30 August - Carneddau Memories

Unless you’re running the Mow Cop Killer Mile, there’s usually a down after an up, and mine comes today. I feel tired and antisocial all day, and it’s no better by the time I get home. Rather than inflict my company on others, I decide on an easy solo 6 miles or so and set off early from home down along the river and on a loop around Meadowbank and the Whitegate Way.

Thoughts turn to the marathon, and to Snowdonia. In a way, it’s a pity that the course, which starts under the shadow of the Glyders and Crib Goch, and finishes over the col below the long westerly arm of Snowdon, misses the third high group of hills in Snowdonia, the Carneddau.

I well remember my first two days’ hillwalking in Snowdonia. I was 17, and had started out from the jellyfish-strewn beach at PenMaenmawr before climbing over Tal y Fan to Ro-Wen youth hostel. The next day took me over Drum, Foel Fras, and along the broad whaleback of the hills to Pen yr Ole Wen. It was a grey, overcast day, but the cloud wasn’t too low, and above Nant Ffrancon I got my first view of the viperish north ridge of Tryfan. I remember the descent to Ogwen as a trial, with boulders, heather, holes and loose stones all the way down. It would be over 22 years before I set foot on the south ridge of Pen yr Ole Wen again!

In between, there have been lots of other days on the Carneddau. Some bright and sunny, like 29 February 2004, when Geoff and I arrived in a snow-covered valley and climbed the easier east ridge past Ffynonon Llugwy and across a real winter wonderland on the high tops, circling over Carnedd Dafydd and the up the frozen dome of Carnedd Llewllyn before crossing Pen yr Helgi Du and descending through the fast-melting slush back to the valley. A perfect day. Often it is damp and foggy up here, like both of our times climbing Crib Lem, a rocky and entertaining scramble up a westerly spur, reached from Bethesda. Other days have been even wilder – one October day, on a Bethesda circuit to capture all of the 3000’ tops, Conan, Lindsay and I got blown over several times and had to crawl up to the summit of Llewellyn in a howling gale. These are good mountains for the dogs, too, but most routes are long and even Dizzy has been reduced to a crumpled heap by some of the walks. Tugger doesn’t have the same staying power, and once had to be woken from an exhausted nap in the summit shelter on Carnedd Dafydd. I really thought I might have to carry him on that day, but he summoned up enough reserves to get back to Bethesda without intervention!

I could do with some of those reserves this evening – it’s a tired start, but after a few miles I feel better, and some good humour is returning – exercise really can be good for the soul sometimes, and I arrive home in a much better mood than when I set out.

28 August - Another Midweek Bonus!

It was a lovely weekend. Paula and I went out for a short walk of 5 miles or so from Elterwater on Sunday (I just couldn't resist going back!), with lunch at the Three Shires Inn, and Lindsay took me out for a ramble over Scout Scar on Monday morning, before we went off to Low Sizergh for a late lunch.

My legs didn't enjoy the Bank Holiday as much as the rest of me, and even this morning they were very achey in a few places. The plan was to go down to the club training session at Knight's Grange, meet up with Helen and Ken's group and do an hour with them, then carry on and put in some extra to give us a couple of hours' running. I wondered whether I'd manage 2K before blowing up, or 22 if my body settled down to some reasonably slow going on flat ground.

In the event I needn't have worried about an early bath. After 10 minutes, I felt fine - it was Helen who was having problems with a sore knee she'd acquired on Sunday's long run.
It was another lovely bright, not-too-warm evening, and we started off with a warm-up lap before heading out with Ken along the Whitegate Way, out on a loop past the stables, and back home via Sherrat's Rough. Coming back up Grange Lane, we decided on a smaller loop down to the river and back via the Red Lion and the middle of town. It was another enjoyable run in good company, at least so long as I can forget about the idiot in the car who decided it would be good fun to bellow at us through the window as the vehicle passed with in a few inches of us. It annoys me that that kind of thing always makes me start, however commonplace it is.
We finished as it began to get dark, and again it felt like a bonus to have got such a good run in on a weekday evening.

OCT - Part 3 - Lancashire

Looking out from our platform across the Great Moss, we can see two red-jacketed figures and two collies making rapid progress towards the crags.

