight downhill course, both very much against me now. I was occasionally lifted onto the verge of the trail mid-stride. Even when the trail curved, the side-wind stole the breath before I could suck it and let me near fall in the lull. The low sun was blinding. I pushed as well as I could, raising my hand to see the way forward. I knew vaguely how far I’d come as I’d noted the times at various landmarks on the way up and I was somewhat comforted by the sight of the occasional dog walker, or pram pusher, also lone women. However, I thought, they probably knew precisely how to get back to their car.

I felt on course as long as the sun was in front or to the right; when the trail curved inland I chickened out and headed for the cliffs overlooking the beach. I took the sand trail between the clumps of tall razor grass. The tide was still out a ways, but there was no access down, not that I thought it a good idea with dusk approaching. To the right was a long drop into a field surrounded with barbed wire, but no visible trail. High on the ridge I was easy prey for the wind and I clutched at the grasses to keep my balance. The meandering trails sometimes ended and I had to hunt another. It dawned on me that these were not man-made but naturally occurring: no guarantee of a logical route. I couldn’t run on the sand, but my adrenalin kept me pushing hard. Bill was going to be worried if I was late. If the worst happened and I wasn’t on the bike trail, how would he find me?

Thankfully, I spotted some ramblers ahead of me on the next hill, the very ones I’d passed earlier. I didn’t know if they could see me, but I scurried along to catch up with them, hoping that our sand trails would connect. The relief when I caught them was immense. They were all about my age, but dressed in walking boots, gloves and lined water proof jackets. The two men stopped for a moment and I passed them and tucked in behind the women, who later stopped to point something out in the distance. When they invited me to pass, I admitted I didn’t know where I was going, that I’d been relieved to have found them. They said they, too, had been unable to find the trail they were seeking. Being lost at dusk with strangers was still a huge advance on being alone! I had put my water-resistant jacket back on, but had to keep the hem bunched in my hand to keep from billowing up and flying away. We came to a deep ravine, one of the streams I’d crossed, and another older gentleman took our hands to help us make the leap across.

We were soon approaching their car. I was explaining about the concrete bunker I’d thought would be a landmark (not mentioning the pit stop) but they hadn’t seen one. One of the women kindly reassured me that they would 'see me safe'. As it turned out the 2 cars left at the end of the lane were theirs and mine! I thanked them profusely and ran towards my car.

The flashing of the tail lights when I clicked my keyring were as cheery as a Christmas tree. The water and banana on the seat beside me were delicious. The car heater soon had me toasty. I noted the time I got in the car: 3:39. The streetlights came on as I drove home. I made the decision then to run from home the next week, on the road sides with traffic and street signs and lights and all.

Newcastle Town Moor Marathon

It wasn’t too cold, just cold enough to lose the feeling in one’s fingers. It wasn’t very windy, just with gusts enough to clear the table of filled cups. It wasn’t really raining, there was just the odd shower to dampen the outside of clothing and to keep the ground muddy. Not too bad a day to run a marathon. However, given that this


was 5 times around the Town Moor, parts of which are quite exposed and windy, and 5 times around anything is boring when one desperately needs new vistas to pull one along; as each person passed yet another time, my enduring thought was “Hey, better you than me.” I could probably come up with 95 other marathons I’d rather do, not that I want to do any just now. I’ll be lucky to finish the next half marathon we’ve committed to do next month.

Bill set up the club tent and the club banner and I helped set up the drinks table. After the race


started we Bill and I just stood out there along with Bob and about 10 other silly souls, holding out a choice of water or orange squash and saying “Well done!” or (in my case as it is apparently Very American) “Good job!” to people. I even told several they were “Looking good,” which in some cases was a lie. I would never say “Keep it up!” because they already want but may not be able to; I also avoid “Only XXX to go” because in my experience whatever distance that is, it’s too far to contemplate with any joy.

The fact that there were at least six of us holding cups out for the one or two runners straggling by, and saying the same thing to the same people 5 times made it a bit farcical, but I suppose there are worse ways to spend a Sunday than to support Newcastle’s first Town Moor Marathon. We took turns filling cups, offering drinks, picking up trash, fetching coffee (mainly to warm hands) and going to the loo.


