THE FINAL CURTAIN
I can't say as I actually believe in reincarnation. I've read a few theories which could be gently persuasive, but scepticism reigns. I do consider that our actual living consciences could be a very mysterious power though. Very vivid dreams and unexplainable experiences such as déjà vu can feel like some kind of link to a previous existence.
I am certainly not religious, but I recognise that by sheer curiosity about what we don't know, I must be spiritual to some degree. It's human nature to be so I think.
Perhaps our dormant molecules blow on the wind, searching for a new life to attach to? Or could there be some other means of soul recycling that certainly my own limited sense of science simply cannot get it's head around?
What I can clarify is this; should this very consciousness of living that is I, be somehow transcended to another human being in the future, I can categorically assure myself right now that I will be taking up fell running at a much earlier age!
Whilst I would like to think that when the time comes to push the daisies up, a second chance of life might somehow formulate itself, I could be in with a strong shout of becoming national fell champion in the 2090's. 

The stark reality is more likely that we only get one innings - and this is it.
In terms of my running innings, initially I wasted too much time kicking the proverbial bag of wind around and smoking hashish in the pavillion, so to speak. But at least I did eventually make it to the crease.
Although too late to bat to my full potential, I managed to register some credit on the scoreboard and notch some solid fours with even a few sixes thrown in.
Broadening this glut of cricketing analogies to outside running and the far bigger cricket game of life as a whole, this is still very much in play and for this innings, I cross fingers that I'm only half way through and that the Grim Reaper isn't waiting for me in the slips just yet.
There could still be new and exciting challenges ahead. Whilst competitive running may have fallen behind the final curtain for now, I cannot mourn this loss for too long and rather see it as an opportunity for something different. Time in the hills and mountains will always be a spiritual necessity and to run on them whenever possible - I would never rule out dipping back in to racing and of course, to feel good enough to do so is still the ultimate sporting desire. But I also need sport in my life at which I can feel truly competitive at.
First night bowling on the crown green went well, it was matchplay straight from the off against Leroy. Beginners luck as I took a 4-1 lead, only for beginners reality to kick in as I trailed 6-18. But this kicked the competitive focus in to play and I recovered with a startling comeback to 20-20, before a long overdue stunner from my opponent took the match away from me on the deciding end. An epic enough first encounter to whet the appetite for more. Leroy and his neighbours, who were also down at the Vernon Carus green in Penwortham, are all adamant if you can play on there you can play anywhere. The surface is patchy in places and the surroundings sadly neglected, but a good place to ply a new sporting trade.
Maybe the bowling green really does beckon after all then? Although I could see myself getting more and more in to the cycling too. It's turning out to be a good alternative to running for getting out and beasting myself.

Reading back over my running ramblings from the past three years or so, there are some extracts which really bore the pants off myself. Perhaps I have rambled on too much and rambled unnecessarily. Self indulgently engrossed in my own exceedingly tedious running trivialities, these ramblings are what they are and they were what they were. It is what it is. Aside from the odd grammatical correction - and there'll be some I missed no doubt - it's all blogged from the heart at the time of going to press.
Reading back from the beginning though has cast further doubt about myself - about whether or not I have truly, truly committed everything to the cause of being the best runner I could have been over that period of time. Such reflection is harsh though. In the end my battered and ageing body parts could never quite match the aspiration and ambition of my engine.

So to the compassionate reader who has related to my running ramblings for what they are, may I thank you so much for seeing them through to the end.
To the critic, who may point out that this is ultimately an insignificant story of sporting failure about nobody in particular and question why anybody would give a toss? Well, I for one have never claimed it was ever anything else than precisely that.

See you in the next life!

BIG BREAK
Actually, there seems very little to be gained in some sort of ceremonious signing off at the Blencathra and Tebay races. I haven't run at all since Fairfield, which suggests I'm already two weeks in to the resting and healing process. There seems little point in blowing this accrued recovery time on two tough races that will be even tougher on a fortnight of runlessness.
It's not so much a case of listening to the body, but more a case of being told by it - and in no uncertain terms.
Fanciful ambitions and best intentions count for nothing without the basic ability to go out and run properly. After thirteen and a half years of running, it's time to take a proper break from it and see if I can get my crocked bits and pieces fully revived. There's no plan for when to try again exactly, not even in the furthest reaches of my mind's eye. Simply when it feels right to, I suppose.
With Ben at work deep in to his training as a sports injury therapist, he's used me as a subject to get some case study hours in and had a good look at my knees last week. It turns out my right knee is turned out. This would explain all sorts of aches and pains with the right hand side of my running mechanics. Top that with a back that rarely feels fully flexible and has been giving me grief again lately, with what I thought was a bruised heel but is plantar fasciitis and all those things combined with a far from perfect left knee either... it would seem ridiculous to carry on.
The paranoia of losing fitness altogether was eased yesterday when I finally got the bike out for an hour, blew some cobwebs away and really enjoyed it. I think I can finally make a habit of cycling now, particularly as I feel I really have to.
At the beginning of next week I've got a session booked on the bowling green. Yes, that's right, the bowling green. It was never tongue-in-cheek you know, I said it might come to this.
In a very timely, even incredulous coincidence, one of my good pals Leroy (Lee Dalton) has got in to crown green bowling recently. If the crossover from fell running to bowling may sound a stark contrast, Leroy's most recent sporting accolade is a Second Dan in karate.
Dalton and I used to roll up together all the time (he knows what I mean), but now we're going to roll a few 'ends' together and see what happens. The seeds of a new sporting passion to be sewn? Who knows? Certainly something to fill the gap whilst waiting for the green shoots of running recovery.

DISSENTING DESCENDING
FAIRFIELD HORSESHOE
I couldn't quite believe it when I worked out it was eleven years since my last appearance at this fantastic race. It's been at least seven years since I even summited Fairfield on a training run.
Despite this inconceivable sense of time travel, everything felt so strangely familiar on this long awaited return - although I was a little blase about how far the parking field was from registration. As it was my wife's birthday weekend, we had another stayover up this end of the world just ten minutes down the road from Rydal. Plenty of time for a chilled morning, no need to rush... but somehow I ended up getting tight for time to get my number, scampering down the track to chuck my kit on and then hurry back up to the start just in time for kick off. At least it got the adrenaline pumping at last, for every single outing since my last race eight days ago has been limited to slow jogging. Aches and pains in my knees again, general lack of energy levels - and as such - loss of running mojo. I've barely been able to run a sweat up.
Fairfield is just the sort of race that will chew you up and spit you out if not in condition for it. My woeful performances in both training and racing recently meant I was never going to treat it with anything less than the utmost respect.
When I thought I still had time on my hands and about to head off for registration, I get a shout and it's the familiar face of Blackburn Harrier Matt Nuttall. There's probably a joke going around about my admiration for Nuttall, but he's a strong all rounder who has run solid and fast at all disciplines for a quarter of a century or more. To cut a long story short, for a long time he was the runner who I aspired to emulate, even though I never really got close. Getting the better of him in the odd track session was as good as it got.
Matt's a committed athlete, strong personality, calls a spade a spade and unless it's profound and worth saying, he may not say much at all. He's always made a great double act with his best mate and close rival at the club, Paul Guinan. Nuttall and Guiny were like the Kray twins when I was at Blackburn.
I couldn't help observing that certainly for a race day, Mr Nuttall seemed much more laid back and friendlier than I've ever seen him before. Not that he was ever unfriendly as such, more so the broodiness of a fiercely focused competitor. Perhaps his more holistic approach to racing at the moment is bringing out his more socialite nature?
Anyway, like myself, Matt's struggling to get back to anything like form. Unlike myself though, he's dealing with it.
Even racing as a mere shadow of his former self, I'm admiring Nuttall all over again for a whole set of different reasons. His attitude to taking harsh beatings at every race of late is to say, ''I am where I am'', getting on with doing races he's never done before to maintain his interest and also hopefully building a way back. I wish I could share that same outlook, but I'm more of a troubled specimen. It's not that I don't get enjoyment, fulfilment or even lack gratitude that I am capable of running around routes like the Fairfield Horseshoe; it's just that if I can't feel as if I am being competitive, then I'd prefer to just run the route on my own. Being in a race to get an arse-kicking time after time is just making me more and more despondent. Nuttall however, well Nuttall is a different monster and is a monster that has a plan. I'm sure he'll see it through and that eventually he'll get back up to standard. I thought he'd lost the plot a few months ago when I saw photographs of him plugged in with earphones during a few fell races. Now I'm thinking it was all part of the grander masterplan.
I was around a minute or so behind Matt throughout most of the race until the last couple of miles, which says much about how far he has to go yet. I was reasonably content to make the summit inside an hour and had picked off plenty of places after a conservative first climb on to ridge of Nab Scar. I seemed to be holding my own on the second half of the horseshoe which throws in a couple more short climb testers and I remember thinking about half way down how I was feeling quite good and ready to finish the job off. But when the descent gets rockier and steeper, the quads numbed a touch, my knees didn't feel up to the job and all the places I had made up on the climb - and then some - were cheaply thrown away over the sort of terrain that once upon a time I thrived on. In one sense I felt I was holding back, but equally I felt I just couldn't push myself on either. With knees hurting and stiffening up, there was no rhythm at all to this shambolic manoeuvre down the hillside that sparked bouts of vocal self-condemnation and dissent which I can only hope no passing competitors thought was aimed at them.
I took a random peek at my watch which displayed 1.37... the valley floor still looks a long way down and even if I was descending in a plane I would say there was still a few minutes until touchdown.
In 2007 I had crossed the finishing line in 1.31.
The next time I dare glimpse at said wrist-based timing instrument is when I catch a view of all the runner's vehicles in the field, still a distance away and still a few hundred feet below. Now I'm on 1.42. I'd said to my fell racing widow Sara that I'd be hitting that track back to the finish in about 1:40, but here I was, still up the bloody fell. The last quarter of the race had disintegrated in to another sorry mess.
True to his word though, Clayton Harrier Chris Funnell had a drink waiting for me at the finish after we shared a few words running off the top of Fairfield. That put a smile on my face at least.
I walked back down the track with Nuttall after finishing and he was still looking at the positives, although when it came to his own descending, he too was a bit perplexed at his demise. Both of us also pointed to the odd day every fortnight when randomly we go out and run and everything seems fine again, before taking another week or two to recover and be able to run like that again. What's going on? Matt's got five years on me, battered himself since his early twenties doing triathlons, Ironman and still been a prominent and consistent runner throughout. He's got more of a right to be worn out and more of a right to be pissed off than me. But he's made of sterner matter than I, both in physicality and the stuff between the ears.
Another tough cookie is Wharfedale's Mark McGoldrick. Around the last time I did this race we were in each other's pockets at some races. In the last four or five years though, our running fortunes could not have gone in more different directions. Goldy was well up there in seventh at this one and has been sort of sub-elite for a few seasons now. A cracking fell runner indeed. I guess you've either got it or you've not and he has tapped in to another level and beyond. He laughed when I reminded him I used to beat him from time to time, but the joke was most definitely on me.
So is this my last race for a while? Can I suffer more punishment? My works postie and fell runner Alan Life thinks I should see out the end of June before considering downing tools. I feel like a crock though and just to add to my list of ailments, a creased back has erupted this week after a long period of relative calm.
Basic competency to run at all without pain pending, I've decided to see out my midweek race favourites of Blencathra and Tebay next month before in all likeliness calling time on the racing game and the plundering attempts to be fit for it.
I remain optimistic that I might be able to have a go again at some point in the future, but the curtain appears to be falling on this particular volume of running ramblings of nobody in particular it would seem.