Hopefully we'll find good going once we're across the river. Crossing the river gives us a bit of fun. I have had very wet feet ever since High Raise so I just wade through. Two lads coming the other way have spotted us crossing and just as I splash out, they reach the opposite bank. Their disappointment in obvious when they realise that I haven't found a drier way across than any other they'd seen on the way up.

Once across, we make a long, wet dog-leg along the left bank and then cut across on a traverse to the low col that will give us access to Moasdale. We manage a dry crossing of the stream above some waterfalls and refill with water on tte way over. It's cheering to see the long easy path down the valley, and we make much quicker progress once we're on it.

All the time we're descending, the steep grassy slopes of Grey Friar are getting nearer, and Cockley Beck there's no blocking them out. Cockley Beck produces something else - the first cars since Wythburn. There aren't many, but even so they seem to have difficulty passing each other, and us. It does seem a stupidly cumbersome and limiting way of getting around the Lake District.

We disappear off into a wet field, and soon we're climbing again, at first on a delightful zig-zag track the ascends a ramp. We're sorry when it peters out after 300' or so, and leaves us to tramp up the soggy tussocks towards the crags, and not long after the crags, the fog. A long pull, and a bit of dodging between the outcrops, takes us up to a dip on the ridge, and miraculously, a cairn. Not long afterwards, we find the meeting of the ways on the southern slopes of Great Carrs, and traverse off right towards the southern end of the ridge and our last summit, the Old Man of Coniston. The fog thickens and the wind is blowing ever stronger from the west.Lindsay disappears completely at one point, and we're glad when we see her shadowy figure emerge out of the gloom again.

Our little traverse path runs out, but we find another. That one loses us height though, and when it begins to veer off towards where Dow Crag probably is, we cut up across the rough grass again until we reach the unmistakeably wide track of the main ridge. Just a few hundred yards later, we're up on the Old Man himself, soon accompanied by a couple, the first people we've seen since Cockley Beck. They're cold, and make themselves colder by stripping off their whole layers to put on different vests. We have the luxury of 15 minutes off before we take another 3-heads-in-the-gloaming summit picture on the top of the old county of Lancashire.
On the way back, we find a better line. We're getting wet now, and I wonder whether it's rain, or just fast fog. Whatever it is, it's blowing into my left ear! After a mile and a half, we meet our lone walker again. He's putting on a waterproof and seems in good spirits. He'll be finishing late, but he will definitely be finishing. From the Old Man, it's two miles back to the crossways, and I know it's about two miles back to Elterwater from the bottom of the hill, which leaves us a long descent of two and a half miles until we get there. The descent starts badly: it's uphill, but soon we do lose height, slowly, then quickly, which brings us a view. The unfamiliar backside of Lingmoor appears, above Little Langdale Tarn. It's a good job there's only one tarn - the nomenclature would be a nightmare otherwise.

Further on, the Langdales look big again, which is good news, it means we're well down the slopes and making good progress towards home.

Over a bridge, we find a good, solid track. It leads over a shoulder, up a a short climb, the n onto the road, and before long we're back on out way down, over the loose cobbles and through the woods to Elterwater. We reach the car again at a quarter to eight, just as it's beginning to get dark. It's been a grand day out in the hills, in good company, another long dreamt-of long route completed. Sometimes I feel very blessed indeed.

OCT - Part 2 - Cumberland

Jogging down in fog from the summit, we're looking out for the Wyhtburn path dropping to the right. It fails to appear, and after a couple of hundred of yards of not appearing, we convince ourselves that we've missed it and we're back on our way to Dollywagon Pike. We drop off down steep wet grass to get reunited. After a couple of hundred feet of increasingly slippery going, it becomes clear that the capricious little path (only a two or three metres
wide!) has gone the other way, and we get involved in some interesting traversing across grass, boulders, and eventually crags. By looking down on the right, we'd missed seeing the main path going up on the left!

We eventually rejoin our intended route, and make much quicker progress down the stones and pitched boulders. I pass the scene of one of my most exhausted moments in the hills - the final climb up Helvellyn on our English 3000s circuit a couple of summers ago. I pass the corner where Conan and Lindsay waited for my wobbly legs to take me up to them, and then the blocked steps where we'd been encouraged with a bit of A A Milne, despite feeling like death on a stick.

