HP40: RUNNING WITH THE TWIRLER (and other assorted nutters)

Right then – where do I begin?

This is an experience to which I won’t be able to do full justice. And that’s not for want of trying: that’s never the case. But Saturday was about so much, gave me so much… that I will only be able to capture some of it.

‘This’, of course, being the High Peak 40 Challenge – a 40mi race in the Peak District, which I ran on September 21, 2013. Two days short of the anniversary of my first ever race*, last year’s TenTenTen. From 6.2mi to 40… if you’re preparing for your first 10k just beware, this could happen to you!

When I ran in Sheffield, I did so with two of my cousins, Natalie and Joe. I say ‘with’… Nats was comfortably ahead of me, Joe comfortably (-ish) behind me. A third cousin, Oliver, pulled out on the day. Before and after the race, it was a family affair as some of my aunts and uncles joined us to enjoy the timeless hospitality of Sheffield’s Endcliffe Park. But the three of us who ran had entered the race with different motives. Natalie raced regularly; I was on my journey; Joe thought it would be fun. Or so he did when he signed up, anyway. The three of us didn’t see each other once the gun had gone.

Saturday… well, Saturday was far more of a shared running experience. Ten of us had been exchanging tweets and e-mails of encouragement and planning for months. I pretty much turned up and ran: Martin H., Mike, Philip and Simon had enrolled the assistance of wives and fiancées to support us along the way, having spent plenty of e-mails (and pints) planning it all. To all of them, I am grateful.

Before I go any further, let me list the team in full:

Matt, Philip, Martin H., Simon, Gia, Mike,
Chris, Andrew, Martin B. and Trevor:
I'd go into battle with this lot any day.

RUNNING CAST:

Bown, Martin

Dakin, Matthew

Fletcher, Andrew

Hookway, Martin

Kelly, Philip

Marritt, Christopher

Squintani, Giacomo

Walkden, Simon

Watson, Trevor

Wells, Michael

SUPPORTING CAST:

Bown, Tina

Bown, Isabella

Bown, Josh

Chapman, Sarah

Hookway, Susan

Kelly, Judith

Kelly, Lucy

Walkden, Rachel

Walkden, Samuel

In an ideal world, we’d have all run as one team. But, over such a distance, that would never have worked. So Mike and Trevor had drawn up four sub-teams (or ‘buddy groups’, as Mike nicely put it):

1. Mike, Martin H (a late addition) and Gia (that’s me, for non-runners)
2. Simon and Trevor
3. Matt and Chris
4. Martin B and Philip

(What, no Andrew? No. Andrew had freedom to roam ahead and fly the flag.)

This arrangement was of paramount importance to me, as it was the first time I’d run the course. Andrew and Mike had run it last year, coming home in 7h27’ and 8h33’ respectively. But even those setting out to tackle the 40-mile course in its full glory for the first time had run either the first or the second half in the summer, joining up for reccies. Yours truly, stuck down here on the edges of the heart of darkness, could but look at photographs and Strava records, training on tarmac and the occasional spot of trail…

…this made it all the more humbling that Mike offered to run with me. Sure, I’d logged miles aplenty in the summer: if we define it by applying the traditional dates of June 21 - September 20, I’d logged 926.65 of them. But these were suburban miles. With 43,844ft of elevation, I’d averaged 47.3ft of ascent per mile. You may or may not have a clue as to whether that’s a lot or not, so here’s a little perspective: on September 21, that ratio was 135.2. That’s right: 2.86 times what I’d averaged over the summer. Hope that helps.

But enough ratios. Now for some dates. My journey to Buxton had begun… had begun…

…well, I’d signed up on July 11. So I’d given myself 72 days to train, notwithstanding that I was in decent shape when I committed. What I lacked, alongside trail experience, was experience of going beyond a marathon. I put that right on August 7, with a 30.2-mi, pre-dawn (well, some of it) run. That day, my ascent ratio was 42.4ft/mi: so a good exercise in terms of preparing the mind to go a few extra miles, but of little value in preparing the legs to tackle Derbyshire’s hills. 5h07’ felt like a decent length of time, but Buxton and its surrounding areas were going to demand a lot more of mind and legs…

Summer training was nonetheless geared towards HP40. Pace was often sacrificed, hence a disappointing Bristol Half and concerns ahead of Chester. My priority number one for the second half of 2013 was clear: a decent ultra. On unfamiliar territory, from a runner’s perspective: I’d visited most of the course on summer holidays, but not for some time and not with any running intent. Fortunately, I was well aware of this, and never dreamt of putting my tarmac miles on a par with these hills, of assuming the transition would be seamless. That would have been a nightmare.

