Wensleydale Wedge 23mi. 21/11/2010.

Sunday 21st November brought typical Wensleydale Wedge weather – cold, damp and breezy, with a temperature hovering just above freezing. Just like in previous years, the shower came down as sleet, then snow as I drove over the steep, narrow, twisting pass from Muker to Askrigg into the breaking Sunday dawn.

At registration, Askrigg Village Hall was crammed with the usual suspects and a few new faces, ready to sample the delights of Wensleydale one more time or for the first time. I noticed an army lad among the throng (he had “Army” printed on the back of his shirt and his severe haircut kinda confirmed it). It’s good to see military personnel using an LDWA event for the purposes of combining training with leisure (dare I say pleasure?). There can surely be no down side to such an arrangement.

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Our military personnel past, present and future = honour, responsibility, respect, upstanding defenders of our freedom. You go wherever and do whatever your country asks of you. Your country salutes you.

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The route, saturated and swilling from all the recent rains, undulated through ten checkpoints at Semer Water Bridge, Stalling Busk (near), Stake Edge and Side Well/Heck Brow/Knotts (ubiquitous 'Areas of Shake Holes'), Thoralby, Eshington Lane, Freeholders’ Wood, Low Thoresby, Castle Bolton and Heugh. The exceedingly wet conditions underfoot made it ‘interesting’ at times, while the sprinkling of icing sugar snow on the windy tops before Thoralby got us in the mood for winter. I missed taking a picture of it sadly, because I was too busy competing with the other runners around me and not wanting to lose any time. At this point I was just keeping up with a group of three women who had just caught up with me (not that I’m saying I get any more competitive because they’re women).

The usual swapping of places with other runners was going on as usual. Any runners in front were used as targets to aim for and haul back, usually after having overtaken me. Sometimes it worked if they tired, sometimes it didn’t. Army lad and his friend became the next targets after darting in and out of the halfway checkpoint at Thoralby while I loitered over a Marmite sandwich (which simply had to be done). I set off in pursuit towards the self clip checkpoint at Eshington Lane. As I joined the track out of Thoralby I began to hear the hysterical, high pitched yapping of a dog. Eventually, in the valley below me to the right I saw a group of sheep, hemmed in against the stream and fence and swerving backwards and forwards as the source of the yapping, a small white terrier, ran among them, snapping at their legs. The shameful owner was standing about a quarter mile away in the next field, whistling pathetically every so often while his mutt went about its sheep worrying unfettered. Nothing had changed by the time I had climbed over the brow of the next hill. With my farmer’s hat on now, I don’t know about shoot the dog. Shoot the owner as well, the useless, dilatory specimen.

A climb to the A684 on the outskirts of Aysgarth brought us to a short descent to the church, where Sunday Service was due to begin. The doors were open and the organ hummed quietly from within. Over the road bridge, the sharp right turn towards Freeholders’ Wood brought the familiar WW direction sign implying that runners and only one walker take part in the event. If you wonder what I’m on about, do the event next year and you’ll see what I mean.

Having navigated successfully the fields on the approach to Castle Bolton, I saw that my quarries had built up a bit of a lead and were already on the lane up to the castle. Once onto the lane I heard another barking dog, this time a bigger one. I looked to my right and saw a chocolate Labrador-type dog face-to-face with a sheep at the edge of a field. What is it with dogs and their sheep-worrying obsession? As the dog went from side to side, the sheep turned to face it at all times, standing its ground. Every so often it went to head-but the dog. The stand-off and barking continued as I climbed out of sight and earshot.

At the Castle Bolton checkpoint I grabbed a couple of orange segments to suck the life-giving juice out of them and, with bright orange 'gum shield', set off running westwards on that l-o-o-o-n-g, undulating track . As the miles passed beneath my feet I gradually overtook the three women with whom I had been running on and off for most of the event. On the approach to the trail bike practice area I saw my quarries again. I seemed to have gained on them a little. I wondered if I could catch them again before the finish if I pushed just a little harder. I tried my best, at which point I was suddenly overtaken quite comprehensively by another bloke, who had crept up silently from behind and sailed past effortlessly as if as if I was standing still. Where on earth did he get all that energy from at this stage in the event, when everybody is usually flagging?