Before long, we're down in the carpark having breakfast and Paula is handing out our supplies for the rest of the day. The dogs are confused about not coming, but 27 miles of hill is a long way to go with a small dog, even one as fit as Dizzy. Twenty five minutes pass by without us noticing, and we're consequently behind schedule as we set off. The main purpose of the schedule is to make sure we finish in daylight, but also helps to keep us moving at a reasonable pace through the day.

Going up the Wythburn path to High Raise seems a whole lot more pleasant than coming down it on the 3000s did. There are trees and waterfalls, and it's actually quite pleasant. Even reasonably dry at first, although that soon changes. My feet won't be dry again until we get back to Elterwater. There's even a bit of weak sunshine, but climbing the wet rough grass to pass just south of High Raise soon gets rid of that as we meet the cloud base again.
Lindsay is wandering dangerously far to the north, and we warn her not to get sucked in! There's no need to capture any more summit cairns than the necessary three!

We catch up with our fellow OCT-er, who hadn't stopped for Breakfast, on the way over to Sticks Pass. He tells us he started out from Grasmere and is planning on taking around 16 hours to do the route. We don't envy him his benighted finish over Red Bank. We don't see anyone else until Angle Tarn, then suddenly, the crowds appear. We skitter up the pitched path away from the tarn, passed on so many of the big Lakeland circuits, and enter the fog. We pass people all the way to the summit of Scafell Pike - almost all of them in jackets, hats and gloves. We must look odd to them, sweating away in our t-shirts. It might not be the most scenic or interesting way up England's highest, but it's easy, only the short stretch over boulders from near Ill Crag provided much to think about. The summit platform is relatively quiet, with only a couple of dozen people around or on it, but in the fog we only stay long enough to take a photo (3 heads and some fog!) before pushing on to Mickledore. We're over half way now, but there's still plenty of rough ground to cross.

Descending the loose path to Eskdale, we pass a woman who asks if we've come from Foxes Tarn. She looks quite angry when Conan tells her no, we've come from Mickledore. The Foxes Tarn path isn't far away though, he says. The news doesn't seem to cheer her up much. Near the bottom, we find a grassy platfrom and a few across the Great Moss, and stop for lunch. This is a quiet place, far from any road, and it seems a different world to the crowded path from Esk Hause. Fog cloaks the upper crags, but even so we can see enough to make Eskdale stay in the memory as a place to come back to when time is more plentiful.

OCT - Part 1 - Westmorland

Elterwater in Langdale. It’s 5am and it’s still dark. This comes as something of a surprise to us and we only have one head-torch between us. By 5:10, we’ve got ourselves sorted out and an imaginary klaxxon signals the start of our circuit of the Old County Tops of Westmorland, Cumberland and Lancashire.

The Westmorland summit, Helvellyn, is the first on the list. There’s a nice route up from Grasmere along Tongue Gill, up to Grizedale Tarn, up the steep slopes of Dollywagon Pike and along the crest of the ridge to the summit. Unfortunately we need to climb Red Bank even to get to Grasmere. A few metres of tarmac takes us to the path, which is surprisingly dry for a while, then turns comfortingly wet. We waste time trying to jump over the soggier bits. The purpose of Red Bank is either to provide a nasty obstacle at the end of the walk (if you start from Grasmere), or to give a stiff warm-up climb before the main business of the day gets underway. We’ve chosen the second option. It doesn’t take long to reach the top, and then we’re jogging down to the sleeping village and along the empty roads.

At the top end of Grasmere the road turns uphill again and we stop running – another 35 miles lie ahead and this is no time to be disrespecting gravity. The Tongue Gill path starts grassily and dodges past a small wood, then enters the long valley and starts to climb properly. Conan is forging ahead on the pitched path, Lindsay and I are chatting, but we all cross the slopes above Grizedale Tarn together, looking across at the still lake, with just two tents pitched at the far end, and the steep grass of Dollywagon that rises into the cloud ahead. We’ve opted for the steep grass as it’s shorter than the winding path, but it provides a shock to the system after the gradual climb so far. It’s forbidden to stop of course, so the usual tactics of slowing, then zig-zagging, help to take us up into the cloud and along to the iron post that marks the place where we join the broad highway that misses all the interesting bits of this south end of the Helvellyn ridge.