Leaving the scene from Rydal down the dusty track back to the main road, a heart warming sight for an admirer of the fellrunning old school; I spot a chap of relative seniority in an Up & Down t-shirt. A priceless garment of vintage fell running value. The Up & Down magazine dates back to the very early 1990's - a brilliant editorial labour of love by one of my favourite fell folk, Dave Woodhead. There can't be many of those t-shirts about anymore. It goes without saying the model in question was also wearing original Ronhill tracksters and a pair of Walsh PB's. Talk about keeping it real? The ultimate antidote to tech-t's, graphene grip and compression tights enhanced with muscle containment membrane. What a dude.

Saturday 18th May 2019
FAIRFIELD HORSESHOE   Rydal, Cumbria   9m/3000ft
1st Man - Carl Bell (Keswick AC) 1.20:17
1st Lady - Kelly Roberts (Helm Hill) 1.31:54
My Stats - 1.48:48    */*

 

HARSH REALITIES
PINHAW MOOR
It may not be politically correct and quite possibly offend some individuals that this statement could implicate; the fact of the matter is though that I've started getting done over by guys who aren't quite built like racing snake pillars of running athleticism.
It might be an overall lack of brawny definition, thick-set arms and shoulders, a larger bum than me... all sorts of similar details that can make me think during a race, "Oh shit, how's he running faster than me?".
There's absolutely no malice or disrespect intended here, it's just an observation. These are still very fit lads who can run up and down hills and that makes them way fitter and stronger than probably 99% of the population in my view. But in the heat of the contest of late, this observation leaves me scratching my head wondering why this is happening and why am I going backwards so quickly?
Running is my sport of choice, my hobby, my passion and with the time and effort invested, it's difficult to accept that this probably is the moment when I have to acknowledge my own standards have crashed so hard they are beyond repair.
Adding to the post-race frustrations, my little Citroen had been boxed in by some thoughtless hoon in a red Peugeot. After shuffling back and forth maybe ten times to finally squeeze a way out, once the drive home from Earby began that Friday night was when the devastation set in after another race that I'd rank in my bottom five performances. Maybe the worst ever. To go backwards when there doesn't seem to be any more room for regression is really hard to take.
Once again, I didn't set off like a nutter and yet struggled to get in to the race. I got picked off time and time again over the gradual incline to Pinhaw's trig point. I could only hope I had a decent descent in my legs to pick some back. But no. I'm still getting overtaken. I have no reply, no change of gear. Some chaps put over a minute in to me on the way back down who shouldn't be doing. That's not to take anything away from them, it's a condemnation of my own lack of ability.
Just lately, running and racing has been like trying to fill a teapot with a huge crack in it - the more you put in to it, the more seems to drain away. Or to finish off my analogy about the bathtub and the whirlpool forming at the plughole from a couple of weeks ago... this Pinhaw race was like the burp when the very last vortex of liquid slips away.
When I got home, Sara asked me how I'd got on. I apologised for completely wasting a Friday evening that we could have spent together and won't get back. ''Don't be daft'', she says, looking at me slightly puzzled. There was only one thing for it, three pint sized cans of very cold Stella Artois duly consumed within an hour and a half before bedtime. That didn't help though, I was awake for a long time in the night thinking about running.
My shop boss Ben Fish was in a class of his own at this race and won by a healthy margin. After throwing away victory in the first race of this Pendle & Burnley Grand Prix series last Sunday, that big navigational cock-up was appeased in style at Pinhaw. With navigational confidence clearly in tatters, The Fish followed me over to the race venue from work on his Royal Enfield motorbike. As it turned out, it would be me losing my way that evening and in more ways than one.
. . .

What now? Well I wasn't awake in the night for ages without good reason. Tuesday evening plans to race one of my favourite shorties, Mearley Clough, are now well and truly off the agenda. With grave doubts of performing any better, there seems little point. Instead, I'll be finding my own little patch of Pendle Hill where I do my morning loops to see what's left and race the clock over two or three circuits. Then Saturday, it's the real deal and the Fairfield Horseshoe. Fairfield was one of my first tastes of proper fell racing and even if I run poorly, I will still take pleasure from this epic route. If it turns out to be the last race I do for a while, then the perfect swansong.

Friday 10th May 2019
PINHAW MOOR
Earby, East Lancs.   5m/700ft
1st Man - Ben Fish (Blackburn Harriers) 29:56
1st Lady - Jacqueline Collins (Barlick FR) 37:32
My Stats - 35:39   32/255 
  

ON THE ROCKS
ORCHAN ROCKS
Set in the steep valley that winds in to Todmorden from the Burnley end, what a cracking little race this turned out to be. I could easily have stayed at home and sulked, but I'm glad I made the trip and took another spanking. Fellow Ribble Valley member Ste Hall is one of the first faces I recognise in The Staff of Life pub as we scribble out our entries, so at least I had somebody to whinge to both before and after the race.
A few hours earlier I was walking Connie on the park and I couldn't stop yawning. I'd felt rubbish all day - the moaning and groaning ramble typed out here on her earlier walk that morning testifies.
By the height of that afternoon, the atmosphere had got quite warm and stuffy and I'm still in the land of the semi-conscious wondering why and just how I'm going find what it takes to race shortly. But I don't let the demons take over. I'm still racing.
Fortunately it had freshened up by early evening. The tropics of the Western Lancashire flatlands in the afternoon were quite some contrast to the comfortably cool conditions on arrival at what was once an outpost of East Lancashire. Yorkshire-fied since 1974, Todmorden suffered under the act of indiscriminate Delancastrianisation - otherwise known as the county boundary changes.
Hall was strong, running a fine second place and out of sight, then it was some of the same old surnames of Holt, Gilbert, Barrett, then a couple more places on was Fishwick... and once again I'm seriously well off the pace from these guys. Not too far behind either, one of my few regular blog ramble and rant readers Alan Life will be thinking I'm for the taking soon. The long time Clayton-le-Moors Harrier has got the pedigree from his younger days and might just be plotting an Indian Summer of his own. On the plus side I did manage to take back a couple of places on the final descent, but climbing felt hopeless and that's undoubtedly where it all went wrong here. The future outlook for my racing remains very much on the rocks. 
Ste was quoted with precise accuracy as ever on the Ribble Valley Harriers social media newsreel saying, ''Sutty turned up and looked like Big Bird off Sesame Street'', with reference to my stand-out all-yellow Spring and Summer club kit. (Well, hopefully Summer) Post-race the yellow vest came off and I put it up to Darren Fishwick to see how it suited him. Despite the fact I had rudely interrupted his conversation, the force of his resistance had lessened once again. Perhaps he has just got rather bored of me now. He's still not joined yet, that's for sure and he's still not even read my 'Ten Good Reasons' why he should, either.

Tuesday 30th April 2019
ORCHAN ROCKS 
Lydgate, Nr. Todmorden   3.4m/919ft
1st Man - Martin Howard (Calder Valley FR) 22:31
1st Lady - Amy Freeman (Darwen Dashers) 28:18  
My Stats - 26:26   11/78

BEGINNING OF THE END?
Since turning forty, summarising my racing ability over the last five years draws comparisons with a bath tub slowly draining away it's contents. Occasionally a welcome obstruction might have halted the flow, but right now it feels as if the drainage is speeding up. The whirlpool to the plughole is forming and it's gaining momentum.
There is a very real sense of some sort of end. This was the overwhelming feeling when out running yesterday. Punishing myself with further attempts of getting back to good racing fitness seems fruitless, for I'm not even getting the slightest inkling that I'm even going in the right direction. Whether this imminent end will be permanent or incur a long term break is not clear, but after another tired week that had actually followed a promising interval session... I can't be doing with the constant disappointment. The knees have been complaining again and I can't bury myself in the denial of that for much longer either. It's affecting my stride and I feel all out of synch. I thought Pilates was the miracle cure, but it can't plaster over the cracks of wear and tear. The classes certainly help, but I just never seem to recover fully from any run these days. I certainly never feel like an unsprung coil, that's for sure.
I feel shattered this morning again for no good reason. It's probably complete madness to race tonight, but there is a sense of duty to myself that I shouldn't give up just yet.

