Lamb's Longer Leg. 15/01/2012.

A short double-header saw a Woodbank Parkrun on Saturday and the Lamb's Longer Leg fell race from just above Hayfield on Sunday. This was the first race in the Hayfield Championship. At 5k and with 290m of ascent, it qualifies as an 'AS' in the FRA calendar (categorised 'short' with the highest ascent per mile).

I parked my bicycle at the Lamb Inn for registration and went across to the kindly official sitting at the outdoor table to give my name (the race was pre-entry only). Before I could utter a word she gave me my number. Magic, I thought. I've hardly done any fell races and they know me already?

Andy Butler and Barny Crawshaw were two runners I recognised among 82 who were also ready to take on the frozen ground and icy wind. This was Barny's first race last year and he finished close to the back. Better things were expected this time after a year's racing.

A half-mile jog down the main road brought us to the uphill track and start of the race. Although the jellification of my legs had subsided after the hour-long uphill cycle ride there culminating in the slog up from Hayfield, I was probably still a little depleted. We were sent on our way uphill, to begin the steeply up-and-down theme for the duration. Barny soon overtook me as I began to burn up with the effort; perhaps I should have removed one of my cycling tops before starting. The icy wind on the tops provided welcome relief as it chilled the sweat.

We ran, climbed, hauled our way up and down the fells, often sliding on the frozen ground while following the little marker flags or other runners in front. Marshals gave advice, directions and enthusiastic encouragement at every turn, while photographers and videoers captured the proceedings. I was getting overtaken most of the time, but on the final tussocky climb I caught and overtook Barny. My 'lead' didn't last for long. Shortly after we'd begun the final long descent to the pub, he overtook me again. I was red-lining and had nothing left with which to respond as I watched him (along with others) slowly pull away into the distance to smash last year's time with a 39:22 finish. Superb effort Barny. I hauled in a little later in 39:50 to earn me almost a bottom quarter finish. Smashing. Compare that with the 23:10 from the previous day's 5k and you get an idea for the influence of ascent on speed.

Now if I drive there next time I might knock a few seconds off that time, but I don't think it will be anywhere near as satisfying. The slog up there via New Mills and Hayfield, the fell race, the roast beef dinner in the Lamb Inn afterwards (superb) and the downhill blast back home via Buxworth made for a worthwhile outing, with still enough time left in the day to catch up with all the weeekend chores.

Some pictures were taken by Mark Fermer, while Helen Spiegl went seriously professional and plentiful with her offerings.

Richard Seipp put together a very good video. Unfortunately I was not sufficiently elite to warrant an appearance; he probably got cold and went home ;-)

2011 becomes 2012.

2011

2011 ended on a positive note with two more Woodbank Parkruns squeezed in over the holiday. I managed only my second sub-23 time on New Year’s Eve – just 3 seconds outside the recent PB. The holiday's excesses can't have been too excessive. This final run was also the first and probably the last time when both of my brothers joined me on the same event. What a brill conclusion to the year.

2011 was a magical year with races and faces old and new and amazing weather for the most part. It was magical from the people perspective, with friends to meet on most weekends. The camaraderie and friendship between runners regardless of ability cannot be overstated. There are no barriers; we just do the same thing at whatever speed our genes (plus a bit of training) allow. We still have the same experiences, insights and emotions. There is an unspoken understanding through our common activity that links us. Throw into that mix the post-Ultra surge of endorphins as we reminisce over tea, pie and cake and it is easy to see how we may have a healthy addiction going on.

As each year passes, races fill quicker, winning times get faster and competition increases as more runners who don’t want to miss out “‘ave some of that”. I completed my second Runfurther Grand Slam more comfortably than the first despite it being more intense. This was thanks to keeping healthy throughout with not even a sniffle to worry about. The luck stayed with me with the rapid recovery from the shin injury that forced me to abandon my UTMB (even after a second DNF, the UTMB still holds magical memories and extends a strong draw to me to return to finally get it done).

Some 2011 events that stand out in my mind are the Rainow 5 fell race, Housman 100, Lakeland 100 and Round Rotherham 50. Looking back at the number of pictures taken by others reminds me of how much I did throughout the year. The one taken as I’m a few yards from last month’s 5k PB is priceless. Parkrun Pam captured perfectly the look of serene relaxation that hid the turmoil within as I just about held it together until the line. Armada Photography excelled themselves once again with their Round Rotherham pictures. Runfurther Karen snapped away at Howtown on the Lakeland 100 as I lamented the impending tortuous drag up to High Kop (with a smile on my face), while Harsharn Gill captured the moment of triumph at the final dib of a very long journey.