Undeterred, I pushed as best I could over the new footbridge and got quite close to my targets on the next short sharp climb. Shortly before the final checkpoint a farmer to my left waited for me to run past before opening his gate to release his flock of sheep onto the fell. The three women were far enough behind (out of earshot by now) to not be inconvenienced by the crossing flock.

My targets were stubbornly out of sight now. The terrain did not allow a far enough view any more. I checked my watch as I approached the last checkpoint at Heugh. I had just exceeded the 4:04 I had taken to complete the whole event in 2008. Not to worry. It came as no surprise and I was not dispirited. I had been looking forward to the final 1.2-mile blast across the fields to the finish and all I wanted to do now was give it my all as if I were on for a PB anyway. I loved every second as I competed with myself, pushing the limits, lungs bursting and heart rate into the 180s.

I was happy with my final time of 4:22. It may have been 18 minutes outside my PB and I may not have reeled in my ultimate targets, but the outcome was a darned sight better than I managed at last weekend's Six Dales Circuit, and I didn't feel trashed by the effort this time.

The few pictures I took are here.

Six Dales Circuit 25mi. 13/11/2010.

The weekend after Snowdonia I ran my first 5k Woodbank Parkrun since 26th June. It was a struggle but at least my 24:08 wasn't a Personal Worst for this hilly course.

Moving on another week, Six Dales Circuit is one of my old favourites. The limestone countryside of Derbyshire is truly beautiful. I first did this event in 1999 (two months after the moon was blown out of Earth orbit, for those who used to watch Space 1999 - remember September 13th 1999?). I felt as though I was making a comeback; after a solid run through to 2007, other events (really the Runfurther end-of-year parties) meant that I could not do this in 2008 and 2009, so 2010 felt like a comeback year as I reacquainted myself with Biggin Village Hall once more. Furthermore, this was the first Long Distance Walkers Association event I had done since Elsecar Skelter on the 14th August. I was amazed at the turn-out of walkers on the early start. The LDWA is alive and well. It was good to be back to a no-pressure outing in the countryside and to meet so many old flames.

This year the route returned to my preferred clockwise route after changing to anticlockwise in 2005. It took us through Biggin Dale, Wolfscote Dale, Beresford Dale, Lathkill Dale (see picture above), Bradford Dale and Long Dale via checkpoints at Hartington, Monyash and Middleton. Somehow the ascents always seemed less onerous in this direction, but that perception was no aid to me this year. Poor preparation in the preceding week, culminating in a pre-race evening dinner of prawn salad, did not provide the optimum conditions or fuelling for a decent performance. The body was weak and the legs were clumsy, so I enjoyed the scenery and the checkpoint food (cheese oatcakes at Monyash Village Hall), chatted to fellow shufflers and took more pictures than of late along the way. Unusually for this event, the sun shone throughout, so I didn't mind being out for longer than usual. The catching-up afterwards in the village hall lasted for nearly three hours and it was nearly dark by the time I left. I don't ever remember staying for so long after this event. It was good to be back. Allow me to leave you with this gem from Bradford Dale.

For the record, my times over the years for this event are:
1999 - 5:59
2001 - 6:17
2002 - 5:17
2003 - 5:47
2004 - 4:36
2005 - 4:27
2006 - 4:26
2007 - 4:23
2010 - 5:06

As you can see, I've gone downhill a little. I hope it was worthwhile because here are the pictures.

Next weekend is Wensleydale Wedge from Askrigg - another old favourite of mine.

Snowdonia Marathon. 30/10/2010.

Snowdonia Marathon
Judging by the lively, year-round ‘SNOD’ thread on the Runner’s World forum, the universally positive comments, the number of converted marathon first-timers and my own personal experiences over 5 consecutive years of running it, this must be the best marathon in the country. For a ‘road marathon’ it isn’t half bad for those who run mostly off-road hills and trails. This year, on its 28th running, it was made even better by some route improvements (a bit more off-road trail on the first descent and a nice downhill finish straight onto Llanberis High Street without the detour back around the back of the village).

The new route required a road start closer to Llanberis to make up the distance lost on the other two modifications, so shuttle buses were no longer needed. We got to start in the correct direction with a nice bit of downhill to start off with, instead of in the wrong direction followed by a 180-degree right turn onto the road. On the first descent, after the sharp right turn at Pen-y-Gwrd, we were soon diverted right through a gateway and onto a stony track that descended more directly and more steeply to Bryn Gwynant, where we rejoined the road. I could not believe my luck as I let rip down there in my element, and to think this is regarded as a road marathon.

