Work your weaknesses

The Simple Chick and I have made milling around at the wall, drinking tea and updating each other on life's ups and downs into such an art form that sometimes climbing becomes secondary to the experience. These very sociable sessions are great fun and often progress is made, but I sometimes find myself climbing the same old 10 vertical routes and shying away from anything that might be remotely challenging. I suppose I convince myself that I won't be able to do anything harder and on occasion, would rather drink more tea than actually try. Ultimately though, such an approach just leads to frustration and those horrible plateaux during which gains just seem never to be made and confidence begins to wane. 

The process of CWA consolidation did more than prepare me for assessment, those five months of hard work also, rather unexpectedly, resulted in many new friendships with people who climb far harder than perhaps I ever will. These people inspire me, but because they also happen to be climbing instructors, they have the innate ability to draw the very best out of me. The fact that Fantastyczna Cooka also feeds me healthy pizza, cake and ginger biscuits is a welcome added bonus! It was through these friends that I became inveigled into Main Wall Monday, a brilliantly simple idea which may very well result in my imminent death and judging by the full body pain as I hobbled about this Tuesday, I wouldn't be surprised if the Grim Reaper turned up and asked me for a belay next Monday night.

Views of the Main Wall

The Greater Main Wall (similar to Greater Manchester but with less hipster beards), is pretty much entirely overhanging, the premise of Main Wall Monday, to only climb the routes on it. I hate overhangs, I have no stamina and my technique is still pretty embryonic, for me, Main Wall Monday is like some kind of pump-filled torture, punctuated with cups of tea I can barely pick up. But, if it wasn't a challenge, it wouldn't be fun and although possibly still in the realms of Sir David Brailsford and his 'marginal gains', I think, some progress has been made, not least because after a full-on wrestle up the Main Wall, nothing else in the centre seems half as intimidating as it did before. 

Main Wall Monday, together with its younger siblings Training Tuesday, Weakness Wednesday and Features Friday, forces me to address a huge and gaping weakness in my climbing and try as I might, I simply can't do that while gossiping in the cafe - if only we could work out what to do on a Thursday...

Spot the Long Legs

The boots in the loo

In the late 50s my father, an analytical chemist, went to work at the BACO plant in Kinlochleven. I once asked him what he did there but he claims not to remember. I bet you though, that he could still outline in great detail the days that he and his mates spent in those mountains, even if it was 55 years ago. I imagine in the heyday of the works, he and his contemporaries never dreamed that one day the smelter would stop smelting and that ultimately their place of work would become The Ice Factor, in fact, the very concept of climbing indoors remains totally alien to him.

My dad - judging by my rucksack, sometime in the early 2000s

When I was young there was a pair of hobnail boots next to the 'end' loo. I presume these belonged to my father. Back in the day, so he once told me, your only option for mountaineering boots was to draw round your feet and send the templates to a man somewhere in London; at least by the time my mother was climbing in the early 1960s, Graham Tiso had opened his shop in Leith. One of her favourite stories involves sneaking a pair of boots in diabolical condition into the secondhand boot display and going past the shop every day to see if they had sold!

My parents have endless tales of mountain, climbing club and bothy antics and it transpires that they were acquainted with folk like Robin Smith and Dougie Haston, now firmly in the annals of Scottish mountaineering history. (Said of the former: "He used to down-climb things in his wellies that I could hardly climb up in my climbing shoes"). There was the guy known as 'Bogtrotter', who moved so fast that he failed to sink in the bogs that trapped the following group, and the tale of a Rag Week scaling of Castle Rock in Edinburgh, dressed as a baby, with ropes hidden from the police in a pram. 

But the more I hear about what they did and the more I am able to equate their experiences with my own, the more impressed I become. Earlier in the year I told my mother about a winter trip to the Highlands, she consulted the encyclopedia that is my father and reported back that they too had done those routes. In the 1960s. With crap clothing, no harnesses, long axes and probably a hemp rope... She then digressed into a range of winter tales: inadvertently descending some (Grade II) gully in the dark, the time my dad dropped a small cornice on her head and the piece de resistance, when a girl fell past my father on a winter climb and he pulled off her trousers trying to arrest her fall. 

State of the art gear found in the cupboard!

Mountains brought my parents together too. The male mountaineering house claimed to have an additional housemate who was always 'in Switzerland, in Italy, in the Alps, in Norway', the female mountaineering house, increasingly sceptical of his very existence, began to devise reasons to visit at odd times of day... On one such foray they found a dark haired, blue eyed, tanned stranger in the front room, just returned from the Italian Alps...

My father went to the Lofoten Islands long before there were causeways between every island and my mother's comedy stories extend to Norway, the Alps and the Pyrenees, her favourite involving my father firing up his petrol stove in an Alpine hut, while a cowering Frenchman exclaimed "Il sera un grand explosion!"

More than anything, when I hear these stories and look at their, often black and white, photographs, I am envious of my parents and the adventures they have had, experiences I long for but never seem to have the opportunity to partake in. Rock climbing, scrambling, hill walking, winter climbing or Alpinism, they seemed to have done it all, almost in another life time. And I like the fact that they did these things together; mountains have played a pivotal role in their relationship and I am envious too, that their deep rooted love of these places is something that they have always shared.

I suppose it comes as no surprise to anyone that I love mountains too.