As for getting to Buxton in terms of race logistics, I left home around midday on Friday, September 20. Bus to central Bristol, bus to Temple Meads, train up to Sheffield… only the train to Sheffield was half an hour late leaving and then spent an extra half hour at Birmingham New Street, so that it could be classed as the subsequent service and seemingly be on time! Grrr… anyway, Simon and Martin B found a way of killing time and waited patiently for me at Sheffield Train Station. I got in the car only for the Arctic Monkeys’ “AM” to come on the CD player… as if there were any doubt as to where I was!

The journey to Simon’s featured a brief pit stop at a nearby Tesco. Many a word had been exchanged across the ether in figuring out what food was required for these here forty miles. I’d set off with plenty of Clif Bars, Clif Shot Bloks and assorted cereal bars: but I always planned on buying some pork pies after the train journey. Martin took a minute or so longer to gather crisps and other stuff, and we were promptly on our way to Simon’s – where Rachel warmly greeted us!

De-shoed, Martin and I checked into our respective rooms. Sounds like a hotel, doesn’t it? Own rooms, towel on the bed, dinner, breakfast – what’s missing?

Nothing was missing. But hotels don’t come with warmth, conversation and support. This was the perfect way to spend the evening before my first Ultra. We had a lovely conversation over a delicious meal: yup, pasta! But good pasta, better than I’ve had in all but one ‘Italian’ restaurants in this country (and a darn sight better than my pre-Greater Manchester one in Sheffield!). It was great that Sam sat at the table with us, engaging in conversation with these two strange adults (as well as Martin and me!) in a way that I can but hope Roberto and Daniel will, in due course. Over the course of the two days all the kids of #TeamNutters were a credit to their parents – and that’s no small achievement. One that puts forty miles into perspective.

We retired around 11pm, Simon and Martin all the better for respective drinks of wine and beer whereas I stuck to orange juice and tea. After some debating, we agreed we’d leave at 6:15 the following morning. Trevor, who’d be coming round to head to Buxton in the Simonmobile, wasn’t overly impressed about the revised timing, specifying quite clearly that we were not to expect “sparkling conversation” at that time of the day. Heck, if bringing sparkling conversation were a requirement to attend any gathering, I’d never get out of the house!

We arrived at Buxton Community School in good time, greeted by Andrew and Matt, and got ourselves registered. I’m used to turning up with my race number already pinned to my shirt, not least because I’m hopeless at sorting this out – but I just about managed. I was also handed a card to wear around my neck for the checkpoints – a first! Oh, and my t-shirt and badge. A bit underwhelming, as you’d not really expect to get your prize before the race – but something that made perfect sense for organisers who already had enough on their plates (and I don’t just mean flapjack!). Anyway…

…we met, we got ready… wondered where Mike was… went to the toilet… wondered where Mike was… met Martin B and Susan… got back to the main school building to find Mike wondering where I was… shifted things from one bag to the other (or was that just me?)… met Mike and Sarah… we went to the toilet… and, with anticipation and trepidation, we made our way towards the start.

Now, this is the stage where any self-respecting blog post on the topic would talk you through the stages… through at least some of the forty miles we ran…

…truth is, I’m hopeless at that sort of stuff. I have memories of sections we ran, but couldn’t necessarily put them in order, let alone associate them with any specific landmark. I remember the calm of the Wye, the fog of Mam Tor, happy children’s faces along the Monsal Trail… I remember chatting to fellow racers recounting their ultra experiences, but only Alex seemed to be running her first like me… although she had done Ironmans (Ironmen?) before… but that’s about it, in terms of detail. What I can tell you, however, is this:

THE BEGINNING: WALK DON’T RUN

We walked more than I expected. Early on, there were hills up which, on a training run, I’d have… well, run. Indeed, had I been on my own, I’d have probably run them. Not sprinted: just jogged. At a pace not that quicker than a good walking pace, which is what we kept. In the process, we also kept some energy in reserve for later. Fortunately, Mike kept my instincts in check. The fact that nobody else in sight was running was also a clue, but it’s Mike whom I followed.