I learned that one of our club members is involved in the online running community of Runners World magazine and ‘knew’ several of the runners that he got to meet in person. Also, I learned of the existence of the 100 Marathon club. I noticed most of the members in Newcastle that day were older. I walked along with Superman to the café before the race


started. He volunteered that this was his 151st marathon, he had traveled up from London to compete and he had so far raised over £49,000 for charity. As soon as they got home from Newcastle that evening, many of the runners wrote George, the race organiser, thanking him and even saying they wanted to do it again next year!

The man who came last clocked in just under the 5½ cutoff point. He also wrote and thanked George. Turns out he walked a good part of the marathon, having celebrated his 62nd birthday the night before with more enthusiasm than sense. It is well known amongst runners that speed is the gift of youth, but endurance comes with age. Makes sense, doesn’t it?


Having been involved in a group to look at organising a local race, I do appreciate that weekend shopping, increasing road traffic, changing roles of the police (who no longer want to be involved in road closures) and tightening budgets of local authorities (who now delegate responsibility to companies who do traffic management for profit) have all put a choke hold on road racing. Without the sizable pocket book of Brendan Foster (who is behind the Great North Run) or the political clout of the London Marathon (whose profits all go to support leisure centres in the London boroughs), many old races are being killed off and new ones are pushed off road or reduced to running in circles. It is regrettable, races being a huge motivator for many runners, but we’ll just have to be more creative and perhaps in time the public and political will may change. In the meantime, I’ve deleted my tirade about public health and public policy, and about nitwits in the national organization dedicated to get more runners involved in clubs in order to get more money for elite and Olympic athletes.

I decided just to tell you we had a good day out with friends.

Adventures in Exercise

If anyone wonders, I’m still doing long runs – or rather, doing them again. When we got back from Australia I picked up my route up the coast where I’d left off in Blyth. I have to say that the next few runs weren’t particularly photogenic. In fact, some of it was quite ugly. Cambois beach is nice enough, though my main impression was that if I ever wanted to collect sea-smoothed rocks, this was the place. Unfortunately the rest of that run was down Dog Poo Lane and along a public footpath along a tall spiked fence with frequent threats to parents that any child en caught trespassing would be hung by their little toes, which is fair enough. The only attractive place I saw was a wooded area and I got so engrossed looking through the trees that I turned my ankle in a pothole. You can keep Cambois as far as I’m concerned.

The next week, I started at the bottom of the beach at Newbiggin-by-the-sea. That beach was also pleasant enough, though it wasn’t rocks but a whole new wardrobe one could collect there. I resisted the temptation for once and left the wet, sand encrusted articles. I stopped a man and his grandson to ask where was the library, as it would have a public toilet. He pointed to the loo I’d just passed, but I said I didn’t have any coins with me. He explained where I’d find the library, but while doing so fished a 20p coin out of his pocket and handed it to me. I thanked him profusely and thought he was setting a fine example for his grandson.

Once around the point at the top of the beach, I found a muddy trail that went past a “caravan” site on which I had to trespass to get past the ‘dangerous cliff’ area. (That’s “mobile home” in American, and they are generally located at seaside locations for use as vacation homes). For a mile or so beyond that I ran between a huge golf course and the cliffs over looking the sea. It didn’t look like a good idea to climb down the rocks to the beach, so I just kept going. Already I wasn't really keen to come back the way I'd come. I could see some sort of industrial site ahead and hoped the trail ended up in a nice friendly car park. No such luck. Instead I found myself behind another tall spiked fence, this one belonging to Alcan’s power station at Lynemouth. Fortunately, I managed to squeeze out between the gatepost and some big uneven blocks and escape out onto the road, thinking this wasn't a very dignified thing to do at my age. From there it was pleasant enough, if you like paths along the highway, which I did after what I’d been through.

The next week I was determined to stay on a recognizable road. I started at the south end of Lynemouth village, just beyond the power station, and ran north towards Cresswell, except that the road first went south and then curved around. Fine by me. I ran past fields full of horses, with glimpses of the sea between dunes.