Zen

It was the 11th route of the night but I knew, at that precise moment, that I was doing the best climbing I have ever done in my life. I had tried the route once before, months and months ago on a top rope and remembered thinking it was tricky. Now, on lead, everything felt so smooth and effortless, my head so uncharacteristically in the game that I reached a previously unknown state of zen, the moves just flowing as I floated over the lip and through the crux. As I stood up and shook out, I was so psyched that internally I was screaming an expletive ridden monologue of joy and it was hard to stop myself from bursting forth out loud. Clipping the chains, inside I was doing cartwheels and fist pumps, I may even have let off some fireworks. I was still buzzing as the Simple Chick lowered me to the ground, and, when a passing Campusman asked how our session had been, his eyes turned to saucers as he was hit by an unexpectedly excited, and enthusiastic, potttymouthed reply!

Having clearly reached the peak of climbing, I briefly went into retirement, however, this only lasted the weekend, before a good, solid session last night. On a new and ungraded orange, where there was huge gap to get over the lip, a similar, but lesser, zen state seemed to wash over me and I pulled some shapes and just went for it. There is no way I would have done that 6 months ago.

It is hard to explain what has happened to me or how I feel about climbing at the moment. I know I have worked really hard at it all through the year and I should be getting better, but I don't think this is really about technique, or power, or weight, I think it is about confidence. The people I climb with seem to have faith in me, they tell me things are 'comfortably within my grade', they encourage me to try that little bit harder. Last night my climbing partner, absent for 6 months, said it was as if I was a different climber now. 

Two years ago I gave up everything to move from an island in the North Sea to somewhere near Bradford. This year, climbing has helped me rebuild my life and to find the girl I felt I had left behind - it has made me happy. And because I am happy, my climbing is better and when I climb better I am happier still. Yes, I am a different climber now, but I think the change also goes deeper than that.

Good times on the island

A change in focus

Way back in June I completed my Climbing Wall Award training, but the weeks immediately following were taken up with preparing for the big Saltburn race, together with the small matter of a full time PhD, and it was not until July that I finally plucked up the courage to ask the nice man at the wall if I could come in and observe some sessions. Following a hiatus in September, during which time I spoke about field systems to an international conference in Glasgow and taught a local society how to collect and process geophysical survey data, I finally had time to get back to what really matters - climbing.

When I was a paddler, on a small island off the north coast of Scotland, I became both a 4* sea leader and UKCC L2 paddlesports coach within the local club(s), so when I started climbing, it seemed quite natural for me to want to get involved with the instructional side of things. Something in the recesses of my mind reminds me that one of the impetuses for taking up climbing was my desire to work towards my SPA, as a complement to my water based qualifications (the other reason being because I had broken a finger about a month previously!). 

The Orcadian L2 coaches, looking very wet and bedraggled after a long journey to obtaining their awards

In real life I often teach students and local groups about archaeological survey and geophysics and I have come to realise that I get a great deal of enjoyment from teaching people practical skills - it is very satisfying to watch them begin the day asking lots of questions and seeking your input, to finishing the day being able to undertake the tasks independently. To me, it does not matter if I am teaching them to use an RM15, perform a sculling draw or belay correctly, there are many approaches that are directly applicable to teaching any practical skill. Certainly, I have often felt that the things I learned about teaching and learning styles in my very thorough L2 training have been incredibly useful in the other areas in which I also work.

Explaining archaeological survey with a GNSS system

After the Simple Chick and the One on the Island took a metaphorical stick to me, I finally manned up and booked to undertake my CWA assessment in November - this gave me around 8 weeks to prepare and meant I well and truly had to shift my focus back to climbing and engage in what I have come to term as 'binge observation'. For the last couple of weeks I have also been permitted to assist at the wall, looking after one line and 4 people under the watchful eye of a fully qualified instructor and this has been a brilliant way to learn the ropes (boom boom).

I have found, to my surprise and contrary to my own preconceptions, that I actually really enjoy working with young children, particularly when they have huge smiles on their faces and are so excited about getting the chance to climb for the first time. I have also found that my own confidence is increasing, partly because I have to have 'instructor front' when I am working, but also because I am continuously being pushed slightly outside my comfort zone and am learning an immense amount from every instructor I work with and from every different session I see. Watching people being introduced to climbing for the first time and gaining obvious enjoyment from the experience takes me back to when I first started to climb and reminds of why I love this sport and everything related to it. It may sound rather clichéd, but climbing is not just a hobby, for me it is a real passion.

Doing what I love

First Aid

Although I have held a First Aid qualification for the best part of 10 years, I had never, ever, had to use it. Perhaps I had just been very lucky, but holding the qualification seemed to me to be more about ticking a box on the Risk Assessments for working on archaeological sites, or the requirements of my paddling qualifications, as much as anything. But then, as has been previously mentioned in this blog, I found myself involved in a life threatening climbing incident. 

https://www.thestudentsunion.co.uk/pageassets/opportunities/howto/Firstaidsafetysign.png

A few years ago, I distinctly remember doing a standard First Aid at Work course and saying, 'But where I work [in a field] there is no mobile signal or anyone nearby, what do I do?!' and so, when my current qualification needed to be renewed, I realised that I wanted to ensure the course I chose was more relevant to being in the outdoors; after all, even my PhD involves working in an area 2 km from the nearest road, at an elevation of 330 m O.D.. No longer living on a small island has its benefits and I was easily able to find a 16 hour Outdoor Incident Management First Aid Course based only 20 miles away in Leeds. This was offered by Underwood Training and was taught by Brian, an active Cave Rescue Organisation member and Helen, who had previously worked in intensive care and paediatrics but who is also a qualified outdoor instructor. 