Here are some statistics to conclude 2011:

Number of runs/events: 51
Total distance: 1,573 miles (including a few 2-mile commutes and a handful of local runs)
Number of PBs: 5 (first-time events not considered)
Number of Ultras: 16
Total number of Ultras since my first Bullock Smithy Hike in 1996: 142
Number of marathons?: I never began counting.


2012 begins with Belle Vue Racers HIT THE TRAIL 5

The arrival of 2012 saw me get my first cold in well over a year, ruining my plans to run the Ovenden Fell Race on Sunday 8th. However, after a slightly more comfortable night on Saturday I did decide to run a more local race in Reddish Vale Country Park – something a little less intense to burn the infection out of me without doing too much damage (hopefully). The 3 mile jog there to EOD left me feeling a little drained but I firmly believed from previous experiences that the exercise would do me good and accelerate my return to fitness. The EODs were unprecedented and the organisers ran out of numbers. Luckily it wasn’t raining because the surplus entry forms with handwritten numbers would not have lasted very long.

As I stood waiting to start and chatted with Percy (from last month’s Gravy Pud fell race), my heart was ticking over at 111bpm after the effort of getting to the race and jogging around a bit. Once off and plodding along, it was hitting the end stops (high 180s) at far too slow a pace. It was obvious that my body was fighting a foe from within, but it still felt better to be outside running than being stuck indoors.

This 5-miler is a very friendly, well marshalled race and it was great to see a part of Stockport I’ve never seen before. Tom Snaith from Stockport Harriers was doing his familiar sterling marshalling job alongside the many other marshals. The route started at the bottom of Tiviot Way near the Portwood roundabout and Tesco Extra and wound in and out up the Reddish Vale valley to the viaduct. Under one arch we went, round and back onto the return leg that began with a short sharp climb up steps (I confess I had to walk). With loops in and out, up and down added in to make the distance up to 5 miles, we eventually crossed over to the right hand side of the river and continued virtually to the start point before turning right on the path for an uphill finish close to Reddish Road. My finishing time of 38:59 was better than I could have hoped for in the circumstances. ‘Plod Queen’ from the forums made my acquaintance afterwards (lovely to meet you PQ). There was talk of Bullock Smithy Hiking and other exciting things Ultra related. I’m sure our paths will cross again soon.

The 3 mile journey back home in the drizzle left me wanting. There was nothing left to run (I did try several times), so I walked. I felt as though I’d run a Hundred. I had to go to bed in the afternoon to recover a little from the effort. My heart rate remained raised into the next day, but a couple of days later I hardly knew I'd been ill. The accelerated banishment had succeeded.

What the rest of 2012 holds for me remains to be seen. I put my name in the Western States 100 hat but such dreams were dashed when my 7% chance of getting through the lottery went as expected last November. I applied for the UTMB too. The lottery is on the 20th January. If only nature had blessed me with the speed gene I might have found myself in the privileged position of already having a place allocated to me in both races, but since I don't, I join everyone else grovelling for those increasingly rare places.

January 20th is the major decision crossroads of 2012. If I do get through the lottery, the UTMB will become my number 1 priority. I would not attempt a Runfurther Grand Slam as well like I did last year. I couldn't anyway because the Bullock Smithy Hike is back in the series and it's the weekend after UTMB. On the other hand, even though the chances are so much better at “less than 1 in 2”, if when the expected happens and I don't get in, the Runfurther series is my oyster. “Grand Slam number 3, here I come.” It will be the only thing I can aspire to.

Regardless of what transpires on the 20th I shall be doing plenty of my favourite Runfurther races, LDWA events, the LDWA Games 100 and Snowdonia Marathon. I intend to replace some of the longer events with more short sharp races like local fell races and the Parkrun. I've already entered this month's local Hayfield fell race events (Lamb's Longer Leg just run). Not only that, I need to get back to some weekday running and, dare I say it, circuit training, which I abandoned several years ago. All of that would require a change in my lifestyle of recent years. Things will have to give to make room for this. The one thing that needs to give the most is computer time and that includes blogging. Don't be surprised if I go quiet. If I do, I'm probably getting faster.