We were challenged by the weather as usual. It may not have been quite as cold, windy or wet as it has been in previous years, but when the showers came, they really came. It all added to the excitement and challenge of this race. It just wouldn’t be the same without the adverse weather conditions to add spice to the experience and give us something to talk about afterwards.

I was in my usual survival plodding mode and getting overtaken well into the second half until the true order got sorted out. The regular water stations provided excellent support. I had my own water bottles and only needed an occasional refill, but a few cups of electrolyte drink really hit the spot and kept the energy flowing.

Runners of all shapes and sizes were there, and I was reminded once more that outward appearance is no predictor of speed. I got overtaken by a man in Halloween fancy dress (I assume) which involved a wig and a long cape. I thought how hot it must have been to run in as he slowly disappeared into the distance. Another time I was aware of a strange squelching sound behind me that was taking a very long time to catch up. When it eventually did, I realised it was the man’s minimalist running shoes that reminded me of Plimsolls. He slowly disappeared into the distance too. I also heard afterwards that someone ran the race in Vibram Fivefingers. Ouch!

The final climb from Waunfawr, over the top past the old slate mines and down into Llanberis was as memorable as ever. I had enough left in the tank to not walk (I hesitate to call it running) all the way to the top. I joked to one of the many supporters cheering us on, who remarked that I looked as fresh as a daisy. I must admit I was feeling pretty good at that point. On the way I was noticing the ominous blackness to my right over the mountain. The next shower was beginning to make itself felt by the first spots of rain, but this looked altogether more dramatic. As I neared the summit I saw a bright silvery flash from the blackness. “That was a bright camera flash”, I said to myself, “and why would someone be taking pictures over there?” Of course I knew what it was. I waited for the rumble, which soon and protractedly came a-booming.

I couldn’t care about the rain but I did care about getting struck by lightning. I felt a rush of adrenalin as I summited the final climb. Despite my minimal clothing and slow pace compared to ‘real’ runners, I was still working hard enough to keep quite warm. Even my lightest weight showerproof top would have caused me to overheat, so I never bothered putting it on.

I had overtaken countless runners (who were walking) on the climb, and hoped that I hadn’t overdone it for the descent. Not on your life! I blasted down the other side like I always do, taking it carefully at times when the running became skating as my road shoes slid down the sodden grass with flowing surface water. The rain was getting heavier. Everyone else seemed to be standing still. I expected a bit of competition when we reached the first bit of tarmac track and solid footing, but it never happened. Everyone still seemed to be standing still. I suppose it was quite steep for road runners, but not for trail runners! My quads were doing their thing and the knee was not complaining. I was so in my element at last. I had waited over 4 hours for this and it was as good as I had imagined.

The rapid overtaking continued onto the road proper and I wasn’t slowing down. The rain was turning into a deluge now. Still no-one was catching me. I passed the junction where we used to turn right back out of the village, but not this time. It was a left turn, still downhill, then right to the blow-up finish arch in 4:15. Wow. I had expected 4:30 because I had been feeling anything but race fit, but I surprised myself by equalling my Personal Worst of last year. What a result. A commemorative slate coaster was thrust into my hand by a marshal and a silver sheet was draped around my shoulders to keep me warm as the deluge turned to hail. The timing was perfect. I was thankful for the sheet’s protection from the worst of the impact.

My heart rate averaged at 170 beats per minute for the 4 hour and 15 minute duration of the race, and it peaked at 184bpm (no doubt on the ‘sprint’ finish). I had little or no after-effects in the legs in the following week. My limitation is my cardiovascular system. It defines me as a plodder.

I and several others from the Runner’s World forum had accommodation in Llanberis for the weekend. Pete’s Eats kept us fuelled simply and cheaply (I had two dinners after the race). We rounded off Saturday night by a drink or five and a right good Karaoke session in the hotel lounge bar until midnight. What a fantastic weekend we had.

I only took a few pictures after the finish. S4/C, who televise the race every year, were at the finish line later on after I had showered and changed at the hotel, which was conveniently located close by.

Runfurther 2010 end-of-series party. 23/10/2010.