'F' STANDS FOR FARCICAL AT IAAF
Blabbing on about the contorted ideology and policy of Sebastian Coe and the International Association of Athletics Federations as I did not too long ago, I lost my cool. But the outright ignorance, injustice and hypocracy of that organisation drove me to such written rantings in the first place. Sometimes a paragraph got carried away when a short sentence would have done. Some of it was speculative and self opinionated, some of it was just angry! But I can't take it back and I wouldn't dream of doing. The crux of my point remains fair I feel.
If athletes with natural physiological advantages are to be dosed with performance suppressing substances to ''create a level playing field'', then that policy ought to be across the board and not just picking on a few lasses who produce more testosterone than others.
Studying the results of the World Cross Country Championships in Athletics Weekly last month, the top twenty-five senior men were from African countries (Robel Fsiha in 17th runs for Sweden but is Eritrean born) In the senior women's race, the top seventeen are from Africa. That same continent dominated the under 20's races in a similar fashion. Generations of African distance runners must have some physiological advantages and that's fine, because that's how it is. But if the IAAF's intentions for Semenya were to be fair and across the board, then all these other fantastic African athletes should be prescribed performance suppression as well, shouldn't they?   
If that was the case with athletes no longer allowed to run in their natural state, then athletics isn't even a sport any more. After a whole generation spent trying to eradicate the use of drugs, drugs would actually be allowed to completely take control. An Athletics Armageddon.
I was really disappointed to hear Paula Radcliffe jumping on the bandwagon when piping up a few weeks ago that, unless this IAAF ruling goes through, female competition will be dead as we know it because coaches will head hunt girls like Caster to take them to the top. So a bit of extra testosterone and a top coach is the secret to flooding the foreseeable big championship finals is it? ... Come on Paula, you know as well as anyone that extraordinary determination and hard work are of paramount importance. You can't buy that, it doesn't come naturally either. As for head hunting, this has already existed for years. A coach searching for the next middle and long distance superstars... are they going to be scouting the huge pool of potential in Africa, or sniffing around Europe trying to find a needle in a haystack?
African men and women endurance runners are quicker and stronger, more adept to middle and longer distances. It's physiological. It's genetic. It is fact. So too in their respective fields are black sprinters of Carribean ethnicity, bulky white Nordic European shot putters, tall high jumpers, swimmers with very large and wide feet... its endless... should they all be on performance suppressing drugs to keep the playing field level? Of course not, that would be farcical. As farcical as this world governing body itself. One way or another, I think history will tell us that the IAAF and the Court of Arbitration for Sport have got it all wrong. 

GOING DOWNHILL SLOW

RIVINGTON PIKE

Maybe it wasn't the wisest move to race the Pike just a few days after a leg trashing training run up and down Moel Eilio. Then the out and back walk to the summit of Snowdon on the Rhyd Ddu Path the morning after wasn't what you might call 'active rest' in this instance either. But then it's important not to get back in to a habit of shirking races and conjuring lame excuses to myself.
I'd planned on racing 'Rivi' at the weekend if we weren't up to much else, yet how was I to know I'd get carried away more or less as soon as we landed on our midweek mini-break in Snowdonia? It was difficult not to get excited as we approached our campsite where Eilio and the closely connected duo of Mynydd Mawr with Craig Cmbychan soar out of nowhere to form the mouth of the valley which starts at Betws Garmon and follows the Avon Gwyrfai up to Llyn Cwellen.
The top of Moel Eilio was calling and I knew I had to have a crack at getting up and down there before light faded and mouths got too hungry back at base camp that early evening. Although just shy of only four miles later, I'd climbed and then come down 2000ft of this 2382ft lump as fast as I possibly could. The steep descent worked my quads to the point of glorious numbness, which is something that needs to be done from time to time (fell runners will understand) and then particularly the downhill walk off Snowdon the day after left them in absolute bits. (Well worth it though, I think it's 25 years since I last topped the highest point in Wales. A truly spectacular day and a great route which avoided most of the crowds aside from the fifteen minute queue at the summit!)
Running was then out of the question for a few days, but even walking downstairs was still challenging as late as Friday morning. It wasn't so much a case of should I or shouldn't I do Saturday's race, more a case of could I or can I? Saturday morning and the stairs felt normal again. Quadriceps still sore to touch but the devil had already taken over my mindset, I was racing. It wasn't until parking up at Horwich and trotting the half mile up the road to registration at the Crown Hotel that I had my doubts. My legs were still a bit tender. But I was here now, so no going back.
Even arriving with fifty minutes to spare at the Crown, a queue spiralled through the pub, over-spilling in to the beer garden and on to the pavement. Another case of no decent warm-up time I feared, but my disgruntlement turned to relief as the queue shifted along quickly. Thanks to exemplary organisation and efficiency from the team on the race desk, I was entered and out of there in ten minutes.
Rivington Pike is a classic fell race. Maybe not actually a fell race as such, as at least half of the course is on road. But it does go up a fell and it's a no nonsense up and downer that dates back to the nineteenth century and the country's earliest known hill race still in existence. Greats have run it, greats have won it. Perhaps the most famous would be Ron Hill, although the mere mention of Ron alone isn't fair on all the other fantastic athletes, male and female, of fell or road racing pedigree that have taken this illustrious title. In more recent times, fell champion Rob Hope is well worth a mention, for he has seven victories to his name at this race. Next year it will be a quarter of a century since Rob's first taste of Rivington Pike glory back in 1995. That he is still in the mix today and third place at the ripe old age of forty-four says much about his sheer class. Rob Hope remains one of the fell running contemporary greats for me, a living legend in every sense of the word along with the likes of Ian Holmes and Rob Jebb. These guys keep it real and let their running do the talking too. No hype, no histrionics and no bull shit 'hashtagging'. (Whatever that's all about)
Pure, hard working, top quality athletes who keep winning stuff and yet just get on with it.
This was only my second appearance here. It took me a while to get a free Saturday from work to run it, then when I finally did it in 2013, it obviously didn't tug at my heart strings enough to return with too much haste. All I remember of that year was an iron-like taste of blood in my mouth at the finish after burning lung tissue trying to catch Ashley Holt and Rob Jackson.
So jogging around with plenty of time in hand seemed to ease the legs off before the start, but I was cautious not to do too much as temperatures were peculiarly in to the seventies Fahrenheit for the time of year. Even the breeze was warm. Not conducive to good racing conditions, but it was the same for everyone. One of Ribble Valley's esteemed recruits Michael Cayton went one place better than last year to win it for the first time. The name of Ambleside's Sarah McCormack caught my eye last week at Loughrigg where she smashed it. Here she was again winning easily and a fantastic eleventh overall ahead of some very handy male competitors.
Further down the field and I didn't seem to be going along too badly. Holt's here again, on decent form and wasn't too far ahead a mile in, nor were the sort of usual suspects that I don't want to be getting too far away from me such as Raby, Gilbert and Walsh. That was until we hit the steep short grassed section just before the gates of the final push to the Pike itself. It was like being at Loughrigg again, but worse. There's an unflattering terminology used by runners - ''I was blowing out of my arse'' - which refers to fates similar of going off too fast or just struggling due to not being up to the job. It was that very same proverbial hole which I was blowing out of here at Rivington. Unlike Loughrigg last week, I didn't even find any sort of recovery whatsoever coming down. In fact it got harder. I don't recall slowing so much whilst running downhill before! I was working hard, really hard to sustain what poor pace I could muster and yet even the forces of gravity didn't seem to be an advantage. The still slightly downwards main road to the finish had the arms and legs out all over the place. It was pain. At the end I led down and literally could barely speak to anyone for two minutes, maybe more. (lucky them) I was out of it.
Other than those dreary details, no point dwelling too much. Next race please...