Tour de Helvellyn 38mi. 17/12/2011.



At the beginning of the week the forecast was looking ominous and I wasn't even sure if I'd complete the car journey to Askham. Come Friday 16th, the low pressure was tracking a few hundred miles further south and the predicted hurricane force winds and rain had given way to snow on a light breeze. Fortunately the roads remained mainly clear. Even though it had snowed virtually all day in Stockport, by the time I arrived in Askham with daylight to spare there had been no snow or rain and the fields were green. It felt positively balmy compared to a year earlier.

After an excellent dinner and good night's sleep in the Queen's Head, I popped next door to the village hall to get registered. I had the essential survival rations and kit for a winter's day in the Lake District hills, ready for the kit check. I reckoned on a 07:30 departure to get me to the 10am opening of the checkpoint at Patterdale, 10 miles in. That plan disappeared out the window. It was a grand reunion of familiar ultra running faces plus a few new ones to get acquainted with, so there was plenty of chatting to be done. Time slipped by before I got to ask the kit checker what he wanted to see. “You're alright”, came the reply. “I saw you pack your rucksack earlier.” I suppose it was looking well fed. (Previous form may also have given some 'benefit of the doubt’.) This is one aspect of the low-key nature of this event, which is why I like it so much. We are treated like responsible adults who know how to take care of ourselves in bleak winter wilderness. We know the score when we read the entry requirements before we put pen to cheque.



At 07:49, I and a few others skidded our way outside onto the lane out of Askham towards Askham Moor. It was just cold enough to freeze and the icy roads were lethal, requiring us to seek out any bit of grass, frozen mud or verge in order to remain upright. As we crunched through the frozen puddles onto Askham Moor, the horses, which appeared only as black silhouettes in the dark blue frigid early dawn, seemed to get excited and joined us running in the same direction. I noticed how they also trod carefully around the big icy skins that gave way noisily under their hooves.



The low level running below the snow line past Ullswater to CP1 at Martindale church (6mi.) was easy compared to last year. Last year's sheet ice hidden by fresh snow was replaced by flowing water and mud. The climb over Boredale Hause to CP2 at Patterdale (10mi.) introduced us to the first snow, but nothing to cause any problems. I was amazed to arrive at CP2 on the dot of the 10am opening time. I couldn't have timed it better if I'd tried.

Matt Neale arrives at CP2 @ Patterdale.

Leaving Glenridding and climbing past the youth hostel brought us to the snow line and the first deep, un-melted snow. I'd been dying to try on my Kahtoola microspikes since buying them after last year's T de H, so time to transfer some weight from my rucksack to my Walsh Spirit Peaks. The vastly improved grip gave me instant confidence. I was able to sprint up the icy hill for a brief instant until the exertion caught up with me (I had just rested to put them on so I had 5 seconds-worth of half decent effort at my disposal). As I was passed by the later-starting speedsters, I in turn passed others who were climbing to indulge in their own winter sporting activities. Skis, ski poles and a snow board were in evidence. The sun tried to shine but as we climbed, the weather seemed to be closing in and the wind was rising. The route up ahead disappeared into whiteout conditions as we approached CP3 at Swart Beck (13.3mi.).

CP3 @ Swart Beck.

Route choices varied as we climbed from CP3. The correct path was invisible so you took your choice, reading the terrain and following contours that took you in the general direction you needed to go. It was advisable to avoid low-lying, concave expanses of pristine snow. These signified potential deep snow drifts that hid invisible traps of indeterminate depth. Higher, convex ground, possibly with bits of exposed rock blown clear by the wind, offered firmer footing with little chance of getting lost without trace. (OK, I exaggerate a little, but not much. Afterwards I heard of one who took a low level luxuriantly soft route, which happened to be hiding a waterlogged bog. He went in up to his waist with his feet in water.)

Sometimes we had to traverse deep snowfields. It was fun to tread as lightly as possible while trying to run. Usually my feet would sink a couple of inches and hold. Sometimes the 'hold' suddenly let go and I descended on a one-legged elevator to compaction, which fortunately had a dry extremity every time. Sometimes we had to descend into a clough and climb a snow cliff on the other side. At times like that I was thankful that I wasn't a front runner and I was able to use the foot holds that had already been kicked into the snow wall. I don't know how the leaders managed to break trail and remain in the lead without going off course or burning themselves out with the increased effort.