(I’ve listed another couple of HP40-related blogs at the end of this one. They score better on the route-describing bit. They could hardly fare worse.)

In the build-up to my first ultra, I’d been given three very clear pieces of advice by people who’d run one (or more) before – and was therefore on the lookout for the perils of:

1. Descents

2. Not eating enough

3. Not walking enough

Getting up the hills didn’t scare me. Sorry, let me clarify that: I knew it would be blinkin’ hard, that it would take a lot out of me, that my legs would pay for it for days, but I didn’t envisage inuring myself in the process to an extent I’d not be able to complete the challenge. Moreover, I’d trained for it – if in a South Westerly, roadie kinda way. It was the going down that truly worried me, not least as a result of my choice of pre-HP40 literature. Mike and others had been raving for some time about Richard Haskwith’s “Feet In The Clouds”, which is both a personal account and a history of fell running. Engrossing as tales of runners flying down the sides of Lake Districts mountains are, when you’re heading for the Peak District having never honed such skills they had a roadrunner like me worried. Add to this that Trevor had made it very clear that we were all to pack an emergency blanket because “Hypothermia can kill!” and I was beginning to question the wisdom of my venture… I’d been clocking the miles, I’d logged two non-consecutive weeks of running over a hundred of them, but I’d not been on an army training course!

It became apparent ahead of the day that the weather was set to be reasonably clement towards us. That wasn’t to say we’d treat nature with any less respect for it: I’d packed my foil blanket (sorry – checked with Mike that he had one) and was all set. But this downhill business… I was going to have to… er, ‘wing’ it – and not in a speedy sense!

(On one of the descents, I found myself mimicking an action I perfected a looong time ago…

…my favourite sport, the one sport for which I believe I have natural ability, is skiing. That said, I’ve not skied in a decade, when I last donned my jeans and coat in the Alps with my Dad. But, as I ran not in a straight line but side to side, jumping up to change direction… all of a sudden I felt like I was skiing again. It felt good. And it just about worked!)

Looking out into the distance with Martin H.
- if only the weather had been as bright as his socks!

THE MIDDLE: A DETOUR
No, we didn’t get lost! Well, not at this stage, anyway!

I just wanted to take a detour to commit to screen one reason why I’d even contemplated an ultra. Some of the advice outlined above came from a former boss of mine, Kevin Tingey. We still work together, I just no longer report into him. But I still think of him as “The Boss”, in a Bruce Springsteen / Tony Soprano kinda way. Partly because he’s from Yorkshire (Hull) (it WAS Yorkshire when he was born!), partly because of his imposing figure and partly because, over the course of eight years, he’s earnt both the Boss and the friend tags. He was the first person with whom I discussed fell racing, by the way. It was shortly after I’d run Greater Manchester, when he casually dropped into conversation that, whilst playing rugby Up North, some of his team-mates and he had signed up to a fell race taking part a fortnight later, as a bet – to prove they were fit… I can never recall the exact figures but I think it was a 60-miler that felt more like three marathons once ascent had been factored in. His look as he told me this was probably as defiant as it had been when he’d taken on that bet. What he described sounded scary, crazy and one helluvanachievement. As he retold the story, the satisfaction of winning that bet, of ticking that box was still evident. It wasn’t long after that that I printed off the entry forms for HP40. And not long after that that I binned them and filed the idea in my ‘2014’ drawer. It took a mad evening on Twitter for me to print them off again. But I digress…

…just one unrelated addition: on the morning of July 5, while staying near Birmingham for a two-day meeting, I joined Kevin for breakfast. He asked me how many miles I’d run that morning (this is now a regular conversation starter when I’m away with colleagues) and my response was “13.6”. He instantly realised that was just over a half marathon: and, having initially looked a little shocked, he soon remembered I’d been up to some crazy stuff and proffered a less shocked: “Mind you, that’s probably the length of a typical training run for you these days, isn’t it?”. It wasn’t… but, over the sixty days between the following Monday (08/07) and the Sunday before I started tapering for HP40 (09/09), I did run thirteen point one miles or more on 33 occasions… Kev’s comment may have had some bearing over my initial embracing of the training distance – things just got out of hand a little. As they tend to do, with me.