Saturday 20th April 2019
RIVINGTON PIKE FELL RACE
Crown Hotel, Horwich. Nr. Bolton   3.2m/699ft
1st Man - Michael Cayton (Ribble Valley Harriers) 17:20
1st Lady - Sarah McCormack (Ambleside) 20:11
My Stats - 51/409   22:20  

MORE PUNISHMENT  
LOUGHRIGG
This seven o'clock starter in Ambleside on a Tuesday night has always seemed to be one that has got away from me... until now. Loughrigg and I were like lovers entwined for a week when up this way on holiday a couple of years ago, running more or less all of it's expansive network of paths and sheep trods. Since then there's been an even keener inclination to finally do the fell race.
So this year, sitting nicely inside Sara's Easter hols off work, it turned in to an excuse for an overnight camp. Already in the area from a day's walking and pottering, I scarcely recall ever being so early for a race. Saying that, twenty-six even earlier birds had already gone before me by the time number 27 here had registered.
Mountain goats from Lakeland clubs were in abundance and much of them looked like talented new blood. Even at forty-something, it's rare that I turn up for a fell race and see quite such an overwhelming majority of faces young enough to be my sons and daughters. Great to see though, but it was clear I was in for a good spanking tonight even if I defied logic and ran out of my skin.
There were some familiar evening race faces from Lancashire too. Firstly I cross paths with Bowland's Matt Bourne in the church car park who came up by virtue of the weather forecast it would seem - a beautiful Spring evening it was too. Then Darren Fishwick in the church hall - even less tech-savvy than me and so my 'Ten Good Reasons' for him remain unread - but he did give me a detailed lowdown of the race route. Wigan's Stephen Nicholls was limbering up on Rothay Park full of melancholic racing enthusiasm as usual. The familiar face (and still young, damn it) of Johnny Horrocks in the blue and white of Blackburn Harriers was typically playing it cool despite being on the cusp of the form his life.
Darren's advice was get out of the traps quick before it bottlenecks at the two bridges coming off the park. Well the chance would have been a fine thing! I thought I shot off sprightly enough but still got caught in the bridge jam, barely managing to burst out of the top fifty. It was a crazy one hundred yard stampede, further fuelled by what turned out to be a race record breaking field of 269 runners.
Straight after shuffling across the bridges, the upward slog starts and I settled down to a reasonable pace. I was even exhuming small doses of confidence as I picked my way further up the positional ladder with what felt at the time like plenty in reserve. But with a few hundred feet still to climb before this modest summit of 1083 feet, body chemistry went all out of synch. I began to blow hard and then I just blew up. Place after place was then lost and confidence drained far quicker than I had just dared to collect it.
Fishwick, in crap form by his standards and as beatable as ever just now, came past puffing. In the opposite direction, the leaders were returning already and the stark reality of just how off the pace I am in this race came to the demoralising fore.
By the time I reached Loughrigg's summit for the turnaround, this lung buster of a race had me feeling on the point of combustion. Initially, returning downhill brought no relief whatsoever as positions continued to go cheaply begging. About half way down the descent though, finally I recovered some wind and held my place. I suppose it's of some consolation that the race started and ended feeling good, but the bit in the middle where it all went wrong is going to take some even harder training and more races to build up the resilience.
The place I did manage to hold was absolutely nowhere, but then even a decent run here might not have scraped top thirty or forty. Johnny H ran an absolute blinder and even he only squeezed in to the top twenty. The quality present here - at what might be construed as a low key short midweek race - was considerable.
So whilst still plenty of room for improvement this year that only a few months of regular racing might put right, a peek through the goggles of realism is in order and I should say what I see rather than what I want to see. There's no point kidding myself any longer, times have changed and time has moved on. I should try and accept this than get myself wrapped up in over-ambition which ultimately leads to failure. I'm getting older and I'm getting slower. Fact. There are now wave upon wave of younger guns, faster and stronger. Even most of my contemporaries that I once equalled or bettered are now streets ahead of me and resisting their own onsets of decline with much more success. Once upon a time I might turn up for a Lakeland fell race with every chance of a top twenty place at the least and even have the audacity to be very disappointed not to be. Realistically, those days are long gone and perhaps just for the sake of actually enjoying my racing, it is now time to significantly lower the bar of my own expectations. Although part of me believes I could still hit a retro purple patch, statistics over the last six years speak for themselves... aside from the odd flash of form it's been so long since I've even got anywhere near that former self with any sort of consistency. To believe I can get back there now would be simply delusional.
The spectacular panorama from Wansfell Pike was had the day after for a fantastic walk from Skelghyll Woods, skirting back via Ambleside before sadly heading back homeward. Unable to resist a run later that afternoon, a few crappy miles were jogged out in local suburbia for the sake of it and that was a culture shock after a cracking couple of days in the big country.

Tuesday 10th April 20
LOUGHRIGG   
Rothay Park, Ambleside    4m/1083ft
1st Man - Jacob Adkin (Keswick) 25:59
1st Lady - Sarah McCormack (Ambleside) 30:41
My Stats* -  55/267*   32:20*

* * * Although a completely pointless footnote of an also-ran, official results published have me down for 103rd in 35:46. This was based on the time I gave to the race organiser later that evening after I had been missed out in the checkout at the finish. But who knows which button I pressed on my watch, or when exactly, for the official results a week later showed I'd given myself a time penalty of over three minutes! Oh well. All I know is that Fishwick was about half a minute ahead of me and there's no way Nicholls beat me. So for my own record, I'm claiming the revised stats above which also takes in to account the distance I was behind the runner ahead of me and that I couldn't hear anybody close behind. It really isn't that important, apart from reiterating the fact that Stephen Nicholls had another great opportunity to beat me, but didn't. Thank you.   

ABSOLUTE DRIBBLE, BUT IT'S A START
PETE HARTLEY MEMORIAL LIVER HILL RACE
This first race back ended up being even more messy than I was expecting, but I kept my composure and took a hiding gracefully for a change.
One thing that did rankle with me though at this 'free entry' race was the lack of coinage dropping in to the Rossendale & Pendle Mountain Rescue Box. Perhaps the organisers could drop a subtle hint by suggesting a small donation in their fixture details - I think they have done so in the past. At registration, the three or four before and after me didn't give a sausage, the tight sods. Maybe I'm being a martyr about it just because I put a premeditated good few quid in, but in that short time around the desk where entries were pouring in, the percentage of entrants donating appeared poor to say the least. A couple from the Rab and Columbia jacket brigade were amongst the skinflints that I noticed. They fork out well in to three figures to parade around in the name of high end trendy outdoorsiness, I wonder if they spent over two quid on freshly ground coffee from the mobile trailer hanging around on the main road through?

Maybe some didn't see the collection box, maybe some saw it was free entry and left their cash in the car. But those with cash on them who made a conscious decision to not stick summat in that box when they knew it was there... well you bloody tight arsed sods, is all I can say! I can only hope post-race that more short arms did manage to delve further in to those long pockets.
Every time this nobody in particular has a ramble these days I seem to get on my soapbox, but I think there is fair reason to get uppity about this. The very fell running relevant importance of the cause for that collection box would be why. Any time, any place, any runner on the fells might end up in desperate need of any of the fantastic voluntary mountain rescue services one day.
Back to the race though and setting off nice and sensible didn't really pay dividends because it felt like I never got going. It was obvious my pace just wasn't there. Runners I thought I ought to be up with or not too far away were soon out of reach and got further away as the race went on.
"Come on Dribble!", shouted one owd chap just before we drop off the moor back down to Marl Pits. 'Dribble Valley' is the very affectionate name by which my current club is known in these Rossendale parts. I think it might just have something to do with cream of their latest crop and winner of this race last year in fact, Callum Davidson, being 'poached' by Ribble Valley last year. But Callum's a big boy  and I'm pretty sure he made his own mind up.
Obviously I didn't take the 'Dribble' tag personally, it's quite funny really. But then again it was an accurate assessment of my own performance. The effort rate was there but I was slow. Somebody hasn't been working an interval session in to their week yet to get the old pins-to-airbags ratio ticking over quicker... and that would be me. It was also disappointing to get spanked late on by a couple of Accrington runners, including the lively veteran Graham Morris who has a habit of turning up when I don't run particularly well in recent years.
But, this is where I am at right now. There's no inquest as to why I ran worse than I thought, although ticking off one of the highest months of mileage in the last two years could prop up insecurely as an explanation, if not an excuse. I can't take consolation for a quicker time than last year either for the ground was far better going this year.
Speaking of Accrington Road Runners, what have they done to their vest colours? From the distinctive banana yellow and royal blue classic of which you could spot an Accy runner from a mile away, to this new mainstream flash of limey fluorescence trimmed with a darker blue. The vest was overdue an update perhaps, but this revamp just isn't Accy for me.

Tuesday 2nd April 2019
PETE HARTLEY MEMORIAL LIVER HILL RACE
Marl Pitts, Rawtenstall   4.3m/820ft
1st Man - Rob James (Royton RR) 32:14
1st Lady - Emily Morgan (Rossendale) 39:53
My Stats - 25/262   38:15