The 8 attendees all had previously done a First Aid qualification so the information came at us at a fast and furious pace. However, there was lots of active learning thrown in, involving lying on the floor, progressively adding learning points with each roll play. Later in the morning we moved outdoors and had a go at assessing an unresponsive casualty in a slightly more realistic environment, beginning also to think more about terrain and access to help. Later in the afternoon we had to treat poor old Rescusi Anne who had yet again collapsed unconscious on the floor and was in need of CPR.... The next day started with some theory but we were soon back outside, dealing with more and more complex problems and casualties and discussing aspects such as group safety, group use, duty of care and access to help.  Could we walk the casualty out? Would it be safer to stay put? To whom did we have the greatest duty of care? 

Although there was a lot of information to take in, the scenarios proposed and discussed were all those that could easily happen to any of us or one of our groups and this made everything feel really relevant and directly applicable to all the outdoor activities I do (work, climbing, hill-walking, paddling, off-road running etc etc). Sometimes there were no right or wrong answers to our questions but it was really useful being able to discuss these aspects with people who had actually been in such situations themselves. I think the main thing I took away from the discussion was trying to recognise and be aware of developing situations (such as hypothermia or hypoglycaemia), the importance of insulating the casualty, the use and potential dangers of slopes and above all, that keeping them breathing until other help arrived had to take priority above all else. 

I really enjoyed the course and I hope, if faced with another serious accident, I will be able to draw upon this added training and again help someone in real need.

Wood and trees

My climbing partner, who I had not seen for several months, asked, quite legitimately, what grade I now climb. I remained evasive. Of course there is an answer, but there are so many caveats to it (is it vertical but technical? Sustained or featuring an overhang?), that it would have taken too long to give a full and thorough reply. I responded with some unconvincing muttering, but I suppose the main reason I didn't want to answer was because I didn't want to (quite literally) set myself up for a fall.

Week in, week out, the Simple Chick and I are down the wall. Sometimes we climb better than others, during some periods we are frustrated, at other times we feel like we are making real progress, but twice a week we are there, climbing routes, doing pull-ups, drinking 'one tea and one coffee' and indulging in rather a lot of gossiping. I don't blog about these sessions for no other reason than I have no photographs of us climbing (or eating Chia Charge bars). 

When I watch the Simple Chick and her excellent use of smears and screw ons, I am so proud of her. For months she wouldn't lead at all and it took a long period of steady progression for her to get where she is now. I often watch her on the sharp end and I know that 6 months ago, she wouldn't have even attempted routes she now looks so smooth and confident on; to me, the improvement in her climbing is obvious. But in my own head I am still the same climber I always was and perhaps that is why it was so difficult for me to answer that initial question. It's hard for me to stand back far enough to know if anything is changing, I am particularly good at convincing myself that 'I can't' or even that parts of the wall 'are not for me'. And I don't know why I think like this, because, as Coach Emma pointed out the other day, that's not at all the way I think about running races. 

Coach Emma's overhang aversion therapy.

My coached session earlier in the week had looked at overhangs and so yesterday, when it was very quickly clocked that I appeared to have become blind to the overhanging routes behind me, I thought I better HTFU and get back on the first route I had worked with Emma. I was pleased, on reaching the crossover, to find myself placing my foot correctly and twisting right to reach the next hold with ease. And for the first time in a long time, I realised that, although I was aware of the overhang being there, this fact did not really bother me, I was far too focused on what I was doing. Back on the ground, my climbing partner said, 'You bossed that route!', elaborating with a (slightly uncharitable) impression of me whimpering on the same overhang 5 months previously, 'Today,' he said, 'you just did it, without hesitation.'

I continued the session with my first clean lead of a very steep and sustained 6a; 5 months ago, I wouldn't have even attempted it. Perhaps, sometimes, you just need that view from outside, to help you obtain perspective on yourself and all those things you didn't even realise that you have achieved.

Aiming high

I had approached Bradford 10K like a carefully timetabled military operation. When to get up, when to go for a jog, when to eat, when to drink, when to warm up... But I was a girl who wanted a PB and following the advice I was given when in Snowdonia, I was damn well going to give myself the best chance of getting one. I even went as far as shoving a gel down my gullet (yuck).

Crossing the start line, I tried very, very hard to avoid going out all guns blazing, keeping my pace within a predetermined range. This seemed to work well and I felt pretty good for the first few Ks. Reaching the hill (well this is Yorkshire!), I managed to gain a few places, before I launched myself into a kamikaze descent. Back on the main road, there were a couple of further undulations until we turned at around 5.5 km.

The main road back into Bradford is a very gentle climb and it just felt like an absolute grind from 6K onwards and I had to give myself a good kicking between 8 and 9km, as my pace slowed and my body started to strongly object. However, comparing the scrawl on my hand to the numbers on my watch, I knew I was on target so I picked my feet up and tried that little bit harder.

Finally I found myself in the finishing straight and although I tried to end on a sprint, I'm not sure if I actually managed to move any faster, with the last few hundred metres feeling like miles. Eventually crossing the line, Martin from the club steered me to the water station and made sure I didn't pass out!