Back in the Peak District, we were seeing some signs of life at this stage. I’ve always enjoyed trips to Castleton – it was just unusual to go through it rucksack on back and running! Around this time, beautiful stone buildings called ‘pubs’ were emanating the sweet aroma of Sunday lunch, albeit twenty-four hours early… the thought of cheers and pints as the soundtrack to the stories unfolding inside dancing in my brain… yet resolutely I carried on, one foot in front of the other without deviating, resisting the multi-sensory temptation. And that is not an achievement to belittle.

 

THE END: THE LAST THIRTEEN POINT ONE
At the marathon stage, in Tideswell, we met Sarah at a checkpoint and left our rucksacks with her. By then we’d parted company with Martin, but we did see him arrive at the checkpoint as we left. Sue took care of him: she’d later go on to run with him for 10k (and she hardly chose the easiest 10k of the route!). That he overcame his illness and go on to finish was one of the day’s brightest stories – if not quite as bright as his socks!

So – just the small matter of a half marathon to go… a distance I’d covered plenty of times in training…

…off Mike and I went, down a quiet country lane. Quiet but for some cows, that is… fortunately we made the right choice as the road split, thereby finding ourselves the other side of a stream from them! Our tired minds had another choice to make a few miles later. Failing to recognise the surroundings and alarmed by his Garmin that we had seemingly veered off track, Mike flew in the face of gender stereotypes by asking a mature gentleman whether we were heading the right way. Calling upon all the wisdom of his years, he politely pointed out that he didn’t know. The fact that he didn’t know where we wanted to go might well have been a factor; fortunately, however, he did recall spotting a couple of bright pink signs that had eluded our attention…

…so we ran back a couple of hundred yards and crossed a bridge, much to the delight of the Garmin. And ours, trust me.

Shortly after, we squelched into the thirty mark. Mike kindly pointed out that I had officially become an ultrarunner. There is no official definition of ‘ultra’ other than “more than a marathon”, although the accepted wisdom is that you really ought to run at least an additional 3.8mi for the difference to be significant. I’d run 30mi in training, but didn’t feel that had made an ultrarunner of me: I always maintained I needed to achieve the feat in a race. And I did so with ten miles to spare on Saturday: Mike and I shook hands and I offered one of his defining twirls in acknowledgement. It occurred to me soon after to enquire as to whether a DNF after 30 miles would still entitle me to ultrarunner status, but I didn’t trouble him. He might have thought I was worried about not finishing, which I wasn’t. Not at any stage before or during: I was always going to finish. I just have the sort of quizzical mind whereby that kind of conundrum needs resolving. Answers on a tweet.

Eight miles into our third and final half marathon, we reached what he’d labelled “The Road To Hell”. On any other day, it would be a perfectly typical undulating stretch of tarmac. Upon seeing it, I wondered what the problem was: it was less scenic than the trail we’d left behind, but it was really just another road… an ugly one, but hellish? In itself, it doesn’t present a problem. Some thirty-odd miles in, when you want to reach the finish, it’s an uninspiring challenge, offering little solace to the legs. Fortunately for me, the inspiration came from Mike, repeatedly shouting to/at me to keep my head up and look at him, to keep going. Least I think that’s what he was repeatedly shouting: I heard it once, maybe twice, but for the rest of the time all I could hear was noise. I did suggest he run off, thinking (as he no doubt knew) he could well hit 8h00’ without me, or certainly 8h10’: by then he’d got me through this unknown territory, both physical and mental, and I would get to the end. Not easily, no: but then I never said it would be easy, just that I’d do it. I didn’t want the guilt of denying him sub-8hrs, and at times I certainly could have done without the noise. But there was also a part of me that was very grateful for his stubbornness in staying with me and ‘cajoling’ me, as he later put it.

(Incidentally –and only Mike can confirm whether I’m kidding myself here–, there were no tears of blood, no cries of agony nor any collapsing by the side of the road in a heap of pain and swear words. I was struggling, I would happily have taken a walking break: but at no time was I going to give up. That’s fair enough, right Mike?)