We don’t mind missing the interesting bits today of course, as (1) we only want the three summits and (2) we can’t see the view in any case. We pass two coming down – they’ve spent the night on the summit, presumably in the hope of seeing a sunrise that must have been lost in the fog above 2000’. A bit further on, we pass a solo walker coming the other way. Conversations are limited if no-one stops and neither we nor he seem to want to, but Lindsay gets the impression he might be doing our route too. It’s good going on this stony super-highway of the hills, and soon the shelter and cairn emerge out of the fog and we claim the first of our three summits. We’ve only done 8 miles though, and this is by far the easiest of them by this route, so there’s no time to hang about, and we’re soon doubling back to find the Wythburn path.

23 August - An Unexpected Visitor!

I had a nice quiet Wednesday, with a trip to the pub to celebrate Chris's 21st at lunchtime. I did nothing but a bit of cycling to work and back. It's a surprise to wake up with pain then - the fall on Tuesday must have had more of an impact than I realised!

I've been in touch with Craig and he's going to come over after he's finished work. I've decided that the track session isn't going to help much with my sore muscles or with Saturday's Old County Tops attempt, and he had a track meet at the weekend and wants to take things steady. We agree on an hour's run from Knight's Grange. As we're early, we set off before anyone else arrives.

Not wanting to get him lost, we do a straight out-and back from Knight's Grange and reach the Kennel Lane bridge before turning back. It's quite a bit quicker than Tuesday's pace, but over much easier ground, so there's still plenty of breath for chat - mostly about running of course! I envy him a bit - he's 21, and has got years to get faster, and find out what he's good at and enjoys. I think I've got a few years in me yet before I start to score frequent PWs but I do feel that I missed out in my 20s and early 30s. Just to emphasise that, as we pass through Whitegate Station, we pass Nicky Archer, moving easily along, followed by at least two dozen juniors, out for a long run for a change. Craig comments that there must be a lot of good athletes at the club, quite a compliment considering the size and quality of Team Bath's membership!

We finish up across the golf-course and down to the track where everyone else is doing a 8x1K session with very short recoveries. There is at least a look of "concentration" on most faces, sometimes more than that! All of a sudden I'm glad I decided not to do the session. There are only 33 hours to go until the start of Saturday's fun at Elterwater, and I'm feeling pleasantly tired enough!

A Midweek Ramble

Tonight's plan is a steady hour and a half or so. Helen is keen on getting some miles in and so am I, and it's a relief when everyone else heads out for the speed session - it's not that company is unwelcome, just good that there's no-one else to dictate the pace! The pace turns out to be the best one of all, the one that conversation dictates.

I love this kind of running - easy enough to chat but fast enough to be more than a jog. Miles and time fly past, and so they did tonight. So did one vital turning, but it simply added time, and it's hard to feel guilty about that when you need time on your feet. Pace is irrelevant anyway - there are fallen tree-trunks to climb. stiles to cross, and then as the evening darkens under cloudy skies there are dimly lit paths through the woods to negotiate.

Helen shows me where some of the more interesting hill sessions are run in Petty Pool Woods. I ran my first hill rep session 26 years ago and they still fill me with a mixture of joy and dread. At the end of the day, I like hard hills, especially in races, because they give me a chance to pass people - but they still hurt! Good hill legs will be vital for Snowdonia, but I don't need to work on them tonight - plenty of time for that come Saturday!

Anyway, back to those darkening skies and darker woods. The path is wet and churned with the passage of bikes and it's difficult to run on - then I find a slippery tree-root and I'm on my arse. Luckily I do manage to land on something soft (my backside) and it doesn't seem like I've done any damage.

It's pretty dark by the time we get back to Knight's Grange, and everyone else has long finished and left. It's been a good evening though, and one I wouldn't have done on my own, so a late supper is no hardship. I'm planning another nothing day tomorrow, then the track session on Thursday. When I get home, there's an email from Craig, who I met at the Welsh Castles Relay when he ran the same leg as me from Dolgellau to Dinas. He's been asked to come to Cheshire to work for a couple of days and asks if I'm free for a run on Thursday. He's staying in a place called Winsford and wonders if I live anywhere near there!