Finally at the line and totally spent.

The race atmosphere was lovely, it was a large event, but not too large, and the marshals were all members of local clubs or familiar faces from Park Run. I was even interviewed live on Bradford community radio before kick off! As I ran round, it really spurred me on to hear my name being called, to see a familiar face, or to just get a 'Come on Queensbury'. It was also great to run in club colours and to feel part of a super friendly and encouraging team. 

My time of 53:47 well exceeded my 55:00 target and meant I had bettered by Leeds 10K time, from July, by a massive 3:12! As a rather long legged, youngish woman, I know there is still huge room for improvement but I have come a long way since those cold C25K days back in January. As I tucked into a large slab of malteser tiffin after the race, for now at least, it was job done. 

Proudly modelling my finishers t-shirt!

Falling in love

Standing on the summit of Snowdon, most of North Wales lay spread out before me. The landscape was bathed in a hazy afternoon sunshine, the high clouds dotting the scene with occasional areas of shade and I was completely awestruck. Why had I not been to Snowdonia before?

The Pyg Track running up from Pen-y-pass

The next morning was very exciting: the lovely people at Run Snowdonia had fitted me in for a guided run at very short notice and so at 9 am we met at Pete's Eats to discuss the day ahead, my main issue being how to go hill and mountain running on my own, in a safe way (with minimal faff and without a truck load of gear!).

Pete's Eats!

Tiny bivi bag!

We started off looking at the MWIS forecast and thinking about the information that could be gleaned from it, in terms of route planning and the conditions to be expected when out on the hill. Sarah then talked about planning logical points on a route, at which to adjust clothing and to make sure you took on food, for example, before you found yourself freezing cold on a windy, steep ridge. She talked about equipment and suggested some things I might like to add to what I had, including a tiny bivi bag, and also about the accessibility of items, such as food and gloves and trying to become really slick with everything you do. We discussed fuel and hydration in some detail, which I found very interesting as I have sometimes struggled with my blood sugar, particularly on long distance paddling trips. I think what I really took from the discussion was to approach a mountain run as light and fast mountaineering first and foremost - the running aspect was almost secondary. 

Llyn Idwal from the Y Garn ridge

Next was a mountain run with Gareth. First up was Y Garn - it was steep and I felt a bit pathetic that I was puffing and panting up at a walk but at least the rapid ascent gave wonderful views once again. As we crested the ridge we found ourselves shrouded in mist but as we descended the grass and stone slope, and discussed technique, it seemed to lift and we were afforded a clear view by the time we had climbed up again to Glyder Fawr and its amazing rock formations.

The mysterious summit of Glyder Fawr, with Glyder Fach in the background

On the plateau, I ran as much as I could, I wasn't fast but the terrain was pretty technical. Interestingly, where the rocks were larger, I found it much easier to cross them at a run than I would do at a walk. Skirting around Castell y Gwynt, the Castle of the Wind, we made our way to Glyder Fach and stopped for the obligatory photo opportunity at the Cantilever Stone.

Quite a feeling to have run up here!

The descent to Bwlch Tryfan was horrid, steep scree is about my least favourite thing in the world, but again, it was probably easier moving slightly quicker in light shoes than it would have been in my huge boots. Finally, the gradient eased off and I was able to run, although I was concentrating so hard on where I was putting my feet (fast and light!) and following Gareth, that it came as a complete shock when I found myself at a very familiar looking gate and suddenly back at Idwal Cottage. We left the car at 10:29 am and my phone tells me it took us 2:53:37 to complete the circuit. After some stretches, we headed back to Llanberis where we met Sarah for a debrief over coffee and cake. We discussed lots of things, including technique, training, PhD woes(!) and confidence, with me sucking up information like a big sponge!

It really was a fantastic day - the run was absolutely amazing and being guided up there allowed me to see that I was perfectly capable of doing such things in future, but I also learned so much about everything else. More than anything, the whole experience gave me the confidence to get out there and try and that's exactly what I did the next day!

An inviting ridge clocked from Snowdon

As much as I didn't want to, I knew I had to leave Llanberis by lunchtime to get back to Leeds in time for my climbing date with the Simple Chick. I thought about going on a train or round the power station, but really I wanted to make the most of being in the mountains. From Snowdon, I had been continually captivated by a ridge a few kilometres to the west and a study of the map indicated it could be easily accessed from the Youth Hostel via a bridleway at the top of the road. I knew that the cloud base would be low and that it was likely to rain, so I was not too fussed about going anywhere too high as I wouldn't see much anyway and because I was short of time, I thought the long ridge descent to the north would be reasonably fast and didn't appear too technical.

Bridleway to the col between Foel Goch and Moel Cynghorion and cloud down to 500m

After my run and bike ride on Tuesday, power hike up Snowdon on Wednesday and mountain run on Thursday, it is safe to say that my quads were in a little bit of pain, but I ran as much as I could, walked purposefully otherwise and used the whole experience as an opportunity to think about how to manage myself and my equipment. I purchased a tiny bum bag in Joe Brown's and put my gloves and some chopped up banana in it and realised that my normal waterproof, although bulky, fits over the top of my rucksack, making it easy to take on and off if I tie it round my waist.