From the off, Mike had singled out The Road To Hell and The Abyss Of Death as two critical junctures at the back-end of the run. He’s got a way with words, has young Michael: he doesn’t use any terms that may frighten the bejeezers off you..! With the Road to Hell, his description of an undulating road that wasn’t too steep but repeatedly set you back with a descent when you thought you’d got to its summit was fairly clear to grasp, and indeed accurate. But with “The Abyss of Death” (a.k.a., no more reassuringly, “The Ravine of Doom”)…

…nothing he said about this steep ravine where you suddenly drop hundreds of feet was inaccurate. But, until I saw it, I had been unable to picture it. And boy was it a sight. One steep drop at the bottom of which you were left with no more enjoyable task than climbing back up on the other side. A drop which you couldn’t fly down as you’d done elsewhere some hours earlier, but one that required every last sinew of concentration to ensure… well, that you didn’t fly down indeed! I knew there’d been a reason for those hours of coming down stairs on my bum as a kid – that training came in handy in places…

…the climb at the other end was tough but not mentally draining. Slowly climbing up the side of a hill sounds fair game: pace just isn’t a factor there. For me, anyway. Running slowly along tarmac: now that was a mental setback. But here I was behaving according to the challenge at hand. It felt good to reach the other side, and to do so before Mike’s legs had seized up from waiting. Then a voice called out to break the silence…

“GIACOMO!!!”

I turned back to the side whence we’d came in a combination of clarity and confusion. It was clearly my name: but who would call it out here? None of my relatives were racing; and, when I’m running, I’m not Giacomo, I’m not Giac, I’m not Giacu and I’m certainly not g.o.s.: I’m Gia! I briefly contemplated the presence of another Giacomo but even in its flustered and tired state my mind didn’t give that option much credence…

"The Ravine of Doom" - photo nicked
off Martin's Twitter account

…no, ‘twas me alright: for, beyond the void, there stood Philip, with Martin and Trevor for company, shouting my name and waving. I politely waved back, aware of the distance but unable to quantify how it translated into time. Aware that we’d been ahead of them for around 37 miles and there were only three to go, I walked up to Mike and stated, quite clearly:

“I love them dearly. But any notion that my dear friends are going to catch me and overtake me is greatly misplaced”.

We race against ourselves, not the rest of the field. We chase PBs, or in this case the knowledge of having done a good job: with no previous, Mike’s 2012 effort was the nearest standard I could use. However, there are times when our childish instincts come to the fore. The mere act of running, with no clear objective or rules, is in itself a return to ways of a childhood long gone. As is the determination to do better than those we hold dear. We were a team out there: but still, it’s nice to do better than your mates, isn’t it? You don’t care much about the rest. But you want to do better than your mates… it’s in our genes.

Mike responded just as clearly, by the way: “You’d better keep up with me, then”.

The two-and-a-half miles that followed were flat (on the whole) and tough. Mike would still not disappear, although by then it was clear we’d done it. The field turned to tarmac and the tarmac turned to Buxton. We made our way through the school gates and up to the building, Mike twirling and me tagging. At the start of the day, I’d contemplated going for a jovial and jocular sprint finish. Those thoughts had been tossed into the hills a long time before the end. Had I really wanted to, I probably could have, just as I have done in all other races, good and bad. But there was no way I was going to overtake Mike. In a race with thousands of entrants, maybe. But this race had 143 finishers: Wells, Mike finishing in 62nd place in 8h17’39”, Squintani, Giacomo in 63rd in 8h17’40”. There we were. The end.

Beginning, middle, end. There you go. From when I started writing compositions for school, Mum always told me: “Every story needs a beginning, a middle and an end”. I’ve given you those. I can but hope they made for a good story.

. . .

OK – where was I?

That’s right – Buxton. I was in Buxton, feeling somewhat tired and knowing the legs would feel plenty worse the following day, courtesy of good old DOMS. I grabbed some food and some drink and hung around, chatting to the support crew and to Andrew, who’d clocked 7h29’40” and had therefore been waiting for us for over three-quarters of an hour. Not that my conversation was just reward for such patience… indeed, I probably didn’t chat enough, not with Andrew nor with the rest of the crew over the course of those hours. Apologies, folk! Mike was soon off to play football with the kids: I tried to join in but the ball was just too heavy… and, happy as I was to kick it, I was in no mood to chase it when it went past me. I was in the mood, however, to cheer in each and every finisher. In a race like this, the more competitors you wisely allow to finish in front of you, the greater the applause you get when you finish as there are more pairs of hand making the noise. And I made my fair amount of noise for Alex, who came in 2’26” after me. In the eight hours or so after the first couple of miles, the number of people who overtook us and that we overtook probably added up to under a dozen: had this been about placements, we could have packed up six miles in! Alex (or Alexandra Tvarozkova, to give her her full name) was an exception, as we jockeyed positions with her for most of the race. A triathlete, her main motivation for running the High Peak Challenge was the qualifying point towards the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc (UTMB) – good luck with that! Her painkillers packed in with about three miles to go as we passed her one last time just before a stile. I told her I knew I’d soon see her at the finish, but didn’t expect to see her quite so soon. Either she found some truly hidden strength or I was struggling more than I thought. Or maybe a combination. Aye, let’s settle for that.