The weekend after the final race in the 2010 Runfurther series of ultra marathons saw the end-of-year party and prizegiving. The Runfurther team, I suspect mostly Karen MacDonald, organised a superb weekend in Hope, Derbyshire. Saturday's proceedings started with a 3-hour orienteering score event in the afternoon. The rain was offputting so the turnout may have been a little poor. I was the last to set off, which was a good move because that was the cue for the rain to ease off. With my map extract, tally and marker pen issued by Karen I was off, feeling a little like a headless chicken as I tried to orientate myself, decide how to get as many checkpoints as possible in the most efficient way possible, and work out where I needed to go to reach my first chosen checkpoint. I decided I needed to cross the main road from the pub and up the lane opposite.

This was only my third score event. The first one was a Dark & White event from the Pindale Outdoor Centre just up the road a few years ago, when I got back an hour late and lost all my points. The second was the Runfurther party from Ambleside a couple of years ago. Although it's supposed to be fun and no pressure, I can't help getting stressed by it because I cannot help being competitive, yet I cannot run and survive, make my brain work to read the map and compass and understand which direction I have to go. The eyes see but the brain fails to link everything together. Call it old age, or have too many brain cells been killed off by the passage of too much wine under the bridge. What? Hic!

Anyway, as I set off up the lane, confident of where I needed to go, two young female cyclists came towards me and asked which way to Hope. After a second for the brain to whir (accompanied if I'm not mistaken by a faint smell of burning) I thought to myself: “I know that”. I felt chuffed that I had familiarised myself with my surroundings so quickly. “Just go to the end and turn right”, I said confidently. Off they went. Then a voice from within suddenly screamed at me. “Oh NO! NOT RIGHT; LEFT!!” I had forgotten which way I had turned in to the pub carpark on my journey from Hope and I had already forgotten that I had crossed the main road from the pub. What an utter shambles. I was anything but orientated. I ran back down the road towards them and shouted several times but they didn't hear me. I'd just told them a pack of lies and sent them on a wild goose chase towards Sheffield. I hoped that they had more common sense than I had and they would realise the fundamental error in my defective verbal instruction that I had helpfully reinforced by gesticulation to the right, just to confirm that I knew my right from my left. Racked by guilt, I ran backwards and forwards feeling even more like a headless chicken to find the left turn I had been looking for, since I had now lost track of my position on that first lane. That set the tone for the afternoon.

A visit to a checkpoint was confirmed by writing down its 3-letter code on our tallies. As I bumbled, backtracked and floundered my way across the hills and valleys, my path crossed with others' paths as we followed our chosen routes. I found myself running with Sarah Rowell for a while. I knew where I was going at that point because it involved (for me) an out-and-back on familiar ground – part of the Long Tour Of Bradwell route. Sarah joined me having run down from the top of the hill on her quest to bag all of the checkpoints within the 3 hours. She dropped me on the next climb.

As I continued to head off on wrong headings (NE instead of SW, SE instead of NE, setting my compass SE instead of SW and backtracking from the right heading to the wrong heading because the compass said so – you name it, I made that mistake), I found my way to a checkpoint that wasn't there. After 5 minutes searching in vain and with a little over 10 minutes left before the 3 hours were up, I decided it must have been stolen, gave up searching and decided to head for base. Off I ran confidently and soon found myself on another section of the Long Tour Of Bradwell route. Something wasn't ringing true between my path and the one on the map. I was 90 degrees out again, off the map and heading towards Bamford, though I didn't know it at the time. Still, I recognised the path so I carried on because I felt committed. Ever been there?

Once out on the road I made the inspired guess to turn right. I asked of the first pedestrians I met the direction back to Hope. “To the end and turn right” was the reply. On my way I passed the station. Ah, right, time to apply my intelligence again. If that's the station (Hope station of course, what else?) and I need to turn right to Hope, I need to turn left to the finish. I turned left and started running towards Sheffield. Yes, you guessed it. ANOTHER navigational error. I can't even get it right on major A-roads. After a mile or two of not recognising the road I'd driven along a few hours earlier, it dawned on me that the station wasn't Hope station after all. It must have been the next one down the line (Bamford, but since it was off my 'maplet' I didn't know). I turned around, stressed and cursing my stupidity, to trudge all the way back to the pub in the rain (which had returned on cue, just to cement my self-misery) to give Karen back her marker pen 20-odd minutes late and see how many points I'd lost.

I was booked into the pub B&B for the night, so I wasted no time in checking-in and warming up in the shower ready for the evening's festivities. I might be the world's worst navigator under pressure but at least I'd got some exercise in that débâcle.