As soon as I started to climb to Foel Goch, the rain began to come down heavily and I was reliant on map and compass to find my way, but I enjoyed the wet (underfoot) descent to Foel Gron, where the mist lifted a little. Carrying on to the north west, I came to a rapid halt when I saw a stone boundary very reminiscent of those in my PhD study area. I took a photo, before crossing a nameless top and climbing higher into the mist as I made my way to Moel Eilio. Here, there was (a denuded) prehistoric cairn and a shelter for walkers.

The majestic Snowdon ridge 

Leaving the summit, I checked my map to ensure I was heading in the right direction and tried to look for the easiest route down the slope, thinking about moving 'fast and light' where I could. As I descended, I finally escaped from the cloud and was rewarded with a view northwards towards Bangour and eastwards towards the Llanberis Pass. The old cobbled bridleway was a little quicker underfoot and I was soon back at the road end. Making my way down to the Youth Hostel, I tried to think about my descending technique, lean forward and gracefully zoom down - it was a work in progress! Despite numerous map stops and the study of various bits of archaeology, I completed the circuit in 2:22:34 - certainly faster than walking!

Back in the village, I rewarded myself with a well deserved recovery chocolate milkshake and a baked tattie with beans and cheese at Pete's Eats. I may not have gone anywhere overly dramatic, but I had gained the confidence to apply the mountain skills I already have and had had a lovely morning out, without incident or drama. Best of all, I had had that whole hill to myself.

By the time I drove out of Llanberis, I had knew I had fallen in love. Snowdonia, I will be back.

Another moment

As I climbed the moor, the wind turbines were still against a purple and orange sky, plane vapour trails criss-crossing behind them. Although the evening was unusually still, the turbines remained static because they are being decommissioned; the 23 currently installed being replaced by 8 huge 2.5 mW machines. Still climbing and concentrating hard on my foot placements, the colour of the sky changed as the sun set further. 

As I summited the hill, the clear air and the remaining light afforded views for miles - towards the Dales in the far north west and Ilkley Moor to the north east. Nestled in the valleys and on the lower slopes of the hills, were the twinkling yellow lights of the towns and villages of this part of West Yorkshire; Denholme and Leeming just below me, Keighley a little further away and the urban sprawl of Leeds and Bradford away to the east.

Everything about that moment, that view, that place, was spectacular; it was the end of a very long, tiring day, but in that instant I felt so alive. Being there, completely alone and experiencing something so special, reinvigorated me and I was firing on all cylinders as I once more turned eastwards and began to head for home. 

With some distance left along the track, it became increasingly difficult to find my way, so the headtorch came into play and I carefully picked my way along the familiar route that seemed quite different in the dark. As I descended the last hill, over the rough and  tricky cobbles, I was still buzzing as I drank in the panorama of street lights laid out before me. 

Reaching the road, there was no more need for a torch and I hammered down the last mile and a bit towards home, feeling immensely privileged to be able to be able to run out my front door and be on the moors in under 20 minutes.

That one moment made the hours of training worth it and it reminded me why I started to run off road in the first place. More than anything, I feel extremely lucky to live in this part of the world.

'My' moor

Purple Heather

I had seen the Tour of Norland Moor in the race calendar a few weeks ago and it appealed immediately - 10km, 800 ft of climbing and not too far from home. But the virus I had a Saltburn seemed really hard to shake off and after studying the finish times from previous years, I completely lost confidence in myself.  Somewhat foolishly, however, I had happened to mention my interest in participating in the bar after training, so before I knew it, I found myself in a car full of club members being conducted around the back roads of Halifax towards the start at Copley Cricket Club.

I had two aims for the day: 1) to make it round and 2) not to finish last. Although in reality, more like a trail race, this was officially a BM fell race (average 25m climb/km, 70% off road, 10 - 20km) and it was hard!

Norland profile

Starting from a small bridge over the River Calder the first kilometre was an absolute killer, up the side of the clough. Reaching a more steady gradient at the top, my lungs were screaming and my legs uncooperative. I knew we climbed to some degree until 4.88km so I just kept plodding on, trying to keep something in reserve for the descent. The heather on the moor was a beautiful purple in the sunshine, however, there was no time for looking at the view as I made way along the dry peat paths, picking my route through the gritstone boulders and pebbles. Finally, we started descending and I tried hard to increase my pace past the dog walkers and mountain bikers. The marshals on the bend before the road shouted 'Come on Queensbury - racing line!' which at least raised a smile! Crossing the field, I could hear someone breathing down my neck and he stayed there, right though the woods, until he overtook me on the final descent (boo!). The section we had recce'd from the starting bridge to the finish seemed to go on for days but finally I passed under the railway and saw the cricket pitch over the wall. Passing through the stile, my club mate was waiting and she ran alongside me, up the finishing straight, shouting encouragement to run as fast as I possibly could, all the way to the line.

The race route

So I achieved my objective of making it round and not coming last, even if I was last open female (this, I think, earned me a spot prize of a bottle of wine so I am not complaining!) and given that my flat 10K PB from Leeds in July is 56:59, I am not too disappointed with 62:32 for an off road race with a hill in the middle. I think going from week 6 of couch to 5K in January, to a 10K, 800ft race in August is an achievement in itself.

The other Queensbury runners did fantastically, the club write up is here, with full results here.