Every finisher got our applause, but none more so than the rest of #TeamNutters as they came up that hill. Trevor, Martin B. and Philip came in at 8h30’; Martin H. around a quarter of an hour later, Simon, Chris and Matt three-quarters of an hour or so after that.

. . .

As I type up these words, I’m listening to Martyn Joseph’s new offering, “Tires Rushing By In The Rain”. Even when playing it for the first time, I could sing along word-perfect and air-guitar note-perfect. Yup, I’d never played it and I already knew it. How come?

It’s a covers album – Springsteen covers, in fact. Alongside some of the better known classics (‘Thunder Road’, ‘Badlands’, ‘The River’, ‘The Rising’), it features some of the more obscure gems from Springsteen’s discography. One of these was one of four new songs to be included on Springsteen’s first “Greatest Hits” compilation, a beautiful ballad called ‘Blood Brothers’. The song opens thus:

“We played king of the mountain out on the end

The world come chargin' up the hill, and we were women and men

Now there's so much that time, time and memory fade away

We got our own roads to ride and chances we gotta take

We stood side by side each one fightin' for the other

We said until we died we'd always be blood brothers”

It’s not a perfect fit for that unforgettable Saturday. It’s a song that looks back over time, over experiences shared over decades by a bunch of musicians that together went from playing the bars of New Jersey to the likes of Wembley, San Siro, the Camp Nou and even Bramall Lane. But I did raise a smile at that opening line, thinking back to those Derbyshire hills: a smile that was still there when talk switched to “roads to ride”, and that blossomed at the notion of that unity of purpose and defiance shown by standing “side by side, each one fightin’ for the other”. Not that we did any standing, of course: we ran, when we walked we did so with purpose and for forty miles we gave it all the beans we could muster. Fog meant there wasn’t even a view worth stopping for at Mam Tor. We only ever stopped at… er, flapjack.

So thanks, all. Thanks for getting me ‘there’ – and I don’t just mean on the logistics side. It took a seismic mental shift (but not an epileptic seizure-inducing one!) for me to go from a non-runner to an ultra-runner in seventeen months, ticking off 10k, Half Marathon and Marathon along the way. I got to the 10k bit by myself: I had something to prove to myself and to a few others, but mainly to myself. By the time the TenTenTen was on the horizon I was running 18k in training, so I made the leap to 21.1 by myself, inspired by seeing that my friend Karl was taking a similar leap. But thereafter… Jon gave me some helpful words about doubling the distance but still suggested I wasn’t ready (which I wasn’t), it was Simon who kept an eye on my progress and gave me the confidence to go the full 26.2mi. As for adding another half marathon onto that, it was… it was…

Hmmm… not sure. I’ll just blame the lot of you. I may have convinced myself, but only after running mile after mile with your support by my side. Cheers!

Thanks Karen, Roberto and Daniel for coming to pick me up at Temple Meads on the Sunday night. Meant a lot. Shame we don’t live closer to the likes of Rachel, Judith, Sarah, Susan, Tina… you’d like them. And thanks Auntie Jo-Jo for running not one but two baths for me – I got there in the end! The second one was still warm enough! Early Bar just had to be done, even if still in Lycra shorts from an eight-hour shift… wouldn’t be a Saturday evening in Sheffield without it! (Besides, the attire annoyed Streetsy – which is never a bad thing)

Oh – and for all those who have asked and will ask…

…no – I didn’t run forty miles. I probably ran about thirty, the balance a combination of walking and, briefly, sliding on my backside. Apologies if that comes as a disappointment. You can always join me next October… look, here’s the route! How can you resist?