NOT A FAN OF COE-OPERATIONS
From day one in the month of March, I have marched on without interruption. Good training has been had and this has been without a doubt the best period of solid running and the best I have felt since the beginning of last Autumn. That said, I'm under no illusions of expecting too much when I put myself back on a racing line at Liver Hill next Tuesday night. But I need a race and I'm ready for a race. Time to get a few under the belt and see where I'm really at.
Last weekend camping overnight at Silverdale, the Saturday night sunset was just about the most incredible I have ever seen. Sights like this are probably ten-a-penny to the locals of Morecambe Bay, but it stopped me in my tracks heading back along the coastline of sands and rock having nipped out for a cheeky three miler. This - despite telling myself all day I was long overdue a rest day from running - but now so glad I defied my own orders. For ten minutes or so as oranges bled in to pinks, reflecting off the partially drained estuary of an outward tide, the colours, the light... it was a spectacle I have never quite seen the intensity and beauty of before. At first I cursed not having my phone with me to snap some images, but then considered it to be more liberating without and that my obligation was to soak up the moment for everything that it was and capture the memory as strongly as possible.
It's time I got on to the subject of my page heading though and so from the wonderous beauty of our star dropping off the horizon to the ugly spectacle that is the treatment of South African track runner Caster Semenya by the International Association of Athletics Federations. Ok, so I said I was done ranting for a while. But I genuinely do not consider this as some self-opinionated rant one bit. Yes I feel strongly about the matter, but yes I am absolutely convinced I am right about it too!
Caster Semenya has dealt with the indignity of proving her biological femininity in a most dignified manner, when in fact you could easily excuse the lass of a good old rant herself at the powers that be. But still, years later, proving you are a woman is not enough to be a woman it would seem in the eyes of the IAAF and some bitter individuals who back up the organisation's stance.
The disgraceful campaign to sexually disqualify an Olympic and World champion rolls on, seemingly until the overlords of athletics legislation finally force through their own aberrant agenda. If this sounds like the familiar stubborn trait of a UK Conservative government, then it can be no coincidence that sat in the big chief's presidential chair at the IAAF right now is former Tory MP, now Tory peer in the House of Lords, Sebastian Coe.
The massive irony is that Coe and the IAAF want to medically intervene with Semenya's body chemistry and similarly developed female athletes who are naturally higher in testosterone levels. Through Coe's goggles, this would create 'a level playing field' with other female athletes.
So let's get this right then. The world governing body revolts at the use of drugs in athletics. If performance enhancing drugs are banned, how can they paradoxically condone and lobby for performance restricting substances? That's one big contradictory policy right there. So drugs in sport? Yes or no, Coe and Co? Surely any performance altering medicinals have no place in athletics. What a bunch of frigging hypocrites.
Caster Semenya is currently fighting the IAAF's policy through the necessary legal channels and it goes without saying I hope with a passion that she wins emphatically.
To me, Coe has always come across as quite arrogant with traits of a narcissist and sociopath never far from the surface. Probably why his contemporary track rival Steve Ovett wasn't that keen on him either. But more recently I recall Coe's smug demeanour and self-appraising soundbites when helping bring the Olympics to London in 2012. Yes he helped and one could say he was instrumental at times. But to me it felt like Coe had created this pedestal for himself upon which he did it all on his own and without anybody else. He brought the Olympics back to London and for this we should all laud the Lord.
In more recent waffle from Sebastian, the politician from within has been cunningly at work, deliberately fudging the Semenya situation with transsexual athletes again - a completely different kettle of fish - by saying only last week, "The reason we have gender classification is because if you didn't, then no women would ever win a medal or break another record in our sport". It's the timing of those comments, knowing full well he can say he's only referring to the transgender debate, but as Semenya responded, "Digging up old wounds". An attempt to try and rattle her cage whilst these legal proceedings are under way is what it looks like.
Coe has been there at the very top as a track athlete and should know better. Hard work and natural talent got him there. Semenya has done the same. To claim her naturally higher testosterone levels are a significant reason for that does the girl such an offensive disservice in my opinion. If they did reduce her testosterone levels, then by how much? How accurate could the medication be? Would it serve as an actual disadvantage?
If her testosterone levels are indeed advantageous, then lets remember it's a natural one.
There are advantageous genetic factors that aid the prominence and dominance of African distance runners, so do we medically induce them to take the edge off their game and give the white boys and girls a chance? No. And Mo Farah, do we contest his long list of European and British championship accolades because of his more favourable Somali genes? Of course not. That the overwhelming majority of top end sprinters are of Black African or Caribbean ethnicity, should we fiddle with the genetic and biological make-up of them too or should we have separate sprint contests for whites and Asians etc? Absolutely not and who would even go there? But then comparatively, that is what Caster is up against. Singled out and persecuted for genetic and biological credentials.
Sport is all about strengths and weaknesses and trying to play to your strengths to succeed. When we have a special league for short footballers so they have a more reasonable chance of winning a header, or leg length categories for long jumpers, or rugby for skinny people, then lock me up and throw away the key. 
That Caster Semenya has reached the top of her sport is part of the issue here too. A punishment for hard work and dedication. If she wasn't anywhere near the medals then would this even be a talking point? Somebody who hasn't got in to the medals is British middle distance runner Lynsey Sharp. If her immediate post-race comments straight after the Olympic 800m final in 2016 weren't bad enough, she's still harping on about what she sees as an unfairness. Even if her own contorted opinion on the matter was heeded and Caster was made to take a form of performance suppression, mouthpiece Sharp would still not have made the podium at any major championships.
Let's also remember that 28 year old Semenya has yet to run a world record at either middle distance that she races so it's not as if her brilliance is so blatantly off the scale in the history books. She's talented, she works really hard and she has carried on doing that in the face of all this mud thrown at her over the years.
There could be a case that this all runs a bit deeper than these surface tensions about testosterone and deeper than even her legal team dare mention. Homophobia. Caster happens to be in a same sex marriage which she is rightfully proud and transparent about. But perhaps this fans the flames of scepticism even more for the strictly politically right heterosexual man's men and the likes who are trying to bring her down. To a man with very Conservative views such as Sebastian Coe for example, can we know for sure that he is entirely tolerant of homosexuality? We only have politically correct trite to the contrary which he has doubtless made a point of going on record about to cover his tracks.
However I look at it, all I can see is underlying discrimination of some sort or another. Sebastian Coe is at the very front of this persecution. It could be just because she wins medals, it could be sexuality, it could be racial, it could be more than all that and then all of those things put together, snowballed in to a storm of irritation within the IAAF establishment's corridors of deeply bigoted and hypocritical ideologies. Whatever is going on here, it's just not right.
If I had the highly unlikely and rather unfortunate opportunity to meet 'Lord' Coe, I would probably find myself so incensed by his presence that I would spit at the man's feet. The only time I have done that before (yes, I actually have) was at the feet of a retired police officer called Alan Mackay. Mackay, a Scot residing in the Chorley area of Lancashire, made highly offensive comments to me about a person in a wheelchair who was passing by the pool table in a pub many years ago. Mackay inferred there was no place for a wheelchair in that area and that it put him off his shot. It pains me to print what that pathetic old bigot actually said that night, but why should I cover for him? There was a bit more to it but, ''How can I get to see my shot properly with that f**king spastic in here...'' was the unforgivable jist of it. Mackay, Sebastian Coe and the IAAF... they are all stirring in the same sick and twisted pot. I have nothing but contempt for the lot of them.

TEN GOOD REASONS FOR FISHWICK 
One of the best known contemporary fell runners outside the notoriety of elite class is Chorley's Darren Fishwick. Everybody has a soft spot for Darren. He's a salt of the earth Lancashire lad. His much acclaimed race reports - which tend to be not much about the race really, but more cleverly written amusing stories of anything else mildly related - are a big hit with fellrunning followers of the online forums. There's barely a race on the calendar that Fishwick hasn't finished - or written about. Add to that, he's not a bad runner either.
Now we're certainly not best mates or owt, but Darren and I tend to exchange a few words whenever our paths meet. In recent times, whenever I've seen Darren I've made brazen attempts - although as yet unsuccessful - at persuading him to consider joining Ribble Valley Harriers. A big "No, no, no! No chance!..." was the response at the Tour of Pendle last November. But last time I saw him, in Vaughn's Cafe at Tockholes just over a month ago, his resistance had diluted down to , "Haha, I'm not quick enough for your lot". To which I retorted, "Give over. Look at me, what am I doing there then?".
I don't think I've planted the seed yet, but perhaps I've tidied up the soil and removed a few weeds and all good gardeners will tell you that perseverance pays.
Like Alex Ferguson's intuition that Eric Cantona was his man, I just know in my heart of hearts that DF and RVH would be a match made in heaven.
Unlike Daz F's musings, only one or two locals and a random Belgian inquisitor have been the consistent viewers of my written running ramblings over the last few years, so I might have to try and get this to him personally in some roundabout way as this message is especially for you, Darren Fishwick.
As a music lover, Darren will definitely recall 'Especially For You', which was a number one hit for Kylie and Jason. He's certainly the perfect age to have subconsciously absorbed and remembered all the lyrics too. (Takes one to know one) That was as big as it got for Jason's pop career, although his solo album Ten Good Reasons did Ok. A not so subtle Fishwickesque tangent twist there, for Ten Good Reasons are as follows why Darren should join Ribble Valley Harriers...

Reason 1... Another footballing analogy to get things started... Steven Gerrard stayed at Liverpool all his career and in these times of flakey fickle footballers, hats off to the scouse lad for a solid act of trend butting. But had the mighty reds merged with Everton and Tranmere to create a Merseyside United that messed with their traditional kit colours, I'm sure that his loyalty would not have been questioned had Stevie G decided to eventually move on. Gerrard won a few things and was a legend where he was, but what else could he have done and won? What horizons could have been broadened and enriched further by playing a few years elsewhere?
Reason 2... You've got the right personality for this small club. No heirs and graces, a bloke who just wants to get stuck in and race. (then write a report drifting off on to more splendid tangents than Ronnie Corbett did in his leather chair and Lyle & Scott sweater, near the end of the The Two Ronnies show)
Reason 3... RVH is predominantly a fell club and so your association would be entirely like minded.
Reason 4... You'd be a fine addition to a competitive men's vets team on the fells. In a mixed team you would get the chance to race with one of the club's brilliant lasses.
Reason 5... "If Fishwick joined, they can't be all that bad"... that's what they'll be saying about RVH when your transfer goes through! A Dazza in black (sometimes yellow, maybe even pink) would be a fantastic ambassadorial advert for a club that has undeservedly got a bad press in certain quarters. Charmian Heaton tried to find a way to ban the club, so come on in and find out just how ridiculously off the mark your apparently friendly FRA Chair really is. Wearing the black vest, you find out who your friends on the circuit really are.
Reason 6... You told me last year that since the Chorley clubs all merged, you wear the original Chorley Harriers vest as a protest because Chorley is traditionally just black and white only, like the football team. Now Chorley FC also have red in their strip. Nothing is sacred.

Reason 7... You could look at your current club vest as an unsolved crossword puzzle... the black bits are already there, the white bits just need filling in.

Reason 8... Sutty needs a few inter-club connections over West and Central Lancs to do some club group sessions closer to home.

Reason 9... Hastle free. These days you can go online and change running clubs as easy as buying a pair of kecks off eBay. Give it a year initially, they're good sorts at Chorley and wouldn't hold a grudge. In fact you know they would have you back in a flash if things didn't work out. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Reason 10... Oh come on, just what the bloody hell's stopping you?! Get in touch with Barnes...