The Main Event

And so the big race, the Saltburn Hardmoors Trail 10K, has been and gone. And I made it round, so far managing to raise £310 for Upper Wharfedale Fell Rescue Association. The route was lovely, through a wooded clough, along a stream, passed the beached fishing boats, up some evil steps and along the cliff tops on the Cleveland Way, across a railway, through some fields, down some pretty country tracks and back to the sea, before retracing our steps to the leisure centre. The sun shone and the views, when I finally bothered to look, were beautiful. As suspected, the route wasn't 10K at all, and after the entire field took a wrong turn, it ended up being 11.99 km (exactly), with something like 775 to 831 ft of climbing.

(Not) ready for the off

But I was really not well and had not been well all week. On the morning of the race I started to lose my voice, which is generally never a good sign and nearly 3 km in, the evil steps at the Ship Inn really took it out of me. Despite power walking up half of them, I felt like I never recovered for the following 3km of gradual incline along the cliff top, my quads aching like they have never ached before! I have to admit that after a good 10 minutes of trudging uphill, I took a sneaky quick walk, I just didn't seem to have anything in me. At around 6 kms, at which point I was telling myself that I was never racing again when I was ill and that surviving to the end was going to be a huge achievement, never mind any thought of target times, I could hear some people behind me having a chat. They overtook me, but frankly, because I thought dying was a genuine possibility, I didn't really care. I followed on their heels and then, when they crossed the railway and immediately started walking up the hill, I overtook. I should have been able to run that hill, but I decided perhaps a little recovery before the descent was not a bad idea and marched up it at pace, thinking of Feet in the Clouds as I did so.

The Ship Inn - the evil steps can be seen zig zagging up the slope behind (https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4097/4874499211_0f71e4a9cb_b.jpg)

On the descent my legs ached (all over) like never before and I found myself reciting a mantra involving the hardness of Geraint Thomas, 'Shut Up Legs' from Jens Voigt and Richard Askwith quotes regarding the success or failure of his fourth Bob Graham round. I felt like I was forcing my leaden legs to move, pretty much by will power alone and because my pace was poor, the yellow ladies caught me again. I kept reciting what little I know about descending technique, urging myself to let the hill take me and when the gradient really steepened again, tried to concentrate on not braking with my quads. I heard another lady behind me too and at that point I literally hurled myself down the path as fast as I dared go, refusing to lose another place. I overtook the slower of the yellow runners again, but inevitably they then left me for dust. 

Nearing the half way point on the Cleveland Way (www.sportsunday.co.uk)

Running back along the burn and up through the woods, passed the tea rooms, my tenacity kicked in and I found myself just unconsciously running, albeit pretty slowly. As we passed the coffee shop and people out enjoying a beautiful Sunday, a number of them stopped and cheered us on, it was really rather heart warming. The lady behind me kept running really fast and then stopping on each little hill but I just kept chugging along, until the last (steep) hill, where I am afraid there was another sneaky walk. Back on the road, I was convinced I would be overtaken, but I thought about Richard Askwith again and decided I shouldn't presume defeat before it had happened, so I plodded a bit faster, attacking the hump of the railway bridge like it wasn't there. 

Finally I saw the traffic lights and the road to the Leisure Centre and ran as hard as I could round the back of the building to the finish line in the hall, my support crew failing to take any pictures as I passed. Hearing someone behind me at the very last minute, I put on one of my famous long legged sprints, only to discover he was in a different race! 

It was all too much in the end!

And so it was done, I had made it. Back in the hall there were finishers' medals, t-shirts and plates of delicious cake and everything was really jovial and friendly. There were only 300 runners in all three races which gave everything a very relaxed atmosphere. 

A medal and a big plate of CAKE!

I don't know the official results but my watch gave a time of 1:17:36 and I was about 18th overall and 10th woman (from a very small field of around 40). Given that I had (still have) laryngitis and couldn't speak, this wasn't too bad, but I know from my training that I should, and could, have done better. This race, part of a series, is apparently now moving to February due to issues of car parking etc. The date is already in my diary...

After Upper Wharfedale Fell Rescue Association came to the aid of my seriously injured climbing partner, way back in April, I really felt that I wanted to give something back to the organisation. Running this race was my way of doing so and if you so desire, you can still sponsor me here. When I started training all those months ago, I never quite expected that it would turn into the journey it clearly has become, that I would find a real passion for off-road running or that I would end up joining my local running club and finding my competitive streak. More than anything, I  think I have learnt a lot about myself. 

The accidental runner

As I turned up my iPod, I knew I was making 'The Face', the one where the eyes narrow and become fixated on a goal they, as yet, can not see. It is a look of steely determination and betrays every bit of my natural tenacity. I was thirsty, the juice in my water pouch now tasting like syrup, and nothing seemed to make my legs move faster and above 6 mins/km, no matter how hard I tried; but there were only 3.5 kms left and I was going to complete this race, as quickly as I possibly could.

Eyes on the prize. (c) Woodentops.org.uk

But perhaps I should rewind. In 2012, having damaged my Achilles tendon and a ligament in my left ankle, I could barely walk, never mind run and, in spring 2014, seriously unhappy with the person I had become, it was with a great deal of trepidation that I set forth on a short lived attempt to get fit again. But, by Christmas Eve 2014, I had had enough, and for reasons that almost no longer matter, I started training regularly again. It was winter, it was cold, usually there was a gale blowing, but I stuck with it, determined, I think, to prove a point to no one else but myself. But I was afraid of injury, I remembered the pain of 2012 and I actively avoided hills. 