As we ascended into thick cloud and micro ice pellets driven on gale force wind, I realised that I was recognising nothing from last year. My photograph-taking stopped in the interests of concentration and survival. We had chosen a lower level route closer to the valley on our left that required a later steep climb to the right back onto higher ground. Once there I still didn't recognise anything, probably because I couldn't see much. Wiping the ice pellets off my glasses helped marginally, but it was still a struggle to follow the trodden path visually. The best indication of straying from the path was finding myself trudging through deep stuff. A brief pause and survey of the ground brought me back to the trodden path that I trusted would lead me to safety. Topping out at the pass between Raise and Stybarrow Dodd (I could hardly see 10 yards ahead, let alone those peaks) I was being overtaken by other runners but I could not keep up with them as they vanished into the white featureless murk. Some skiers walking up in the opposite direction reassured me that I was on the right path. Asking one if she had passed other runners and getting the reply: “Yes, loads”, provided the ultimate reassurance. The descent finally brought me out of the cloud and wind and back in sight of others, with whom I was catching up again. Descending from the snow line, my micro spikes gripped the wet grass and mud better than their shoes were doing. They involuntarily sat down repeatedly while I let gravity take me to CP4 at Stanah (16mi.). The ice pellets melted from my cap and clothing and the water dripped off me as if I had just run through a rain storm.

Just like last year, the effort to get me this far had left me feeling wasted. Just like last year I trudged the 'easy' flat section around the back of Helvellyn towards Dunmail Raise as my battery (a clapped-out relic with a couple of dead cells from the chuffing 2CV that almost powers me) slowly recharged. I passed though CP5 at The Swirls carpark (17.5 miles). I enjoyed the scenic permissive footpath that took us off the boring forestry track. Photograph-taking was getting out of control as I grabbed any excuse to rest for just a few more seconds. This year I found CP6 at the bridge at Homesdale Green (20.5mi.) before Dunmail Raise. Just like last year, other runners continued to overtake me, but the torrent had now become a trickle.

Runner and Thirlmere.

By the time I turned left up the right-hand side of Raise Beck with Steel Fell looming behind me, I felt more energised for the climb to Grisedale Tarn. Passing the snow line brought out the Kahtoolas for the second time. I felt a lot warmer than I did last year, probably because it was 10 deg C warmer, more than that if last year's wind chill is taken into account. Topping out at the pass between Dollywaggon Pike and Seat Sandal finally brought Grisedale Tarn into view. It looked a lot bigger this year because it was all liquid and not snow covered. I gawped in wonderment at the view and worked out where to go next. My trod through the snow had petered out and the path shown on the map beside the tarn was a long way below. Deep snow drifts separated me from it. I let myself go with gravity-assisted reckless abandon. It was like running down firm sand dunes, where every step would be cushioned. I kept stopping and looking around to take in (and photograph) unique views I hardly ever get to see. I felt warm and contented compared to last year's run-for-survival at this point, so warm were these sub-zero temperatures in comparison.

Grisedale Tarn was much warmer this year.

As I approached the top of Grisedale, a patch of colour opened up in front of me in an otherwise monochromatic world (see top photo). The cloud ahead was breaking to reveal a patch of blue sky, green hills and golden sunlight upon them. As I stopped repeatedly to stuff more megabytes onto a memory card already creaking under the strain, my next pursuer, seen since the pass, drew ever closer. He finally overtook me on the run in towards Patterdale.

By CP 7 at Patterdale (27mi.) the sky had cleared and it seemed just like last year. The one difference was that the water containers were not freezing. I refilled my water bottles, downed a cup of sweet tea and pulled out a cremated Chicken Kiev left over from a few days earlier to power me on the last major climb. With head torch fitted in readiness for the impending darkness I set off at just before 4pm. I stopped, stared and photographed as I climbed to Boredale Hause to survey the cold, dimly blue lit winter scene before me. I made use of every last photon from the long-since set sun behind me. Once over the top and with daylight all but gone, I put the camera away and got on with the job of running. There was just enough light remaining for me to run incognito down Boredale without turning on my head torch, to catch and overtake the group I'd seen ahead. It's an ultra runner thing, not to get one over on others but to eke the best out of ourselves with our own little competition ‘mind games’.