The bar was buzzing with ultra runners and their other halves by the 7pm 'Champagne' reception. We enjoyed a slideshow of images from the year's races over drinks, conversation and dinner (and what a fantastic spread the caterers laid on for us). All the prizes and presentations were made to the series winners, some of whom unfortunately couldn't be there due to other commitments. Next came what we had all been waiting for – the talk and slideshow from Stephen Pyke of his Scottish Munro-bagging record earlier this year. Spyke smashed the previous record of 48 days and 12 hours by completing the challenge in 39 days and 9 hours in spite of unseasonably cold and snowy weather for its duration up to the beginning of June. In addition to climbing the 283 peaks, he had to run, cycle and kayak between them. He raised a laugh when he said in all seriousness that he never considered himself to be an ultra runner. Spyke, if you weren't before you are now ;-)

The evening began its wind-down with the cutting and consumption of the Runfurther cake – the best one so far – a rich fruit number that wasn't too sickly and went wonderfully with a double brandy. Everyone had dispersed by midnight and I staggered upstairs to my waiting bed.

On Sunday a few hardy souls mountain biked or ran a few miles in the hills in bright sunshine to put the shine on a most excellent weekend, while Yours Truly made an early exit home up Winnats Pass to catch up with the weekend's chores. Thanks Karen for organising a fantastic climax to the 5th Runfurther year. Bring on 2011. I only took a handful of pictures in the evening (sorry).

Next year's provisional races were mentioned, but since they are not yet finalised I have been asked not to publicise them. We must wait before we commit ourselves. There's still plenty of time anyway.

Runfurther series race 12 of 12. Rowbotham’s Round Rotherham 50mi. 16/10/2010.

Apologies; I know this report is a few weeks late but I've been busy.

I returned from my final US destination – San Diego – via Chicago and Frankfurt just in time to get myself sorted out and repacked, then get some sleep before a Friday pm drive over the watershed to Wath-upon-Dearne. As I arrived at the hotel I was watching two weeks of dry weather getting undone by a torrential downpour. It might not be too bad by Saturday, but the ground certainly couldn’t be as dry as it was last year.

Around 05:45 on Saturday I had to fight my way out of a darkened, bolted and barred hotel, setting off the alarm in the process. They had not risen to provide the early breakfast as promised. I made the short journey to Dearne Valley College in time to see the early (6am) starters sent on their way, some of whom I would never catch. I was registered on the later 7am runners’ start as usual, but this year I had come to realise that, thanks to all the business travel I was not race fit, pure and simple. Many familiar faces were present, some only seen occasionally. I had not seen Mike Blamires since last year’s Round Rotherham. It was a good reunion of old friends.

After our send-off speech we were set off on our way into the breaking dawn. The street lights in the early stages meant that we could manage without head torches, and so began a day of running at the limits of sustainability, which turned out to be a lot slower than it was last year. I was getting overtaken from the outset and those who were behind me last year had soon disappeared ahead out of sight. Duncan Harris made by far the quickest overtake. He must have had a late start. Ooh, the pressure. I just resigned myself to the usual, which was ‘surviving the moment’ to the best of my ability for as long as it took until I’d finished.

As I plodded along by the rubbish-filled stream and canal towards Elsecar, getting overtaken all the while, a glance at my heart rate monitor showed 176 beats per minute. That could not continue. It needed to be 10 – 20bpm slower if I was to survive the day. I eased my pace even further but could not get the rate below 170. “Stuff it”, I thought. “The only way I’ll get it down is to walk, and I’m not doing that so soon. I’ll just carry on for the 2 hours or so until the inevitable blow-up occurs, then take it from there.” I knew the routine. I would only take walking breaks when I was forced to, then the all-too-familiar survival strategy would commence of walk, fuel, wait for the 2nd, 3rd, 4th winds to kick in, try to run whenever possible and enjoy the scenery and camaraderie along the way. It would be a serious comedown after my performance of last year but as long as I was making forward progress, a DNF would never enter my mind.