Wet in Warrington

I actually went to bed early on Saturday and slept. It's actually quite hard waking the body up after a decent night's sleep, and on the way to Warringotn I keep trying to talk myself out of relaxing. I'm SUPPOSED to be tense!

Somehow or other I don't quite manage it. This isn't a big target race, and I know I'm going to be doing at least 22K this morning, with an extra lap of the course waiting after the warm up and race. I persuade myself to run a brief warm-up, but it's already warm and muggy under the grey skies - and I'm not looking forward to the roundabouts and motorway bridges of the rather uninteresting course.

I get into the starting pen early - this is a big race with a limit of 1,000. Not paying attention, I don't notice the 300 or so runners who get on in front of me, and pay a 12 second penalty after the Klaxxon sounds for the start. Although it's a "chip" timed race, it's never a good idea to start too far back, and I end up dodging round big lines of slower runners for the first 800m. It's all wasted energy, and I'm annoyed with myself. It's easy to blame slower runners for lining up too far ahead, but I should have known better. I can see four or five blue and yellow quartered vests up ahead and already I've blown my chance for a pop at some of the slightly-quicker runners.

After the first K marker comes up, it feels easy, but the watch tells me I've set out just on sub-40 pace, which with the ducking and diving early on means I've pushed a bit to make up time. I settle down and get with a group, only to find they drop off my pace after a couple of minutes. I spot John Parrott, a good V50 from Stockport, just ahead. He should be running on sub-40 pace if previous encounters are anything to go by, so I take the long way round and catch his heels.

2 and 3 come quite slowly, although still just under 4-minute pace. There's a brief shower, and just before 4K I notice Helen, 100m ahead of me. She must have started near the tape! I'm still 30m behind her and two fast women as we do an out-and-back around a spare roundabout. Glenn comes up the far side of it as I go down, and as I gain on Helen I wonder if I can catch him too. I try to speed up, but every time my watch shows a 3:40 something, my heart sinks a bit. It is all in my mind, but my body listens to the warnings of doom and and my ambition resigns. It takes me until 5L to catch Helen. I turn around to shout at her to keep going and that she's on for sub-40. After that I don't look, but I hope she's caught on to me and got away from the other women she's racing. I also hope I'm going to be quick enough to keep ahead of her! Glenn seems to have got away again, and as we run along more pleasant country lanes, the kilometres tick by at a furious rate.

There's a little rise over the motorway, and even though I like uphill, and I gain on the guys I can see ahead, the watch is not playing the game and shows I'm at 4:15 pace. Time comes back on the descent, but not enough - then there's another short rise leading up to 9K and although I gain again on the runners ahead the watch takes another breather. I had 8 minutes 2 seconds to run the last 2K, now I have 3 minutes 55 exactly to run the last 1K for a sub-40 gun time.

That pesky V50, Mr Parrott, comes into view just as we reach 9K. I thought I'd passed him at 5 or 6! I pass him now though, and I'm on course for 39:59 as we run along a rough path with 700m to go. Next thing I know, I pass a 200m to go sign, and soon afterwards am sprinting towards a clock that says 39:40. It's still in view as it changes to 40xx, and I breathe silent curse
as I cross the line. It's a sub-40 10K, but I've run an extra 30m from my starting position and that took 12 seconds.

The three lads I was catching on the line all throw up in the funnel. I practice vomit-dodging and wonder which positions they should be in. The results lady doesn't seem to mind the confusion. I'm hardly wrecked and wonder what the clock would have said if I had been. Out of the funnel, Mike, Tom, Mark, Toddy, Matt and Glenn are already there. I see Helen walking up behind me. Tom looks fed up and says he started too fast. Everyone else looks relatively pleased. Helen is told she's got a County Medal.