ONE LAST RANT AND READY TO RACE 
It all seems to be coming together now. Something has changed. I'm not tiring as much, I'm recovering quicker, I can run fairly hard on consecutive days, I can actually clock up some reasonable mileage and get stuck in. This is how it's meant to be! A few weeks ago I thought it might be much deeper in to Spring before getting anywhere near some sort of shape to race, but on the back of this month's training so far I think within the next couple of weeks I ought to get myself on a starting line somewhere and find out where I'm really up to.
For the sake of these Running Ramblings of Nobody In Particular, being in better running fettle will bring a welcome return to the tedious accounts of my racing performances, so hopefully less moaning and groaning and a backburner for the rants - related and unrelated to running - that have filled some blank spaces since last pinning a number on back in November.
But one last rant for now please if I may, because off road cyclists are getting on my wick. I know of a few actually, but it's nowt I wouldn't say to their faces. I'm not condemning every single individual but feel I am about to make a fairly reasonable generalisation. I'm trying not to be a killjoy either, but in any case, where landowners and leaseholders do not prohibit the use of mountain bikes then who the hell am I to persuade otherwise?
But my beef is that I'm not convinced many of these cyclists are particularly sensitive or empathetic to the environment through which they're big wheels wade. Certainly on the moors of Pendle and West Pennines, upon which I frequent the most, an ever increasing amount of aggressive tyre markings through the peatlands not only cuts up the existing paths and trods, but breeds deviation from the original line and so further scarring these vulnerable areas of natural habitat and beauty. In my view, these cyclists that find the proper right of way too technical or difficult to ride over should find a hobby that they're actually competent at.
Essentially, it's about respecting the environment in which you find your fun and showing a conscientious approach to the damage it may be doing. In Wheelton Plantations - a dense woodland of mature pines and conifers near the village of Brinscall, for those not in the know - off piste downhill bike tracks are cutting through swathes of previously untouched forest floor. Bluebells that are starting to show have been churned up and crushed. Ok, so maybe I should go and catch some real criminals I suppose. But what remaining wild country we have at our disposal to explore and enjoy, can we not do so respectfully?
It looks like local walkers, ramblers and the like are busy trying to blockade these bike runs by placing bits of fallen branches and logs in strategic places. At least I know it's not just me then who is getting uppity about them. But on a stretch towards Great Hill from White Coppice, some overzealous bike saboteurs have been displacing large stones from the remains of centuries old wall boundaries and dropping them upon any trod with a bike tyre print on it. This in itself is a ruinous act and will a biker come across one and think, "Ooh, what's this big stone doing here? I'll carefully place it back where it looks like it came from"? Unlikely. Steering around it to start cutting up even more ground would be the more probable scenario.
It's fair to say walkers, ramblers, hikers, fellrunners all leave a footprint on the landscape over time. But folk on foot tend to stick to the well worn line and I'm pretty sure the overwhelming majority wouldn't dream of indiscriminately flattening flora and fauna.
This particular grievance has stewed within me for some time and particularly as some organisations purporting to take care of our countryside's welfare have had a hand in the bans and restrictions of fixtures on the fell racing calendar. Erosion and land sensitivity are the common reasons forwarded, but I consider this to be extremely misdirected and making fell racing the scapegoat. A hundred and odd studded shoes hammering it once a year takes the wrath, meanwhile the far more erosive impact of mountain bike tyres are free to cut up the land on a daily basis without any sort of restrictions whatsoever. It's a crazy world in which we live.           

HARD CORE, LOW PROFILE, HIGH HOPES 
February did not turn out like it was supposed to at all. Having jumbled a meagre eighty miles together, the month did at least end on a positive spin. Some progressive runs on the road and my first outing on the fell in twelve long weeks. It wasn't pretty, but importantly the capability of being able to dig in and hurt myself a bit had finally returned. With that, a sense of enjoyment also.
At one point in the middle of last month, the recurring dream I have of being in a race and not being able to turn my legs over as if they are stuck in treacle... well it came true as I could barely ten-minute mile with the dog on the park.
I look up to elder statesmen and stateswomen who I notice still running around, well in to their seventies and yet undeterred and having a go. Hats absolutely off to them, shuffling down the roads, stooped slightly forward with arms appearing to be working harder than their legs... but this was me at just 45.
I was aching everywhere, my body seemed to keep packing up at about two miles in and there was no energy to try and force the issue. Tired all the time, sleeping like a log but not feeling the benefit... I wasn't well. I mean, I wasn't exactly unwell either, but if you're a runner or in to some other regular physical activity that requires a certain amount of exertion and endurance, then the otherwise subtle symptoms of an underlying virus or similar can feel much more heightened.
As previously proclaimed though, rolling up to February's finale there seemed to be a genuine chink of light at the end of this latest running tunnel. The one thing I have managed to be consistent with this year is Pilates. Initially, although at the expense of some soreness for a day or two, the classes felt like they had certainly straightened me out a bit and restored some verticality (no such word, but I like the sound it) to my posture. A couple of months of it now and dare I say it - me who continually over-enthuses at discoveries that I believe will make me run like I'm ten years younger - but the whole core strengthening thing, I think I finally get it! A few short regular jaunts on the fells again now and I have to say that this morning in particular, I was descending really smoothly and without my knees feeling any sort of battering or buckling, during or after. There's something in this Pilates lark for me, I'm absolutely convinced.
Another twist towards better running fortune was my decision to trial running on the road in low profile racing shoes again. I didn't know any different for many years until I got Achilles trouble. But just recently I've been monitoring the return of infrequent right side strains from glutes, to hip, down to the knee. This seems to recur only after wearing cushioned running shoes, but no backlash from going low profile when going for it on the treadmill, no problems after running in my off-roaders. So it's been back to the old school, feeling the ground underneath again. I even did a nine miler in them to start the month of March off as I mean to go on - and without repercussions.
As ever, I may be building my hopes up to fail again, but just lately that light seems to chink that little bit brighter after every outing. 

GOOD WEEK, BAD WEEK... JUST WEAK
After my last whinge on here, a good week's training followed and I wondered what all that whining was actually about. But then, true to form, a bad week ensued a good week and I was reacquainted once again with that mindset of the moaner and groaner.
Just ten days ago in the gym I had hopped off the treadmill from an 18:50 5K, grit my teeth for 15 minutes on the bike, showered and then came out of an hour of Pilates feeling pretty damn wonderful I have to say.
Today though, muscles ache needlessly despite barely any running in more recent days. My head feels heavy and seems to be operating on a time delay of a few split seconds to what is happening in actual real time (Although Sara might say that's business as usual with me) My chest feels tight, there's an annoying cough not justifying it's nuisance value by actually bringing anything up... basically, I don't feel that well again and way too weak and lethargic to contemplate running. Earlier in the week I ploughed on regardless hoping I could sweat it out or something, but this just made matters worse.
So in to perspective I go, for I am not on my death bed and obviously grateful for that. I'm just not feeling my usual self. Even this morning's dog walk with Sara and Connie took it out of me and I was flailing behind when we went uphill, thinking and worrying to myself just how the hell am I going to get in to a fit state to run properly again when I feel like this?
Yesterday was meant to be the comeback race at Parbold Hill, next Saturday a crack at the Cross Country Nationals in Leeds. Realistically, I'm probably looking as far ahead as May now before I can even consider the prospect of being fit, well and tough enough to turn up for a race.

WHEN RUNNING SPOILS A GOOD WALK
The sun shone bright in sub-zero temperatures upon the snowy Winter wonderland of Roddlesworth Woods with Connie the dog. What was not to love about that for a morning training run? Connie loved it, that's for sure. But for me it was a struggle and that summed up the rest of this third week of the comeback of nobody in particular.
No depth of lung capacity, no spring in my stride. American writer Mark Twain takes the credit for famously observing that, ''Golf is a good walk spoiled''. More a case of running spoiling a good walk in this instance. A hopeless plod around potentially fast trails did spoil what would have been a very beautiful walk indeed. The thought of rearing up to walking pace did seriously cross my mind at about mile three, but the onset of moderately damp perspiration under just thin layers of running gear would have allowed the Arctic breeze to get the better of me. I had to plod on regardless just to keep warm.
I don't know if it's this cold snap of weather, a backlash from man flu, or just some other underlying bug going around, but I'm just not feeling it. Persisting to train most days just to see out a meagre low octane thirty mile week has been a considerable battle in itself. Mentally more than anything, because runs have been chores and I've not felt well enough to run hard enough to get a single endorphin circulating.
All runners have many a reason why they run and some of those reasons will be more important than others. What this particular outing around Roddlesworth did highlight for me was that the simple practice of just being out running is not always enough. If it ever was, it isn't any more. I need some exhilaration from it and when there is none in supply, I seriously question what the hell I'm doing. So I didn't feel at my best and certainly at my age accept I can't go out and smash every run at a pace to thrill, but I was tired and fed up of running out here when I shouldn't have been. It really did spoil a good walk.
A high point in more ways than one was sucking in an incredible view to the North that spanned from Black Combe rising out of the Irish Sea on Cumbria's South Western tip, from which eastwards the whole of the snowy Lakeland mountain range was on show, the southern face of the Bowland Fells, a distant Ingleborough, a closer Pendle and then the immediate hillsides of Darwen Tower and Cartridge Hill to complete an impressive left to right panorama. Aside from that moment, I didn't really have a great time and limited what should have been a longer run to just over six and a half miles. I was relieved to get back to the car. It shouldn't have been like this, but it was.
At least the day after, oxygen supply improved and allowed the legs to get more of a wriggle on. But again, it wasn't quality and I didn't get much of a buzz from it. All I can do is carry on and wait and see if things come together at some point. Being a bit down in the dumps already with my running this year doesn't bode well. The pessimist within is saying, ''Face it Sutty, time's up''. The optimist tells me, ''Keep on keeping on, the tide will turn eventually''. The realist is saying, ''It could go either way''.