Boredale Hause in the last remnants of dusk light. The sun had long set behind me.

They began to catch me again as I fumbled with the paperwork through thickly gloved hands at CP8 at Martindale Church (31mi.). I'd caught up with another couple of runners here but they set off on the higher, less undulating, longer-way-round route while I set off down the lane. As I jogged along in the bottom of the valley with head torch switched off, I glanced across to my right and saw their lights behind me up the hill. I'd definitely gained on them. I entered the field to climb the path past the outdoor centre to regain the path that my latest pursuers were already on. I was well fuelled and kept the run going, even uphill, would you believe. I eventually plucked up the courage to look behind me (after first turning off my head torch). There were no lights. This spurred me on to try even harder to make sure it stayed that way. A small pocket of orange sodium vapour civilisation twinkled across Ullswater to my left and shimmered in the water as I jogged on with continued vigour towards Askham Moor in pursuit of more runners to catch, without getting caught myself.

I had another pair of lights in sight ahead when there was a slight hiccup at the track junction beside “The Cockpit” and “Pile of stones” shown on the OS map. I had dithered then decided that I needed to continue ahead, when the two lights ran back in the opposite direction to meet me. During further dithering, my pursuers drew closer again. We had to get moving. I set off to lead the way along the path that the other two had just run back. It went on approximately the right heading, as long as it veered left before too long. It did, and I recalled the watery underfoot conditions I had traversed in the opposite direction nearly ten hours earlier.

Nigel, Steve and I ran as a threesome up the moor to stay ahead of the chasing lights. We missed the minor footpath that cut the corner to the right (no footprints in the snow to follow this year like there were last year). The horses were now on the top of the moor, eyes glowing in our torch light and nostrils blowing water vapour. They trotted back and forth as excitedly as ever as we passed. Finally we hit the right turn after our slightly longer way round for the long gentle descent back to Askham. I glanced behind to check that our pursuers were not getting any closer.

There was no breeze and the temperature was barely freezing point. I knew from previous experience that the, , downhill ‘sprint’ to the finish would have me burning up and forced to a walk in no time. To pre-empt this undesirable state of affairs I proceeded to juggle with my accoutrements:

Remove Sealskinz waterproof mittens and hold in right hand.
Unzip waterproof jacket as far as rucksack waist strap allows.
Remove Buff from around neck, which required both hands to ease them past my glasses.
Drape Buff around right wrist (the clobber I was now carrying prevented it falling off).
Remove head torch.
Remove second Buff from head (tied pirate stylie) and add it to the collection gathering in right hand.
Replace head torch (a two-handed job, or at the least one hand plus a spare finger or two).

All of this was done on the hoof in the dark while carrying my printed Tracklogs maps and I didn’t drop a thing. Years of running ultras have given me plenty of juggling practice.

I was expecting the roads in Askham to be icy once again, but thankfully the water had dissipated during the day and we enjoyed an accident-free final run in to the village hall and an urgent appointment with the timekeeper at 18:47. Congratulatory handshakes were exchanged with Nigel and Steve before we took our choice of substantial home-made soup, bread, tea and cake. What an amazing day. Below is the essence of the note of thanks I sent to Joe, because the appreciation for what he gives us deserves wider publicity:


“Many thanks once again to Joe and the NAV4 team for providing this opportunity to play in the Lake District hills in winter and enjoy the camaraderie of like-minded people. It was even better than last year. In particular I noticed the enthusiastic support of the marshals at all of the checkpoints. The enthusiasm communicated the empathy between marshal and runner. The empathy may have been tinged with a bit of jealousy because they'd been there, done that and were probably wishing they were doing it again, with us.

The conditions above Grizedale Tarn were much less life-threatening in the temperature department but the conditions over Sticks Pass were definitely more onerous. Because I was in survival mode in the whiteout conditions, my picture-taking stopped until I had descended to sanctuary. I enjoyed trying out the Kahtoolas I bought after last year's event for the first time, though. What confidence that additional grip suddenly gave me after the youth hostel before the climb to CP3 and Sticks Pass.

The post-event soup was superb. I enjoyed the leek and potato. It was like a meal in its own right. I did not need another dinner. You may have noticed afterwards in the Queen's Head that I only needed a bag of dry roasted to soak up the wine ;-)”


I’d knocked all of seven minutes off last year’s time. I had expected more, but I am getting older and I did take 174 photos, all told. The most presentable ones are here.

