Fatigue

My Parkrun result today was crap, or at least I perceive it as being crap because it was so far from the target I had in mind, although in reality it was only one second slower than my first Parkrun two weeks ago. My legs felt heavy and I felt tired, so much so, I would have gladly laid down on the grass and had a good sleep after the first time up the Teeny Tiny Hill. 

I think after the first few weeks of race training, combined with a hard coached climbing session, 3 other sessions with my mates and the introduction of pull-ups to my training schedule, my body is telling me it needs a rest. My legs ache and my abs were so sore on Thursday I could not laugh or cough (I dread to think what 11 broken ribs feels like...). I have even started dreaming about being being able to have a nice lie down! 

The increasingly dog-eared training log

My problem is that I find it hard to deviate from what I think I should be doing, without feeling intensely guilty. I worry that if I don't train as hard for one week then I will never train as hard again, that if I eat cake one day, I will fall of the dietary wagon for good. But even I can tell I can't keep doing what I have been. So tomorrow I am having a rest and on Thursday I am having another one. 

Although today's effort has made me feel a little disheartened, I suppose I have to focus on the gains I have made in climbing and running over the past 5 months. From very modest beginnings on Christmas Eve, I can now run 11.5 km at a perfectly respectable pace, I can climb and lead things I never could before, with the compulsion to vomit almost gone. And I myself have changed, by about ten kilograms to the good...

So although this has felt like a long, hard and tiring week, the bigger picture is far more positive and I suppose, ultimately, that's all that really matters.

Training steps - or perhaps a metaphor for something else?

The coffee run

I think I have inadvertently set my own Parkrun bar rather high - yesterday I knocked 30 seconds off last week's time and came in at 28:13. Utilising my new magic watch (it talks to my phone and uses witchcraft to know where you are), I had been aiming for 28:30, although said watch nearly went into the Boating Pond about 17 times, when I realised I hadn't turned off the audible low pace alert. 

I thought I would do today's long run on road, in truth because my knee is hurting and I think it might relate to wearing neutral trail shoes, but mainly because I really, really, really wanted an iced coffee. I knew, because my car tells me when I go there, that Shipley is about 7 miles away, which is handy, both because it has a Costa and because my training schedule said an 11.2 km run was required today. Buoyed on by my Parkrun times, I was also curious as to how fast I could run a road 10K and specifically whether I could achieve my imagined 'race pace' of running 10 km in an hour. 

I filled the water bladder in my little trail running bag, stuffed in some warm clothes, money and my 16 - 25 railcard (student perks), grabbed the magic watch and set off. Straight into a head wind. Almost immediately the pace alarm (now only on vibrate) went off, but it was difficult to move any faster when heading into the teeth of a gale on top of a hill. I carried on, hitting a small, but quite steep hill, at around 2.5 km, before continuing across the plateau and turning right onto a more major road. On this flatter and downhill ground, my pace was good but just before the 5 km mark, I reached a large hill and it reduced accordingly. Struggling up a more gradual, but still significant grind, the watch went into overdrive, but my 5 km time showed I was still on target. Starting the descent and seeing the size of the hill to the other side of the valley, I wimped out and decided I'd take the other, flat route to Shipley. Turning right onto the main road, the last 2.5 km felt hard, firstly I couldn't cross the road, the slope up to the Saltaire junction seemed tougher than it should do and when I reached 11 km, the best option seemed to be to grit my teeth and run faster, just to make the last 500 m go away sooner! Although I feel I cheated a little because this route involves far more descent than ascent, I ran my 11.51 km with an average pace of 5:49 mins/km so I hope that after a bit more training, I can also manage the same speed in a flat 10K race.

Having stretched incongruously by the side of the road, and stopped sweating quite so much, I wandered up to Costa and got myself that iced cappuccino. I think I had earned it!