RISING FROM THE ASHES OF A MONTH'S INACTIVITY: WEEK ONE
DAY TO DAY...
Wednesday 9th... Pilates! I come away with the brutal realisation of core weaknesses, but doing this for an hour every week can only help matters and I promptly book myself in again for next Wednesday.
Thursday 10th... Pilates has made me feel half an inch taller and with a body as tight as David Beckham's. Then again, the midriff is letting the side down. It's like the body of Becks with Wayne Rooney's belly.
Friday 11th... First run since the 11th of last month. I've done absolutely Charles de Gaulle apart from walkies with the dog in that time, so just over two miles before work was enough for today. Again, I don't half feel thick-set around my middle. It's going to take some shifting.
Saturday 12th... Two miler out and back in the morning with a bit more intention, then an easier paced 2.5 in the evening.
Sunday 13th... After three days in a row and despite the modesty of those efforts, a few muscular aches and pains pop up as if only just starting running for the first time. A steady two miler today.
Monday 14th... Off road again at last with a muddy morning run of 4.8 miles up to West Bradford on the banks of the River Ribble and back to Clitheroe. More intense in the evening with my debut in the gym and a sweaty 5K on the treadmill in 19:43.
Tuesday 15th... Back running with Connie the dog at last for some cross country and trail on Worden Park. Got nearly five miles in at better than plod pace. With diversions chasing squirrels and black headed gulls, Connie did more like five and a half.
Wednesday 16th... A bit sore and jaded, but perked up with a quick two mile blast on the running machine before pilates.
Thursday 17th... A four mile out and back on the road with the introduction of some slight inclines.

REVIEW OF THE WEEK...
Gently back in to the swing with just over 25 miles in the bag and thankfully no nuisance knees to report. This old crock ain't quite done yet. The 70% reduction of beer intake was always going to be an over-ambitious target, but I'd say figures of at least 50% have been achieved - the contents of our recycle bin is mainly pet food tins and milk cartons - and I've not been to the pub. Feeling just a little bit tighter around the middle now, which is always a good sign - just two Pilates classes seem to have helped make a difference already. That Wednesday night routine is here to stay.
Preparing to get running again last Friday morning, I heard on the radio Andy Murray announcing an inevitable retirement on the horizon. This put things in to perspective, for I may be a running nobody in particular and back to square one, but I felt a gratefulness for the basic ability to go out and give it a go. A luxury this tennis champ may no longer have. None comparable you may think, a former world number one tennis player in his early thirties to a was-not-never-will-be fellrunner at the mid-forties mark? But if I really was finally forced to retire to the bowling green or something more sedate before I felt my time was up, then I'm sure I'd feel upset and gutted about it too.
In sport, any sport and at any level, actively competing at something you love is addictive and clearly Murray won't be getting that fix anymore. Worst of all for him, it's really not his decision. His hip is knackered. He's wrecked himself to get where he has got and although I doubt he will regret a single minute of that, being forced to down tools at an age when he has plenty more to give must be heartbreaking.
I've heard some unsympathetic nonsense from a critical minority such as, ''Poor Andy, how's he going to cope? He's only got a hundred million in the bank.'' That must be nice mind you, but then that's just it, Murray is already minted (pardon the pun) so this emotional outpouring could only have been about the love. His love for the game and his love for competing. Fighting back the tears during his announcement before the Australian Open started, I felt there was something very genuine about it. As well as addressing the rest of the tennis world with this news, perhaps he was admitting it out loud to himself for the first time.
A very dim view was taken of professional sportsperson's sobbing at press conferences last year when cheating Australian cricketers Steve Smith and Cameron Bancroft pleaded forgiveness in a pathetic act of public cry-baby theatrics. Expressing their sincerely insincere sorrow for what they had done was merely the consequence of being even more sorry that they had got caught.
There seemed not a jot of insincerity or pretence when Murray's voice broke. I think it's fair to say Andy Murray got to the very top of his sport with graft - a fair share of ability - but mainly graft. No cheating, no suspecting clouds hovering that he ever might have done. They don't make many like Murray anymore.

A FRESH START TO PUT UP OR SHUT UP  
I've been doing that thinking thing again. But this time my loyal five readers, you will may be relieved to hear that it's about my running rather than a self-righteous rant about world affairs.
It's put up or shut up this year. Race results need to bare a least a reasonable reflection on time and effort spent training. A few tweaks will hopefully make the difference. For a start off, I can see what worked for me and what didn't last year. Then Sara got me a top Christmas prezzie of a year's gym membership at the local leisure centre, so it's hello pilates, yoga, cross training and treadmill sessions. Add to this a proposed 70% reduction of beer intake and that is the 'put up' part of the deal.
But, if all that doesn't bare fruit and I'm just chasing my own shadow again all year, then not only will this particular rambling of this nobody in particular draw to it's natural ending, but I would need to look at whether I'm at the right club - or even if I should be with a club at all. Ribble Valley Harriers is quite a unique set up. It's small and it's all about winning things. Team wins, individual wins, age category wins... it's loaded with international runners and some of Lancashire's top veterans, which begs the question: What the frig am I doing there? I'm not going to win owt, but I need to be racing well with regularity at the very least - to me that seems a bare minimum requirement to justify the possession of that black vest... and there you have the 'shut up' parts, should push come to shove.
Two main boxes to tick this year then and firstly, can I finally find some consistency? To generally finish around top ten at local level fell races and top twenty in some on Lakeland scene would suffice. The second box to tick is to dip under seventeen minutes for 5K on the road - yes, that old chestnut again. I'm adamant I have absolutely no potential whatsoever to redeem any sort of form of old in road racing. But I know that I could still grind out a decent 5K without wrecking my body. Do I really believe I can do these things? Yes. But I accept it's against the odds.
First things first though, I'm still not running at all yet. Day 28 and probably a few more days still to go until I finally feel well enough to get out for a jog. But then it's all systems go and I'm really looking forward to cracking on with a fresh start to be quite honest. It's a month until the Parbold Hill Race which I pre-entered a while back. Something to aim for.

AND THAT WAS THE YEAR THAT WAS BUT WASN'T

The running year ended twenty days short and the longest period without a run of any description for many years rolls over in to this next one. Ok, so this run of runlessness has brought to the surface a little grumpiness and frustration at times, not to mention broader underlying tensions with the world and some of it's undesirable humanoid inhabitants - I didn't even touch the sides with my depressing vision of the present and the future last month! - but generally I've been enjoying the break and over-indulging in good food and beer during the festive period like most normal folk do.
I was just revving up to naming a date to go out there and run again when I got bogged down with illness. Man flu to be precise. Once it took hold on the chest as well, that was that so far as running in 2018 was concerned and also the foreseeable short term whilst still in the grips of this pesky germ fest. Trying to dig out a positive spin on the situation, it could all be a blessing in disguise - I feel like I've got a new pair of knees to test out when I finally get my kit back on again.
Looking back over last year at a glance, it was successful in terms of being fit and able to just get out there and enjoy racing regularly. That is the main thing of course and I would never lose perspective of this. But in terms of performance, there was very little to get excited about. I'd worked up to some good racing form by September and October, but then I blew it by testing the water of longer distance. Experimenting with a return to the longer stuff actually broke me, so the next time I start exhuming unfinished business and thinking about the Three Peaks Race, I would be wise to bury the idea again with immediate effect.
2019 is going to be a juggle of what's left in the competitive bank and ultimately what remains within the restrictions of physical capability. The older I get, the more difficult it is to find a training routine that works consistently over a long period. The goalposts remain in the same place, but the ball keeps blowing away from me in the wind.

2018 Mileage Total: 1298.6

PERSONALITY DISORDER
There could be something in this not running malarkey, it's been great so far... less rushing around to fit the daily run in, eat when I feel like it rather than around runs, not having to hose down or stand in a freezing cold stream to pre-wash my legs, the relief of an annual angry eczema flare up which sores my wasteline during Winter, oh and no huge pile of running gear accumulating for what's known in our household as a 'selfish wash' or minging socks hanging around in various states of pre-soaks either. Even my car smells fresher without having cleaned it. 

Actually, missing it already really. But importantly, knees welfare? Well, not so much healed but certainly feeling freshened up after seven days of abstention.
There has been a downside of course, mainly that this potentially rather (Ok, very) grumpy middle-aged man has found himself getting some practice in for those tormented years ahead. A lack of running time has had me thinking too much - which is always a dangerous passtime - about things like the detrimental impact to nature of human evolution for example... as you do, in these idle moments of walking the dog.
This race, species or whatever sort of collective one could categorise ourselves as, appears to be abusing the Earth's natural resources, habitat, other creatures and ultimately ourselves at a more alarming rate than ever before.
I'm lucky in a sense that I will be no more than well dispersed microscopic particles of ash by the time us bipedal hybrids literally self destruct. But it could be a close call. At the current rate of human scourge, it's difficult to envisage a better world in any sort of short term. One would think an allegedly intelligent hybrid mammal would be doing something radical as a whole to counterbalance the damage already done? But that couldn't be further from the truth it would seem. Decades of huffing and puffing between world leaders at environmental summits hasn't really got anywhere. Warfare and unsettlement is as rife as ever, driven by religious and racist extremists whose consciences are bereft of any decency. 