To put some finishing times into context, mine was 10:58. I might possibly have got that down to 10:30-odd if I'd pushed myself to the brink all the way and taken no photographs. The winning time was 6:05, by Kim Collison, who also won the Roaches Rell Race in November (seen here on his return from Shutlingloe). First woman and 4th overall was Shona Robertson in an equally impressive 6:57.

Puma Stockport 10. 11/12/2011.

This is a favourite 10-mile road race for many that usually enjoys crisp, sunny weather, but not this year. The wet theme was recommencing once again as we gathered on the Stockport Harriers athletics track and watched the starting arch inflate, then deflate. I wandered across to stick my oar finger in to see if I could help. Reset buttons were pressed, plugs, generator and fan were inspected, but nothing we did could make the generator deliver electrical power to the fan. With the start time fast approaching, the decision had to be made to drag the flaccid dirigible onto the infield and make do with a length of knotted red and white tape instead to mark the start line. News then came in that local scum-bags had stolen the drinks station that had been set up that morning, tables and all. Could it get any worse? No way! The rain, the premature deflation and the theft could not destroy the life and spirit of the Stockport 10 with its friendly and supportive marshals and its legendary goody bag.

Just before it went down.



It was nearly 10am and a capacity field was called to the start line. I stepped across onto the track and found myself at the front. Oops, how did that happen? Imposter alert! Tony Audenshaw (fellow Stockport Harrier and Emmerdale actor)’s animated commentary over the PA gave way to a countdown and hooter blast to send a capacity crowd of nearly 1000 runners on two laps of the track to spread the field before we exited into Woodbank Park. Bashir Hussain had taken over the commentary and remarked: “What an amazing sight”. I looked across to the other side of the field. He was right. A mass of colour was swarming around the track. We would lap the back-markers before exiting into the park, so marshals on the track and instructions over the PA system ensured that there were no crashes and everything went like clockwork.

Now into the park we could ‘get into the zone’ and ‘do our own thing’ to get ourselves back to the finish. At least we didn’t have to worry about the cold rain now that we were generating our own warmth. Our route zigzagged through back roads with spectators watching from their front rooms before bringing us out onto the Marple Road. A short coned-off stretch without pavement took us to the bottom and up the other side past Offerton Sand and Gravel and the petrol station. Then came the left turn and first proper downhill blast down Bong’s Road to the valley bottom, followed by a flat jog to the drinks station just before halfway. Amazingly, the marshals had managed to rustle up some more cups from somewhere, while the local cattery allowed the use of their tap water. A stone wall served as the table.

The halfway mark was passed as we began our first climb up the other side of the valley beside the road (again no pavement and the car drivers were inconvenienced; I heard one clash of door mirrors). Before the top our route mercifully turns left onto minor roads, but it still climbs. Then we enjoy another zigzagging but more undulating route along side roads on the other side of the valley, with marshals at every street corner to guide and encourage us along.

We begin our second descent and the characteristic pear-shaped dome of Pear Mill comes into view in the valley below, but we still have a way to go yet before we pass it and begin our second climb of the day, up New Zealand Road. It’s not that it’s steep but it does go on a bit, and it continues after the left turn onto Turncroft Lane. More ascending finally brings us to the entrance to Woodbank Park where we return via our outward route to the athletics field. Now, allow me if you will to indulge myself with a little personal perspective.

Two consecutive PBs on the Woodbank Parkrun in the preceding two weeks (giving me my first sub-23 on that course) made me sense that a PB was on the cards. Not only that, I’d eaten and slept well in the lead-up and I’d eased off the ‘sauce’ in a serious way (including no bottle of wine the night before like in most previous years). That sealed it. A 'PB' had to be certainty.

I set off at what felt like a comfortable pace around the track and into the park, just like I always do. I wasn’t getting overtaken by herds of runners, meaning I’d set off too fast (like I always do). By the time I’d exited the park and turned left onto Turncroft Lane, I was burning up. I’d overdressed (you guessed it, like I always do). Why do I never learn?