A grumpy selfie from run number 2, December 27th 2014  - You'll just have to believe there were pretty snow covered hills behind me...

I thought then, that to even suggest the possibility of running a 10K race was silly, an impossible goal, far beyond the ability of someone like me. 5K, I thought, was my limit. But as I kept running and began to get fitter, 10K did not seem so unachievable, I had, after all, run further in my previous life. But there is nothing like a goal to focus your mind and with the Hardmoors Saltburn 10K (I still maintain it is more than 10K!) entered, and following the advice of one in the know, I embarked on a regimented schedule of training distance, speed and hills, with about 50% of my time spent off road.

And so there I was, just shy of 7 months since I started with week 6 of Couch to 5K, 11.5 km into a 15 km race. 

Dragging myself to the finish line (Photo: The Simple Chick)

The last couple of Ks were hell and as I crossed the green bridge, the sight of a sign pointing right to the finish rejuvenated me before the seemingly endless run across the meadow to the line. Try as I might, there was no sprint finish, there was just nothing left. Although 1:30:57 may have been 57 seconds slower than I would have liked, I ran the whole route (including the larger than expected hill) and as the Simple Chick has just reminded me, this was only my second ever race and my first at this distance. Sometimes, I think, I forget the bigger picture!

For the last couple of weeks, I have been along to the very friendly Queensbury Running Club on a Thursday night. Eight club members ran the race and I was made to feel very much part of the club on the day. I think this Thursday, I will have prize open my (Scottish) wallet and become a proper member! Should you be interested, you can find the full race results here and the club results here.

There are now just under 3 weeks until the Saltburn race, which I am running to raise funds for Upper Wharfedale Fell Rescue Association, so if you need me, I'll be running up and down some hills somewhere! 

https://www.justgiving.com/MaryKSaunders/

Team Queensbury and associate (c) http://www.queensburyrc.co.uk/

Into the unknown

The Simple Chick rolled her eyes in exasperation as I said, for about the 2865th time, 'Maybe I should go to the toilet again?'. She held up her right hand, thumb tucked in and her four fingers spread apart, 'Four times you've been, four! And you haven't even drunk anything since 7!'.

Feeling very apprehensive

It was 9 am on a Sunday morning and I was lining up for my first proper competitive race. And I was bricking it. 

With my number pinned on, standing in the Green holding pen, I had no idea what to expect. My training had been (and still is) focused on my trail race in mid August, not tailored for a fast, flat road race along the straight roads of Leeds. And it was warmer than expected. The mizzle and cool weather anticipated, replaced by the sunny spells and high humidity which characterise the British summer. 

Although, ever since signing up, I have had a target time lurking at the back of my mind, I was not sure it was achievable and the last thing I wanted to do was to burn out after 4 or 5 km. So for once in my life, I thought I would be kind to myself and set my pace alarm for 5:55 min/km, with my main aim to come in at under an hour - anything else I would regard as a bonus. This was, after all, my first attempt at a 10K and I really had no idea how I would perform. But me being me, I also wrote all the splits for 5:50 min/km on my hand, just in case...

Shy and reserved in everyday life, I am at heart, fiercely competitive and I had elbowed my way to the front of the green group (people running an hour or over) to ensure a good start. Flying out of the blocks, I was plagued by stiff and sore quads but there was nothing to do but keep running, my carefully created drum and bass playlist pounding in my ears and driving me on. At times people coming to a halt in my path was frustrating and there were the obvious bottlenecks at the water stations, but in the main, the event was extremely well organised, with the wide roads allowing me to run at a speed of my choice.

And so, that's what I did, I just let myself run. Occasionally the pace alarm vibrated but I told myself that getting round was more important than anything else. Kilometre 5 to 6 up Kirkstall Road was a real grind and the final couple of kilometres really unpleasant in the heat of the sun. A small uphill section, followed by a narrowing into the final straight, killed my speed a little, but again, I forced my way through the bodies and ran as hard as I could towards the line, hitting stop on my watch as I sprinted under the white and blue gantry.

Charging for the line

Crossing the finish line (if you can spot me!)

After picking up my goodie bag, as we funnelled out of the finish area, I found the Simple Chick on the steps of the Art Gallery. A text message had already arrived to tell me my result - 56:59. Having donned the finishers t-shirt and put on my medal, we set off in search of coffee and cake to celebrate. Not only had I smashed my 59:10 target, I had actually achieved the unachievable and unspoken aim of 57'. I really couldn't believe it.

Feeling, to adopt Mark Cavendish parlance, 'super happy' as I tucked into some strawberry gateau, I couldn't help but feel that I had had a very good start to my 35th birthday celebrations.

Birthday cake number one

Birthday cake number two - made by the Simple Chick using the colours my climbing gear is taped in!

Freakishly Flat

I had been looking forward to this run for ages. Week in, week out, I had been slowly incrementing my long runs, starting at 10 km and building up by 6 to 10% each time. I had run over the moors, up and down hills and in ever decreasing circles until I had reached 19.13 km with somewhere between 296 to 326 m of ascent. Now I was ready to tackle half marathon distance and I was (perversely) excited. By strange coincidence, it is also almost exactly that distance between Shipley and Leeds, along the canal, and so, as a special treat to myself, I thought I would try running the longer distance on a flat route - because canals don't have hills, right?