Some sort of radical, new wave of political thinking needs to gain populism to help save the whole planetary demise. You could argue such a political turn of tradition has taken place in the USA with an unhinged character like Donald Trump in power, but it's very much the polar opposite to Trump's version of radical that is required. His absolute ignorance and disregard for issues green and conservationist says it all about this dangerous sociopath. Over here, Labour Party leader Jeremy Corbyn appears to offer something different and at least he is a gentleman. Some of those scared of his Socialist values have continued to slur him with all sorts of unfounded accusations. Anti-semetism being the latest. Corbyn speaks out against an Israeli government persecuting Palestine which is twisted in to an antisemitic narrative for those with their own appalling agendas. 
As things stand on the political front, dialogue doesn't seem to get anywhere or even work anymore. Threats and counter-threats are the way to bargain for power and policy, yet the biggest threat of all - atmospheric and planetary destruction - is continuously over-looked by a worldwide collective of live-for-today, ideological career politicians who steamroller anything through that makes money or makes them look good for five minutes, regardless of broader consequences of any kind.
Religion also has a part to play in teaching humanity to respect it's home. A useful place to start could be leading religious figures of all denominations strongly condoning more toleration of each other and using their influence to persuade some much needed worship and respect for the planet, preferably with as much gusto as their belief in various guises of supernatural beings. Hinduism could be exempt from my considerations here though, for were this the only religious channel created, then the need for peace, harmony and respect for all living matter might not be such the critical issue that it is.
The biggest challenge of all is for religions, politics, commerce and every individual to come together and take a sense of responsibility. A worldwide consensus to put dealing with the problems humanity has already created - and problems to face in the future - high on the priority list. The world couldn't be more far removed from that fantastical scenario right now. Somehow I don't think the current rise of the far right, the Conservative right or indeed any political wing other than something new or collaborative is going to deal with green issues and population as a matter of priority. Population is the one big taboo subject that simply has to be addressed at some point soon.
Hardly an epiphany these thoughts then, more the glaringly obvious. But more so, my upper sanctum seems much more bewildered and burdened by the stark reality of world affairs since inducing this onset of endorphin starvation by not running.
What flipped my lid the other night though, wasn't so much the repugnant excuse for human existence that dumped his rank MacDonald's packaging out of his car window - although that did make me feel like following the scrotbag with the sole intention of wringing his neck - but no, it was the BBC Sports Personality of the Year.
Also on the BBC, quiz show Only Connect recently revealed the distinction that BBC Plumber of the Year happens to be the one that stood out for me from a connecting sequence of four annual awards that were only ever awarded once. It seems to me completely criminal that such an award was scrapped when this dated act of pomp and ceremony that is Sports Personality of the Year is continually resuscitated and churned out for the sake of its own misguided sense of self importance. Besides, everyone needs a decent plumber now and again.
Last year's winner Mo Farah couldn't even be arsed turning up for the ceremony despite being in the country. Mo is very much a sportsman in a competitive sense, no question. Even if there may be a slightly grey area when he went to train in the USA and made a giant leap of class at a level where there is normally little room for so much manoeuvre, the guy can run. He can run quick and run hard. But personality? Not sure. 

He's not overly popular with his rivals which speaks a few volumes. In interviews he plays dumb - which is actually very boring indeed - rambling on like a scratched record about how he does it for his family at every opportunity. 

We never hear from Farah, ''I busted my balls with a 60 x 400's session off half a minute jog recovery recently and that gave me the edge today...''. It's always, ''I done it for my faaamily...'' I'm sure you did Mo, but you told us that last time.
Surely by description, contenders for the best sports personality should tick two boxes. Not only for having achieved at the top of their sporting game, but shown us a genuine personality that everyday folks can not only warm to, but engage with and also be inspired by?
So back to this year's BBC Sports Personality of the Year then. Now I may open myself up for criticism here by saying we only tuned in to watch the final of The Apprentice and caught the end of this year's awards show by default. The Apprentice is what it is though at least it makes for more entertaining television!
As if the Sports Personality show wasn't dire enough, they had the nerve to overrun it by fifteen minutes. It's fair to say I got on my high horse about this. The Apprentice final was already billed ten minutes longer than usual and we're up at six bells tomorrow taking Connie the dog out! Sir Alan should be stood with Claude and Karen at some iconic business location in London giving his finalists the lowdown when we are still awaiting the result of this almighty sporting tribute of tributes.
Third place... Harry Kane. OK, fair enough he bagged a few goals and won plenty of free kicks by cunningly collapsing in a heap whilst actually backing in to his marker in what was a brilliant World Cup effort for not only Harry, but the whole England squad. Personality though? Hmm, nice lad, inoffensive and he does seem genuine at least.
Second place... Lewis Hamilton.

That's it, I've had enough! I can't watch. I'm off in to the kitchen. Sports and personality? I'd argue the case of whether motor racing is actually a sport when some guys have much faster cars than others. Personality? Lewis Hamilton? Well if we are comparing wet dish cloths and drying paint, then yes, for me Hamilton fits the bill.
I find the man a bit creepy, exceedingly dull to listen to and he just grates on me as somebody who even takes taking themselves too seriously, too seriously. I can't detect a microgram of humility about the man. Never a decent word to say about his opponents, a sociopath so immersed in his own hype, so up his own backside that the bizarre enormity of his fan base brings me back to concerns about humanity again!
For flawed also-rans like me, it's easy to dislike successful people. After all, it's just a public persona upon which we judge them and we can't claim to know them at all personally. But my antennae just tells me there's something not right about Lewis Hamilton. I'm not keen on Jose Mourinho either, but I could sit and have a coffee with Jose to see if he could change my mind. I think much of Mourinho's arrogance is just bluster, whilst Hamilton's seems ingrained in his DNA.
I'm back in the room and catch the winner... Tour de France champion Geraint Thomas. No idea about him to be honest. Fair play for winning the Tour, but I'm done with this ridiculous contest and the pimped up glitz and glamour of a large arena in which it's staged these days to paper the cracks of it's pointlessness. 
I rub my hands in readiness, ''Apprentice now, surely...'', but no. To add insult to injury, they run even later than late with the not so long ago intriguing sound of George Esra. Talented lad that he is, this latest song is awful dumbed down  cheesey pop... AAAAAGH!!! Back to the kitchen. 

I put a slice of toast on to kill a bit more time. What a load of nonsense that whole sports personality hoo-hah really is.
And......... breathe.   
Just reading back on what I have written and, oh well, it feels better out than it did still in. My four - occasionally five - regular blog readers will be spitting their tea out. 

I think I need to get back running fairly soon.             

TIME TO GIVE IT A REST
Just for a week or so it seemed like building up to the County Cross Country Champs in early January was definitely on. But this situation with the knees just isn't going away. Reigning in that long distance stuff may have aided a moderate recovery and some days made me genuinely believe I can carefully run through it all. But this perseverance, heedless hope and ignorance has got to stop. It's time to take action with an indefinite period of no running action whatsoever.
The old leg benders need a break. Even to the most remote cavities of my brain where the act of denial is most fervently processed, this has now become the blatantly obvious truth.
The last week or two have been so up and down with my running it's been impossible to follow any routine or structure. One day I can bash out an interval session on the grass and mud or do a strong paced road run without any problems, yet another day I can barely stumble three or four miles out at plod speed. The latter seems to have been the story of the past few days. Couple tired knees with a general knackeredness, triple it with recurring backache... stepping off the hamster wheel of training has got to be for the best - if only to stop me moaning on about it as well. I'm actually really starting to bore and irritate myself by going on about my knees all the time. Give it a rest, John. Shut the frig up and do summat about it.
Ultimately the big question is whether I want to compete on the fells next year? Well of course I do. My running head remains young and hungry, despite the decaying bodywork. Let's see if some rest can patch up the rust and rot.   

TARMAC - A NECESSARY EVIL
Post-Tour of Pendle, if thinking I could recover to a fit enough state and find some fast enough legs to plunge in to the Podium 5K two weeks later was over-ambitious, then thinking I could return to Pendle for the morning circuit run just a few days on was utter stoic stupidity. The reality was that it took a week to even descend a staircase in some sort of orderly fashion, so a premature venture back up the fell three days after the race was a knee-knocking plunder that served only to remind me of how bad it felt in those last few miles again.
Subsequent runs have ironically felt much better on a road surface with a reduction of lateral knee movement on the smooth and hard stuff proving not to be as irritating. This tarmac hater has had to dance with the devil in order to keep some training up.
After a frustrating week of lumbersome road and parkland plodding, last Monday I felt compelled to just go out and do a hard effort road run in some sort of shit or bust time trial. The Clitheroe four miler route from work is my modern day gauge for such experiments and it did get a bit ugly from around two miles. The effects of a lack of quality running at some sort of speed kicked in. The knees weren't overly impressed either, but I persevered and in the end was not much more than half a minute outside the best time I've done on that route. The result was neither shit, or bust. It was in fact just the tonic to get back in to some sort of proper training mentality for the rest of that week, and to date. The four miler blast certainly proved that sessions needed to make a hasty return as a weekly must-do, so with my next longer term goal geared towards making amends for that shocker of a run at the Lancashire Cross Country Championships at the beginning of the year, I've had a couple of really good sessions in the parkland slop that have restored a bit of belief and helped fire up some focus again.
The situation with the knees remains a concern though. Stretching, manipulating and staying off the fells seems to have stabilised the problem for now. If it doesn't fade away in the foreseeable future, then I have to unwillingly accept the prospect of taking some time out. After all, what's really at stake here? These are my knees, I only get one real pair. Should I be privileged enough to grow much older, the foolish pride that drives me to try and race to some sort of standard today ought not to cost me the ability to do other active stuff tomorrow.