I've got my finisher's towel and get four cups of water and a gel down. It's pissing down. Helen is brilliantly organised and suggests we set off straight away to get an extra lap done. She hands me a dry top, and within 20 minutes we're off again. It's great to have such good company on what would otherwise be purgatory after a hard race, and the time and the miles fly by. I'm supposed to be able to navigate by the GPS map I've got on my Garmin, but it's hard to see where it goes and we go off-course a couple of times on the confusing roundabout system. It doesn't matter at all. I remind myself that when I get tired at Beddgelert, or near Mynydd Mawr, or even in Llanberis, that I owe it to people like Helen to forget the temporary pain and keep going - after all, the marathon itself should be something that motivates by itself- the training sometimes needs people of her good nature and enthusiasm to happen in the first place.

I'd have like to stay and see the presentation to her, but Paula had been waiting about long enough, and a pub lunch was calling.

Later, I found that the chip time was 39:52, just 1s off my PB for 10K. I'm not too bothered about not wrecking myself for a new PB; there are plenty of other fish to fry this week, but still, it was close! I wonder what plan I'll have for Sutton next month? I've got a challenge going with Andrew Terrill, so if it's a good day to race, I might just have to put the extra in!

Confuscation

After a day out on Wednesday, I skilfully avoided travelling to Whitegate for a tough hill session and arrived at Knight's Grange instead, where I expected to find half a dozen or so runners ready to take on an easy hours' running: ideal preparation for Sunday's 10K.

Instead, there were dozens. Skinny Matt had been spotted preparing himself for tought hills, all alone, and it seemed like everyone else was here. Someone mentioned a 16X1min (1) speed session. We all set off and I found myself running at a nice steady pace with Andy. I had been in two minds as to whether to cross to the dark side and do the speed session, but after discussing training plans with Andy, and telling him how much I agreed with Tom's attitude to training, it was pretty clear that I had to demur on moral grounds from running fast.

Instead, I found myself in the other-worldly situation of stopping after 3K and doing some stretching exercises, just to be sociable, then setting off on the speed session. After two efforts when I ran at he back then overtook everyone, Mark jogged across and asked me what I was doing. That at least made two of us running slowly, and after a couple of miles we turned back and joined up with Nick who wasn't feeling 100%. For some reason, we sped up and reached sub 7-minute pace on the way back. I finished up with just under an hour's easy-ish running.

I don't know what makes some of us train hard even though we know we should be resting, or winding down. I've done it, we all have: it's probably a sign that we're doing too much - thinking that we're doing too little. One hard session on the Thursday before a race doesn't make a lot of difference, probably, but when it becomes a habit you wind up tired, and that's no way to start a race.

I admitted to Tom on Wednesday that my Snowdonia plan was simply to cut sessions: one speed session, one hilly run, one long run a week. Anything else would be just the usual staving-off-boredom outing: a bit of cycling, jogging, a long walk, a session on the rowing machine - nothing damaging. I've never had a marathon plan before so this is as scientific as it's going to get!

My Friday run was simply a "I'm not going to have two days off" run of 6K up and down the hills on the Common - it's a nice evening outing and even at a sharpish pace doesn't take a lot out of the legs, especially after a pleasant Friday at work having a laugh with the girls. Saturday WILL be a complete day off then I should be ready for Warrington. Sub-40 will be just fine.

Almost too much fun

After having two Sundays (one involving a long run, the other a trip to the pub and a short walk), Monday was a day off. In other words, I went to work. Spending the day in a glycogen-deficient haze was quite nice but not very productive, so I celebrated by staying up too late and consequently woke up Quite Tired this morning.

By mid-afternoon I was in such a state of post-lunch langour that I was happy to try out Jeanette's suggestion of having a nap underneath the desk. Approximately 10 seconds later, Amy was prodding me with her toecap, asking me to sign off some letters, proving that you are always dispensible until you're not there. I briefly considered the couch in the First Aid room, but reluctantly made my 5th cup of extra-strong coffee and swallowed two fingers of a Twirl Bar almost whole.

All of which turned out to be ideal preparation for a really lovely (ie. really nasty) interval session tonight. For the statistically inclined, this was a 4X500m(60)4X1000m(60)4X500m(60) session on damp lumpy and often uphill grass around Knight's Grange. A strong headwind on the mostly uphill and almost consistently lumpy first 500m only added to the fun (ie. pain). Luckily Tony and Helen were having just as much fun as I was so we all enjoyed it together.