One last thing…

…as I’ve often shared, I carry my brothers and my brothers carry me on runs. Someone else came to mind around the halfway point of the High Peak 40 challenge, too: Steven Jump, founder of Badlands Records in Cheltenham. He had organised the first Springsteen concert trips that had taken me to the US: to New Jersey, Philadelphia, New York City, Washington, Memphis, New Orleans… didn’t see gigs in all of those places, but they still represent monumental landmarks in my journey of my appreciation of this wild and wonderful (but not innocent) country. And that’s without mentioning all the Springsteen music I bought from them before then..!

Steven passed away at home on September 14, 2013 – the Saturday prior to the High Peak 40 Challenge. Rest assured that I gave both ‘Badlands’ and ‘Valentine’s Day’ a little hum out on those hills, Steven. RIP, my friend.

IF YOU LIKED THIS (or, even more so, if you didn’t), TRY THESE:

Some other HP40 blog posts – by folk I’ve not met, but with whom I empathise!

“The Masochism Continues” > by Houghboy

“I’m Simon Walkden” > NOT by Simon Walkden (!), but by Stuart Walker
“Uphill, Downhill and Waterfall” > by Alexandra Tvarozkova

p.s.: what next?

Grand Pier Half (in Weston-super-Mare) – then the Chester Marathon…

…as it happens, it’s taken me so long to capture this waffling that I’ve already run the former. 1h42’12”: my worst time since my first time, five minutes slower than Bristol 2013 which had, until then, been my worst of the year. But I’m not unduly fussed: it came sandwiched between an ultra and a marathon, it wasn’t a key goal. I had still hoped to do sub-1h40’, though! But it was great to meet Rich, who’d run 26mi to get there and sign up on the day! We finished 39” apart: had he not downplayed his expectations, I’d have run with him and had an altogether better time! But I don’t blame someone who’s run 26mi to get to the start line (and is contemplating running the 26mi back after the end**) being cautious and besides, I still enjoyed the run as it was the first time the family had been in tow and the loopy circuit meant I’d been able to high-five The Boys on four occasions – even gave them a twirl at one point! So not a great time but the course was hillier than I (and, seemingly, anyone else) thought, so I’ll take it…

…however, cometh Sunday, no excuses. No talk of ultra-tired (!) legs. Chester matters. Having got so close to 3h30’ in my debut marathon (3h31’54” – well done for remembering, you!), I really want to get under  that in Chester. It genuinely won’t be easy: the training has not been marathon-specific and, mentally, what in April was a great achievement would now be a disappointment. It’s the same as with my HM times: I’d have taken 1h42’ with glee twelve months ago, but… I’ve put in a lot of miles since. Maybe too many, who knows. But I’m a different runner, one for who 3h30’ is in grasp. Not easy grasp, but grasp nonetheless Here’s hoping I seize it. It would be all the sweeter for not being easy.

I then fly out to Boston for work on October 14, landing back in the UK early on Friday 18. I’ve got the Portishead Half Marathon on Sunday 20: it’s going to be hilly, it’s going to be in front of a lot of people whom I’ve been boring with my running talk and who probably expect me to do better than I will… it will be tricky. December 15: Christmas Cracker 10k, again down in Weston-super-Mare, hoping to improve on last year’s 47’03”. And that’ll be me done for 2013. It’ll be time to start planning some 2014 races before you know it!

OK, rumbled. Time to button up 2014 planning… for it might just be that some thought’s already gone into it… who knows!

ADDENDUM:

Don’t ask me how, but I manage to overlook the following lines from ‘Blood Brothers’:

“Now the hardness of this world slowly grinds your dreams away

Makin’ a fool's joke out of the promises we make

And what once seemed black and white turns to so many shades of gray

We lose ourselves in work to do and bills to pay

And it’s a ride, ride, ride, and there ain't much cover

With no one runnin' by your side my blood brother”

Contrary to what Strava reports may suggest, I’ve never run a single mile without someone by my side. Be it my brothers, who lifted me over the wall in Manchester and will hopefully do the same in Chester, or Mike in the Peak District, I’ve never run alone. Nor do I have any intention of doing so. Ever.

* for the sake of a good story, can we ignore the 1989 Salcombe ‘fun run’? Thank you.

** he didn’t. He took the train. Honestly..!