Hard won cool beverage

The Hills of Home

Training with a purpose, and in particular focusing on different aspects of running in each session, is a new experience for me. But it's really enjoyable, I like the variety and I really like the day I go out 'just for fun'. Today was a 'hill' day and according to my schedule, it was time to conquer Mount Rainier. Fortunately for me, I live on the side of a massive hill somewhere in Yorkshire, thus negating the need to travel to Washington State.

Mount Rainier

As I ran up and down the hill a few times, I thought about how only a few months ago, the very idea of running up this street had seemed unthinkable. I remembered sitting on my bed on Christmas Day, shyly telling someone that I would like to run a 10K this year, having, prior to Christmas Eve, not run at all since April.

Yesterday, after a hot 7K 'fun' run across the moor, I came home and entered Leeds 10K, as a flat warm up to the Saltburn trail race about a month later. All being well with training, not only will I run two 10Ks this year, I will run one of them on my 35th birthday!

Training plans

Park Life

'Do Parkrun each week for speed training', he said, and so it was that I found myself in Lister Park this morning, awaiting Magneto and son, clutching a barcode and feeling somewhat apprehensive. I was nervous, this was my first timed 5K in 9 years, what if I couldn't get round without walking? What sort of time could I run? Could I dare hope to break the golden 30 minute barrier? 

Mass start

Navigating through pushchairs, dogs and people, half way round the first lap, I was rather surprised to find myself just behind the 29' pacer. There must have been some kind of mistake! But I didn't feel like I was running too fast, particularly downhill, so I decided that this might be a very good place to stay, sub 30' would be awesome. I kind of hoped, that by maintaining a distance of about 5 to 10m behind pace lady, wearing a fake beard and a variety of hats (OK, I made that bit up), she wouldn't notice me, but I think she did... On the last lap, she yelled, "If you want to do 29', you need to be in front of me..." I was too scared to argue and lengthened my stride accordingly, all the time thinking, "But I don't really want to be inside 29'! I just seem to have got here by mistake!". The Teeny Tiny Hill for the 3rd time was hard and the pacer overtook me again on the home straight. "Ah well," I thought, "sub 30' was my target" and retook my place about 10m behind her. But there was no escape, slogging up the final lung busting rise, round the bandstand to the finish, she yelled again, "28'30"! Come on!". And for that last 20m or so, I ran as hard as I bloody could.

Having taken my precious barcode to the bandstand, I looked for Magneto and son, who were braving the rain as they ran up the finishing straight (more of a hill than you realise), retrieved the jumpers and met them in the queue. My first Parkrun was complete.

Happy, if a little damp and windswept, Parkrun finishers.

A few hours later and the results were in: my official time of 28'43" blew my vague (and I thought, overly optimistic) 30' target out the water and my placings, overall, against other females and in my age group, were a very pleasant surprise.  Today, having convinced myself I knew my own limits, I vastly exceeded my own expectations and that made me really, really, really happy. Next week, with a huge chunk of renewed self belief thrown in, perhaps I can do even better? 

A sweaty, tired and damp Clamberer, absolutely pleased as punch.

Running from the black dog

Sometimes I run to escape from my own mind. Running does not make my brain stop but it appears to provide a space in which to order my thoughts. 

Thinking in the sun

I make 'notes to self' as I chug along: things to ask those in the know, about running technique or physiotherapists. I think about what I am training for, about the people in my life and my relationships with them. I write blog posts in my head, I wonder why the fuck I am running up a horrible hill and today I thought about George Galloway. Well, I do live in Bradford West and there is an election going on... As I slogged up a hill, into a head wind, considering my technique,  I settled upon the thought that what I really enjoy about running on the moor is the solitude, the physical space in which I can achieve some sort of mental order.

And then I found myself on the M25. Just as I hit the very worst part of the route. Weaving my way through a conglomerate of MAMILs, I was rudely awoken from my ruminations and was also particularly unimpressed when I tripped over a dog. Twice. But, some kind of femichismo (that's like machismo but for women) also hit and I was not stopping on the horrible hill of hell, even if they did all overtake me. Feeling proud of that small achievement, I walked it out at the top, letting the brightly coloured lycra disappear over the summit, allowing me to return to MY moor and my own private world. 