I adjusted my clothing and continued at a pace that felt at the limit of just sustainable for 10 miles. A steady stream of runners was overtaking me. It was all so familiar but I knew that as long as I continued to put in this effort, the PB would come. Running down Bong’s Road the fell-running legs kicked in and I passed other runners as if they were standing still. The descent was too short. Once onto the flat valley bottom, they trickled past me again as I jogged along at my limit.

At the halfway point I was taken aback by a time split of 0:37:49. Last year’s PB was 1:17:27. I didn’t think this would leave enough cushion for the inevitably slower second half, which contained both of the major climbs. I would not let up for one second, though. It's not over until it's over. I did not even allow myself the wasted effort of wiping the rain drops off my watch face to read the time until I’d ascended New Zealand road and turned left onto Turncroft Lane and was halfway up the hill to the park. “1:12:??.” My heart skipped a beat. That was better than I could have hoped for. “It's in the bag. Bring on the PB!”

I pushed even harder to make sure I didn’t let it slip through my fingers. The gradient levelled out as I entered the park. I began to overtake one or two who had overtaken me on the final climb. I glanced at my watch. “1:14:??.” Other runners jogged in the opposite direction clutching their goody bags (show-offs). I began to hear Tony’s excitable commentary drifting across the park. The stadium still seemed a long way away and time was ticking. I turned the corner and wiped the rain off my watch face one final time. “1:16:??.” That’s too close but I should just make it with seconds to spare. I beasted myself on the final push along the straight into the stadium and my heart sank. I’d forgotten that we had to turn right and do a half lap of the track to finish. Tony shouted out over the PA: “And here comes Nick Ham, ultra runner extraordinaire …..”. I missed the remainder of what he said because I was barely surviving the unplanned-for half lap of flat plod. I think he went on to pass a joke about the skeleton cycling top I was wearing. A male runner sprinted past as if he were starting a 5k. “If you can do that now you've not been trying hard enough for the past 9.9 miles”, I thought to myself with my last vestige of lucid thought. The female runner who had overtaken me on the final climb and who I'd re-overtaken in the park, overtook me for the final time just before the line. I just about held off another runner who was rapidly closing on me to cross the line and stop my stopwatch.

As I recovered in the finishing funnel queue I checked the time – 1:18:16. Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. 50 seconds outside last year's PB. So much for abstinence and healthy living, eh? What's it to be next year, a bottle of white or red? One of each? I might just complete the set with a rosé as well and win the race.

We were presented with a medal in the form of a soap on a rope called STOCKPORT STENCH REMOVER. The always original and very quirky goody bag contained a variety of bits and pieces including lollies and 'tattoos' for the kids. Useful items included pens, a paper pad and, most importantly, a long-sleeved technical shirt in fluorescent yellow-green and black – ideal for glowing and standing out on those runs into the cool evening as daylight fades to black.

Once again the Stockport 10 did us proud. I shall be back next year for a 7th go. After a little recovery I was back on the bike to cycle home into the teeth of the cold wind and rain.

I only took a few pictures before the race this time.

Gravy Pud fell race 5+mi. 04/12/2011.

As I drove towards Tintwistle with my headlight beams cutting through the dim light and pouring rain (it was mid morning, incidentally) and the hills disappearing into cloud, an inner voice said: "What on earth are you doing? Turn around and go back home, you fool." Before I'd had a chance to act on this 'advice', another 'voice of reason' replied: "Don't be nesh, suck it up and just get on with it. You can't back out now you've blabbed on your blog." I continued to Tintwistle as planned. By the time I arrived, the rain was now only 'spitting'.

I had nearly an hour to register, chat and keep warm in the Bull's Head pub. It was good to meet Ian Winterburn and Will Meredith once again. By the time we ventured outside for the 11am start, it actually wasn't raining! I was chatting with Percy, who had only found out about this race yesterday. This was his first race. I was impressed by his keenness for turning out on such a day. I couldn't give him any advice because I was also new to this race.

The turn-out of 168 was particularly impressive, given the weather conditions. It had rained all night (for most of the weekend in fact) and the forecast for today was bad. It was turning to sleet, hail and snow as the weekend progressed. People who had travelled over the Woodhead Pass had to negotiate wet snow on the road.

The 5 mile (approx) route was well marked and marshalled and ideal for first-timers. As most of it was on tracks and paths (most of them swilling with liquid mud today) with only a short off-path section for the hands-and-feet climb to the top of Lees Hill, it was more runnable than usual. The addition of the obligatory ups and downs made it a right lung buster (but aren't they all?).