Often, the very worst part of a hard session is the short, vicious hill right at the end. At the end of my bike ride home that is, uphill to the Morrison's roundabout in Winsford. Well-travelled people with taste will not know this hill but Winsfordians desperate for not-quite-rotten veg on a Sunday might well understand what I mean. The odd thing is, I had so much fun tonight that I can't even remember riding up it, even though I know I did, because if there's one thing worse than riding a bike up thats slope, it's pushing a bike up it.

Tomorrow is a sad day, as it's a day off, but it's important to remember that there's only so much fun any one person can stand in a week, and after Sunday and today, I think I've had my share!

Doing the necessary

Long slow runs are unavoidable if you want to race a marathon. If you're not concerned about racing and simply want to travel 26.2 miles on foot, don't bother with them. 26.2 miles isn't that far and tarmac makes it really easy, even on a hilly course like Snowdonia. You'll get round if you want to badly enough, then tell everyone you've done a marathon. If there's anyone left by the time you finish that is.

So, long slow runs are unavoidable. It's unfortunate, because they're really, really boring, or at least they are if you do them on your own in uninteresting places. I was really pleased then when I got a text from Helen from the club suggesting an early start on Sunday for the club's morning run. We agreed to meet up at 7 am at the White Barn in Cuddington, then join the rest for the regular Sunday run.

That's the regular Sunday run for them mind, not me. I'd never been before. Too busy being away, out in the hills, racing somewhere, or just occasionally, sleeping. I'd set the alarm on a few occasions on a Saturday evening but then hastily turned it off again in the morning and gone back to sleep again.

This time though I had to make the date. Paula had kindly volunteered to get up early and give me a lift to the start, which would save the problem of picking up my abandoned bike afterwards, so up we got and out I went with a couple of bottles on a belt and a green banana for breakfast. I'd been running the previous evening, four pleasant miles in the sunshine with Paula on her bike, and felt fit and well enough (with my new toes) to run the uphills hard and provide a subject for Paula to practice photographing a moving target.

It was a lovely morning, and even the 7 familiar miles of the Whitegate Way flew past as we ran easily in the early sunshine. If I can't have scenery then company makes things much more bearable. Nicky came bouncing towards us as we got close to Knights Grange, looking as if she had endless energy and enthusiasm (she has actually.) She said she was knackered. I wish I looked half as easily graceful and athletic when I'm knackered. Instead, I look like a stumbling wreck of a stumbling wreck. I avoid the duplication when I'm fresh.

We met up with the others at Knights Grange, and set off. Graham avoided the hex of the short-footers by taking the long way round on the road, and soon afterwards collided with a parked car in Whitegate. The sun disappeared and it began to rain. The miles were getting longer as we splashed through Pettypool and on towards Cuddington. They stretched themselves out even further as we turned for home again, and some time after the two hour mark I was well and truly shuffling. The others were kind enough to wait for me once, but a mile or so from Knights Grange I had to admit defeat - this was my first double-figure miles run for months, and my body was objecting.

I wanted to have a good sit down and half a dozen bacon sandwiches, but instead, just on the off-chance, I tried the usual tactic of slowing down a little bit first, just to see if it felt like I'd stopped trying. It didn't. On the other hand, I didn't fancy the walk so I slowed down some more, took the first stile across the golf course (no shorter, but psychologically conforting), and eventually finished the run 19.6 miles and 2hrs 38 minutes after I'd started. Helen was still going, adding an extra few minutes. I didn't covet them.

Given the state I'd got myself into, it was a good job Tom was good enough to offer me a lift home. We both sat on sheets of bubble-wrap to avoid the more offensive parts of us coming into contact with difficult-to-clean upholstery. I gratefully shuffled into the house, to more bananas, a warm bath, and half-an-hour's lie down on the bed before I bothered to put any clothes on.

That's when I remembered I was doing the Old County Tops in less than two weeks' time.

Making a Start

Oh yes, training. It all really starts in the Alps on July 28. At which point I'm thinking, "as soon as I get back from the Alps, I'll start a proper marathon training plan". Then I'm away on wonderful journey across glaciers, over big snow-peaks, from Switzerland to Italy and back. We go over 4500m on Thursday and reach the summit of Signalkuppe, then get hit by a nasty summer storm and pelted with hail bullets, but arrive safely back in Zermatt and celebrate with Rosti, beer and Chivas Regal.