A conglomerate of MAMILs

The hill had sapped my energy and my entanglement with the MAMILs and subsequent chat with another lone female runner had lost me valuable seconds, so I gave up on trying to improve on my previous best time.  As I hit the downhill section towards home, all I could think about was keeping going, just as fast as I could manage. Passing the signpost, sweating and knackered, my watch told me I had been faster than I thought, bettering my previous time by 41 seconds. I had achieved something. 

As I stretched at the car, I became aware that my mood had significantly lifted. I must have left the black dog somewhere on that moor. I only hope he stays there for a while.

Home, happier and settling in for election night...

Return to the rock

The rock felt warm as I yelled 'CLIMBING' to my unseen partner and carefully stepped up onto a small ledge. I had intentionally asked to not be told the grade of the route, but the holds looked positive and the crack appeared friendly.  I was happy in the sunshine and despite the outcome of my last trad outing, I felt surprisingly relaxed and confident as I began. Although the first bit of gear seemed intent on spoiling my day, the rest of climbing was enjoyable and I felt like I was moving well. Arriving at the top of the solid rock, my partner finally came into view and we discussed the best way to negotiate the chossy, grassy, nettle ridden top out. Standing safely next to the fence, he told me it was a V diff. I nearly remarked that V diffs seem to have got a lot harder lately!

Spot the V diff

After an abseil and a fair bit of hammering by my partner, the pesky hex was retrieved and as the guide was consulted to find the next route, it transpired that the 'stiff' V diff on which we had begun was, in fact, a Hard Severe. My confidence was boosted - the last time I tried an HS, I had to be hauled up a sea cliff in tears!

We moved on to the next route. As I looked up at the corner, the bedding of the rock, the nature of the crack and the small positive footholds reminded me so much of Roseness that I half expected to turn round and see the sea behind me. I wished Donna could have been out with us too: in my mind I could see her bridging her way up the route, just as she had done on several climbs back in Orkney. 

The climbing was enjoyable, with a few moves that required a little thought and a little nerve, even as a second, and I particularly relished the layback manoeuvre near the crux.  Reaching the top, I felt I had again climbed well, but that the route had been harder than the first. The guide said it was a Severe, while my newer guide at home only rates it as HVD! Lies I tell you!

Looking towards Manningham Mills and the hill between here and home

Finishing a few hours later, as the clouds began to gather and a cool breeze began to blow, I felt that overall it had been a good day. In particular, I had really enjoyed the familiar nature of the rock and the type of climbing required.

Today was all about getting time on rock, at the right grade, in a positive environment. I really hope that there are many more sessions like it.

Perspectives on life

You may have thought that this blog had gone a little quiet of late, but there was good reason: 17 days ago, my climbing partner fell 9 m from our final route of the evening. He is lucky to be alive. What happened is not my story to tell and I am not the one with 12 months of recovery ahead of me, but the event and the aftermath have had a profound effect on the way I view myself and my place in the world. 

So the name of this blog has changed. I found out, on that night, when my first instinct was to administer first aid, that I am stronger than perhaps I believe myself to be, I found out subsequently that I am a loving, caring and compassionate person, willing to do all they can for those they care about. I am not a donkey, I am a relatively new climber, constantly learning and improving.  So I changed the name of this blog. The ingrained negativity which has dogged me throughout my life, frankly, can do one now.

But other things have changed too, I feel that from this horrible accident, only good should come, so I have decided to run a 10K trail race (the one my friend was training for) to raise funds for the Upper Wharfedale Fell Rescue Association who came, en mass, to his aid that night.  They are funded entirely by donations but do an absolutely fantastic job for those who get into difficulties in the outdoors.  

So this blog may change direction too, as I document my training.  Of course I will keep climbing and I will keep writing about climbing, but it's funny how, without warning, life has a way of unexpectedly changing direction. And apparently my direction now involves a lot of time running through a bog.