'Oh look - a hill'. Somewhere near Armley Gyratory.

At the last minute I decided it made more sense to catch a train to Leeds and run back to Shipley, so, at 10.38 am I set off from outside Leeds Station. Soon I settled into my stride but a comfortable slow pace seemed rather quicker than intended and I tried hard to slow myself down, knowing how much further I had to go. But there was something odd about this run, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. Then I realised - I had run several kilometres and I hadn't run up a hill. Weird.

It transpires that canals do have to tackle hills and I was somewhat amused, when arriving at the first lock, to realise I had chosen, unintentionally, to run the route the way round that went up them all...

Eventually, I reached 12 km and realised my hip was hurting from the regularity of running on an even surface, but I refused to give up. Painfully slowly the kilometres ticked by, as I passed through places I had never been and, in several cases, did not know even existed. By 16 or 17 km my hip really hurt and my pace felt like it had dropped considerably - it was hard to know though, as my GPS watch does not deal well with cities or woods!

Uncharted territory near Rodley

Finally I recognised the edge of Shipley and hobbled on for an excruciatingly slow final kilometre, desperate to reach my target distance, but also desperate to stop running. Finally Ellis Briggs' cyle shop honed into view and I pushed on up the path and onto the bridge, where my legs finally said 'no more' and I ground to a halt.

But as sore and stiff as I was immediately afterwards, I had done it - 21.11 km, 13.12 miles, 2:19:07. I'm pretty chuffed with that!

Ever decreasing pace!

Digging deep

As the beat kicked in, I dug deep into some reserve I wasn't aware I had. I felt as if I was dragging myself, by my own hair, along those last two kilometres. I imagined the film of my life and an aerial shot of me running across the moor to the strains of the pumping drum and bass. In that film, I would have looked bloody knackered. Finally the finish line (a gate) came into view and by sheer willpower alone, I forced myself onwards, finally grasping the galvanised steel with grateful hands, as I leant forward, breathing heavily.

Mist on the moor

The run had not had a particularly auspicious start, the moor was shrouded in a thick mist which soon turned to mizzle and there was, of course, the inevitable headwind. But at least the peat was relatively dry, making my passage easier than it sometimes is. Turning onto the track that runs across the escarpment, I met the full force of the wind and was glad to have chosen a long sleeved top, although this was soon soaked by the moisture in the air. My running pack just did not feel right; it seemed to be one of those days where everything was a bit wrong, if I could drop it I did, if I might trip I would. However, I made it successfully to the road and turned downhill, engaging, as I ran, in a tussle with the straps of my bag. The few kilometres along the conduit were pleasant at least, I was considerably lower, out of the mist and what wind there was was behind me. I met some dog walkers for a second time, they must have wondered where I had been. 

It wouldn't have been right had the Horrible Hill of Hell not been involved. I swear it does not get any easier, no matter how many times I 'run' up it. My energy was sapped at the top (I may have melodramatically considered the likelihood of a heart attack) but I turned right to take on the escarpment path for a second time. The wind had noticeably increased, as it was forecast to do and the moor summit was completely hidden from view by the low cloud. As the path runs along the escarpment, it crosses a number of small cloughs, the little kickers this produces seemed energy sappingly difficult, but finally I began  to descend towards the road for a second time. Reaching almost exactly 8km, I landed my foot badly and turned my ankle, triggering a lingering injury. Yelping more in frustration than in pain, I carried on. I only had another 9km to go!

By the time I reached the road, it was difficult to see much beyond 100 m, several times a car loomed towards me without me being totally certain I had been seen. The sight of about 10 teenagers on what looked like a DofE or Scout hike suddenly appearing out of the mist was even more bizarre. Continuously wondering where the cattle grid was and completely unable to see the wind farm, I plodded on, eventually reaching the end of the bridleway and a conglomerate of MAMiLs (some of them might have actually been quite young) on bikes. After 11 odd kilometres I was already tired, but my speed mysteriously increased as I passed them... Climbing up out of the clough was difficult and I suddenly felt breathless and sapped of energy, but at 14 km I told myself I only had 3 more to go and even I can run 3 km!

Over the moor, down the Horrible Hill of Hell, through the gate, along the track, though the other gate, round the corner, down the hill, through a gate, through the gap and along the track. The gentle gradient of the track seemed to have become a mountain as I hauled myself along, trying not to look at my watch every 12 seconds. I told myself that at the bottom of the last climb I would look again. 16.1, 16.4, 16.6, 16.96, 17.01, the kilometres seemed to grind by and I felt like I was covering no distance at all. Finally as I hit the bottom of the last hill, the beat of a Danny Byrd track dropped and my long legs moved imperceptibly faster. As my watch reached my target distance, something inside me wouldn't stop, no matter how tired I felt and glimpsing a line of metal appear over the horizon, I pushed on for those last few hundred metres down the hill. 

Hills and laps around the moor

I know that there are people, like my friend Pam, who run much further and faster than me, but today felt like a real achievement. Those 17.51 km (10.88 miles in old money) took a lot of effort, and as I struggled to even walk back to the car, I knew I had given about as much as I could. Tonight, my quads feel like they have had a real workout so I think I've earned a sit down, a jacuzzi bath and maybe even a mug of hot chocolate!