Once into Cresswell village, I was seduced by the beach and it was gorgeous, with only one other person – and their dog – on the whole stretch that was visible. Sadly, I’ve watched too many scary movies and so I decided to leave the beach before I got down to the end where the other person was. There was no pavement and the road was only a two lanes so I ran facing the traffic and stepped onto the lumpy verge as the odd car passed. I passed a couple of road-side campers, a bird-watcher with binoculars and a sign warning that cows with calves could be aggressive.

As my hour out was finishing, I set my sights on a small house at the top of the next hill. It turned out to be only a stone hut with a chimney. It was possibly something to do with lambing season, though I didn’t see any sheep around. I still had another minute or two to go, and it turned out the next marker I could find was a big farming complex with a sign outside, which was good. It would be useful to track where I went on a map and measure the paltry distance I covered.

I turned around at the farm house which is also Calico Barn, open Tuesday through Saturday to sell quilting and patchwork supplies. The Cresswell area is pretty enough I wouldn’t mind driving up there sometime to see what they have and snapping a few pictures for you. In the meantime, we’ll just have to settle for the links I’ve found. On the way back I passed a field of cows, but with no calves in sight. The ones near the fence all seemed to take notice when I passed and one was particularly nervous. Having read the sign I was, too; I’m not sure which one of us jumped sideways the furthest.

Our neighbours across the street have a King Charles springer spaniel who isn’t really as old as he acts. When he is headed home from his walk, he could star in a dog food commercial, he runs so happily and carefree. Heading out is another matter. I’ve seen him sit on his fat rear and make the grandmother drag him down the street, he’s so lazy. I know just how he feels. I made it back to the car 14 minutes short of my two hours. However, years ago when I was training regularly with Bob, I learned that if you say you are going to do 2 hours, nothing less will really do. So, I trudged past my car through Lynemouth village long enough to turn around and end up at the car at 2 hours.

I just managed the drive home. The heating hadn’t come on in the house yet, so I had no choice but to hop right away into the shower. I was so trashed, that run was the only useful thing I did all day.

(Note: apologies to anyone who thought today was Pat's birthday. I scheduled it on the wrong date. He'll have to wait another couple of days to be yet another year older...)

90 - Part IV

I know a lot of runners who don't like the idea of out and back routes; they think that's boring. However, I often find that things look entirely different when approached from a different angle. Also, in the second part of a run I like knowing exactly how far I have to go to get back.

You remember St. Mary's lighthouse?


The wooden walls along the beach are called groynes; they are to keep sand in place. Hard to imagine what the place would look like without the beach -- a bunch of rocks, I suppose. There is a race that takes place along this beach and I'm told that depending upon the tide, it might or might not include climbing over these things. Sounds pretty daft to me, but we did one called Ducks and Drakes in Linconshire one year that was similar. There was a five-mile stretch where you had to climb over stile at every mile, which involved queuing up. It was a crazy, muddy race and we loved it. Mind, stiles don't have barnacles and slimy seaweed all over them.


In the middle of this picture, in the far distance, the line of trees is broken by a brown stone structure. I stopped and asked a man what it was. He was a bit startled, being in the midst of picking up after his dog; however, he told me it was Delaval Hall. I hadn't realised the Hall was visible from the coast. It gave me the idea to show you that place, which is pretty amazing.

I was noticing that rather than the dropped gloves of winter, this is sock season. For some reason I'm not as compelled to pick those up and craft with them, I guess there are limits to my thrift. I also noticed a lot of rabbit holes around, but the bunnies stayed well tucked into the dunes. There is one here if you look for his big round eye.


These grey skies are what my run started with. There is something dramatic about the placement of houses so near the sea, particularly one that is usually so rough as the North Sea.


The larger building on the right is the King's Arms Pub, built in the mid 1800s; the building on the right is across the sluice on Rocky Island. Seaton Sluice was a welcome sight; almost back to the car!


One of the first places Bill took me years ago was to the Waterford Arms for fish and chips. I was astonished at the size of the fish that hung off both sides of the plate.


There are many pictures on the Internet of this crazy crenellated tower house, but it wasn't until I went looking for information about the King's Arms that I found that it was originally built as the Harbour Office sometime before 1750. It is now a private home.


I just about couldn't stop taking pictures of the water at Collywell Bay....something about the sea being blue and the waves being white. You can tell I grew up in a landlocked state, can't you?


On top of that, the sun was shining and I'd just finished another long run. What contentment!