Stream wading, bog trotting legs

The accident was reported in the local paper and you can find out more about the Upper Wharfedale Fell Rescue Association here and should you, like me, feel that the work of the fell and mountain rescue teams across the UK is invaluable, you can sponsor my endeavours here. 

And if you see a long-legged lady puffing her way over the moors of West Yorkshire, be sure to give her a shout of encouragement...

Evening light

Tonight's run made me realise how lucky I am to be able to run, and walk, and breath, and live my life to the full.

Thornton Reservoir

Windmills

Sunset

Easter adventures on the moor

The sun shone into my east facing bedroom this morning and I knew I had to get up, get out and do something worthwhile. Without an available climbing partner and after an evening making an Easter egg (and eating the leftovers), I felt the need to run. I had already scoped out a nice 11.5 km route over my local moor and was keen to give it a try.

My route

I set off along the usual route to the reservoir, passing a number of cyclists and walkers as I puffed up the hill and along the track. As the terrain flattened out a little, the sun shone brighter, the wind was imperceptible and I settled into my stride. Reaching the gate where I normally turn round, I was less clear of the way, but after a quick look at the map and a brief unscheduled diversion, I found my way back onto a substantial, but very peaty track, running across the top of the escarpment. As I traversed the landscape, more and more industrial features were evident and I shall have to return some time soon, with my professional hat on, for a proper look around.  

As it neared Cold Edge Road, the path turned and the rolling Pennine moors came into view. Looking towards Bronte Country to the north and Lancashire to the west, I was struck by how lucky I was to have these moors only a mile or so from my front door. Big mountains they may not be, but in many ways, these featureless, bleak expanses of peat are more wild than many of their bigger and better known counterparts. I turned left at the end of the path and continued along the road, climbing gently up hill, for a few kilometres. Since I lived her before, the section of the road that was unadopted now seems to have been fully tarmacked and it is now possible to cross the hill, unlike the time when I tried (unsuccessfully), 11 year previously.

Not a bad place to have on your door step

At the transmitter, I turned left onto an old cobbled bridleway, before taking another left and striking out back out across the moor. The track was rough, wet and peaty, my feet were soaked and my legs were filthy, but it was great fun. After about 9.5 km, I reached a sheltered and interesting cleugh, accessed and left via two sets of steep steps and here I met lots of families out enjoying the Easter sunshine.

Soon I reached the end of the bridleway that runs back to where the car was parked. As I descended, the quality of the track improved, with the last 500 m providing a good chance to stretch the legs on solid ground.

Today's leg shot!

Back at the car I was tired, dirty and very, very sweaty but unlike 11.5 km on tarmac, this run never felt like a chore. I am not fast, I still have to walk up some of the hills, but nothing seems to make me happier than being ankle deep in a peat bog, looking out over the landscape and breathing it all in.

Perhaps I have earned a little of that Easter egg now?

Moments

There are moments, amongst the hours, weeks and days, that we may spend doing all these activities that we do, that stick out. Those brief instances that for some reason you remember for years to come. I had such a moment today.  Having puffed up a very steep hill, I reached an inviting stream, where I paused to take a drink. It was early, before 8am, and I was alone on the edge of a cleugh, looking down over the woods and the river.  As the chilled Drum and Bass played through the one earphone that still works, the sun began to shine through the mist clinging to the top of the moors. In that moment, I wanted to be no where else.  It was perfection.

Not as flat as it might appear!

New to trail running and not yet wholly au fait with the local area, I had requested off-road suggestions from The One Who Runs.  He directed me to Harcastle Crags near Hebden Bridge. Setting off before most people had even got out of bed, every corner I turned was met with anticipation, an opportunity to discover something new with each passing kilometre. The rocky, undulating riverside path giving way to a solid track, into a muddy path through the woods, a steep drop across the moor and back to the river, an old tramway high above the water, the steep climb to the edge of the cleugh, a muddy track, slipping and sliding through the beech wood.  As I toiled uphill and bounced downwards, completely alone in the woods, my joy at the experience grew with every stride.

As recommendations go, I think it was a pretty good one! 

Happy feet