On Saturday, I'm limping through Luton Airport with two paiful, swollen and ulcerated little toes, and a little black cloud floating over my head. Only a little one mind, because eight days in the Alps is worth any number of toes. Up to ten I would say.

On the other hand, or foot, marathon training seems a long way off. Any movement is painful.

On Monday morning, I'm cycling to the doctor's surgery in flip-flops. "Hrrrmph, don't think much of them!" says the Doc, as he peers at my feet from a long way off. Some antibiotics will clear it up nicely, he says. I'd just like them to be normal size. At the moment they resemble rotten aubergines. At least they're taking my mind off the sprained ankle I got falling off a bog-road in Ireland last month.

I go into work and change into a suit and shoes, then take the shoes off and put the flip-flops back on. With socks. I feel sick. When I get home I fall asleep on the sofa at 9:30 with no running done.

The next day follows a similar pattern. Flip-flops on, work, flip-flops off, flop on sofa, goodnight Berlin. By Wednesday morning I'm seriously worried about my chances of staying awake for long enough to train, never mind having any feet to do it with. I take the precaution of being too ill to work all day, then decide that enough's enough and put some extra Compeed on the toes and head out for my first run in 2 weeks. I manage 3 miles before coming home in a sweaty heap and promptly falling asleep again.

I repeat the Compeeding the following night, and jog down to Winsford Common to meet the lovely people from Weedall's Wonders (loosely Vale Royal AC) for a nice easy hill reps session. I'll need to do lots of hills to get right for this marathon! I've taken the precaution of coming out early and walking the dogs along the circuit, taking a stick and smashing the nettles into bits. At least I won't get my arse stung even if I only make one rep. In the event, I make 6 reps. And it wasn't even painful. I give up while the going is good and leave Tony to do the full eight, while the rest of us stand about and tell ourselves that six really good reps are better than eight really good ones. Or something like that. I jog home afterwards feeling much happier with the world. This training business will be a breeze.

What's it all about?

The Snowdonia Marathon is a wonderful race. No doubt about it. 26.2 miles in a challenging circle around Snowdon, with steep climbs, fast descents, thronged villages, and quiet roads through the best countryside imaginable. I ran it last year in glorious sunshine, enjoying every minute of the exercise, the scenery, the happy conversations with other runners: the cup of tea handed to me by a lovely lady at the finish.

This year's going to be different. I want it to hurt. Well, a bit, anyway.

But before we begin, let's get one thing straight. This is not going to be either a perfect training plan or a record of one. I'm not training for a marathon, or even this one. I never train for anything in particular. It takes so long to train to do one thing that six other things come along and mess up the training plan. What I hope it will be is a story of 12 weeks of fun, hard work, and haphazard encounters amongst which, if we look really hard, we might just find a strand leading to October 27.

So why is this race special to me? Partly of course because of where it is. I've spent some of the happiest and most rewarding days of my life in North Wales, ever since my first visit as a teenager. I stayed in Youth Hostels and walked over most of the big mountains in the bone-dry summer of 1984. I slithered down Pen yr Ole Wen, got jelly-legs on Tryfan, fogged out on Snowdon. I nearly expired from thirst on the Rhinogs, and from hunger on the Aran ridge. I wound up back at Chester bus station after a wonderful couple of hundred miles.

Also, Snowdonia was my first marathon - just last year. I didn't even mean to do it. It was all Lindsay's idea. We were 2/3 of the way through the Welsh 3000s on a lively, gale and fog ridden day. Actually, we were 2/3 of the way up Pen yr Ole Wen, the first time I'd been on the unforgiving south ridge since 1984. And we were knackered. And wet. And hungry. "Wouldn't it be lovely to do something easy", she said. When I asked what she had in mind, she said something about 26 odd miles on the road, and I agreed without thinking. A few weeks later I found myself running most of the marathon with her, until she disappeared out of sight on the final climb. She'd disappeared because she was was prepared, and I was palpably not prepared. I still had a whale of a time though.

So, I just had to enter it again this year. And this year, it's business!







Right then, better get on with some training....