I never cease to be impressed by the speed and fitness of the faster runners in these fell races. The leaders sprinted off up the track from the start, while I settled into my usual survival jog with a steady stream of other runners gradually overtaking. I was breathing hard and could not have gone any faster. It wasn't long before Percy caught up with me on an early climb and pulled ahead a little, but as soon as the gradient eased downwards again, I let gravity do its thing while my legs maximised the effect by braking a little here and pushing a lot there. I made up some places.

On the climb of Lees Hill I was detecting a rapid reduction in light levels. At the highest point of the course, the hail started to fall. This didn't bother me because hail bounces off without wetting you. It soon turned to rain though, and continued in that vein until the finish.

The second half of the route is not all downhill by any means. There are plenty of ups as well as sharp turns, always with a marshal to point the way. It was alright for us because we were running to keep warm. They were standing to get cold. Thank you marshals for your sacrifice on our behalf.

I was mostly holding my own in the second half, with one or two catching me and me re-overtaking or catching one or two others. Percy was still somewhere behind but I had no idea whereabouts. I could only hear anonymous pursuers near and not so near by their heavy footsteps splattering in the muddy puddles or their laboured breathing hissing through their teeth.

By the final run back down Arnfield Lane to the finish I was giving it all I had but I seemed to be moving so slowly considering the runnable downhill cobbles that were now passing beneath my feet. I'd given my all out on the course and now I had little left to give on what should have been an easy downhill sprint to the line. It felt like those dreams I used to have where I am trying to run but making no progress, as if running through treacle. The effort had left my legs feeling weak and clumsy. I felt as though I was bumbling haphazardly to the finish barely in control. For some time I had been hearing footsteps and heavy breathing from several pursuers. Now they were getting closer. I pushed a bit harder to hold them off and hoped it would be enough. I just about made it to the line before turning around and seeing Percy right there behind me. Give it 10 more yards and he would have had me. Well run Percy. You'll surely beat me next time.

The Bull's Head was crammed and buzzing afterwards as tea and cake or beer and chips were consumed. This is the small room:



There was a bring-a-cake competition for post-race sustenance. I gawped in wonderment at the creations by runners and their other halfs. Mmmmm, cake:

During the prize presentation the pub dog raced backwards and forwards barking loudly every time a round of applause went up. Many thanks to nblg for putting on such a well organised run and getting the results out so quickly. What a slick operation you run.

I was happy to finish more comfortably inside the top half than ever before in a short sharp fell race.

PBs are like buses....

.....none for ages then two come along at once.

Last weekend I ran my local Woodbank Parkrun and surprised myself with my third (only my third) PB of the year. 23:04 was 11 seconds faster than my previous fastest for that course, which I did in June 2010. My older brother joined me for his first running of this Parkrun with its two big hills, and beat me by 1 minute and 8 seconds. I knew he would probably be faster than I but the fact that the difference was so big came as a bit of a shock. It just proves the benefit of daily shorter runs - which my brother is far more committed to keep doing - over my usual one long run (sometimes very long run) per week for producing speed. Well done Julian!

Wind forward to today and I found myself running Woodbank again, having been telling myself all week that last weekend's result wasn't a fluke just because I saw my brother slowly disappearing into the distance, causing me to push that little bit harder. No, I always push hard, brother or no brother.

I know myself well because I was right. I got my 4th PB of 2011 with a 22:49 finish - 15 seconds faster this time. This increase in speed is becoming meteoric. Where could it take me, to hell and back or over the moon? I think the latter.

Tomorrow will be another short blast, this time on the Gravy Pud fell race. Although I don't sound like one, I am a northern boy and I do love gravy. I shall be partaking in the Bull's Head afterwards, probably in the form of a lake contained within a giant Yorkshire pudding.

Roll on to next weekend and it's the Stockport 10 on Sunday. I'll be helping out on Saturday with packing the famous goody bags. I shall get a sneak preview but my lips will remain sealed.

Moving forward to the following weekend brings the Tour de Helvellyn - a 38-mile serious undertaking in the Lake District - to begin the end-of-year wind-down with just the odd fell race over the holidays to keep me on my toes. Here's what I wrote about last year's inaugural TdH in exceptional conditions.

Watch this space.