My navigation was going perfectly while hardly having to refer to the excellent, cartoon-style strip maps. I usually have a knack for remembering routes. I was surprised in the early stages by getting overtaken by several groups of runners who I knew had been in front. They had failed to fork left to Elsecar, among other failure-to-fork-left mistakes. Some must have lost a lot of time, but it didn’t take ones so fit very long to race to the front of the field again. Colm McCoy was one of the ones who added extra miles. I remember him last year, on the climb through the woods just after Elsecar, thanking me for showing the way. I’m sorry I wasn’t fast enough for you this year, Colm ;-)

As I made my way towards the halfway checkpoint at Harthill, it seemed that ‘every man and his dog’ (and, just to prove I'm not sexist, ‘every woman and her bitch’) had overtaken me, usually with a comment to the effect of: “What are you doing back here, Nick; you’re usually miles ahead”, to which I would reply: “Tell me about it. It’s called lack of fitness”. Somehow I didn’t care. I knew it would happen. I was already resigned to the fact and I had accepted it. Although I was so much slower I was still playing the same mind games, pushing and eking the best performance out of myself. With my perceived effort it still felt as though I was on for a PB. “Just keep pushing.”

By halfway I had found my jogging equilibrium. Shortly after Harthill as I jogged across the fields I spied a familiar figure up ahead. I soon caught up with Mike Blamires, who had overtaken me before 20 miles. Poor Mike now had mental demons going on, had lost the will to continue and was on the verge of dropping. However, he tagged along as we began to talk about anything and everything, and so began a great team effort of mutual encouragement to the finish line. Mike now had an incentive to keep pushing and I had a good reason to keep pushing. These Ultra Marathons are usually lonely affairs as most people push their personal boundaries alone. Now was one of those rare occasions when I got to run with someone. Mike’s and my paces were amazingly well matched.

At Maltby after we had passed through the 40-mile point, Mike checked his watch and commented that we had done a pretty good time for 40 miles (around 8.5 hours I think). He started talking of the possibility of a 50-mile PB. After having been on the verge of dropping, that was a revelation. It was all we needed to keep pushing for our strongest possible finish. We saw the runners ahead as targets that had to be picked off before moving onto the next. We did some good overtaking over those last 10 miles. On the last climb before the final checkpoint at Old Denaby, I was getting competitive and not wanting other runners we had recently overtaken to catch up again, but Mike was beginning to fade. Shaky legs = low blood sugar = food needed, and quick. I offered a Snickers bar. Just one third of it had him motoring up that hill within minutes.

The final 3 miles of fiddly yet entertaining navigation through the arse-end of the back of beyond went seamlessly and satisfyingly as we ran virtually every step of the way, not wanting to get caught by the chasing runners. I felt as if I was on for a PB as well as we ran together to an amazing sprint finish in 10:43. Mike got his PB. Woo-hoo!

As we ran down that final track towards the college, Mike, overflowing with elation and emotion, shouted: “Nick Ham, you are a f----n legend.” No Mike, YOU are the legend. What you did, to finish a 50-mile Ultra with a PB after so nearly dropping out was utterly inspirational. Your success and elation became my own. It made my race so worthwhile, so enjoyable and so memorable. Thank you so much for your company.



The PB glow.

This, the final race in the 2010 Runfurther series brought some super-fast times and impressive performances. Duncan Harris and Harald Aas finished equal first in 6:29:35. The organisers and volunteers did their usual superb job, and Henry Marston's strip maps and course information were the business. It was a stroke of genius to bring this event forward to October.

We had a few rain showers along the way and my camera got its first soaking since its decontaminating wash. It never faltered. The conductive, salty sweat deposits that must have been shorting out its switches and buttons must now be gone. See here for the pictures I took.

Can Lake 50 Ultras. 09/10/2010.

Can Lake 50
I thought I would never make it to Rochester NY airport, thence to Canandaigua on Friday evening. I was waiting at the gate at La Guardia NY airport, enduring the same, daily torment of the past week, keeping everything crossed that my pre-booked-and-paid-for seat still existed. I’d been lucky up to now but my run of luck was about to run out. I had become used to hearing the daily calls, barked out over the tinny, squawky PA systems that sound as if they are based on first-generation telephones, for volunteers to give up their seats due to the routine overbooking that curses internal air travel in USA. (Apparently the government allows it. The government should be BANNING it.) This time the airline had gone too far. Even with the volunteers, passengers were denied travel on the flights they had booked. I was one of the chosen few (one who didn't shout in protest or threaten the use of lawyers). I was about to be stranded and I felt sick. However, by some miracle the overworked, overstressed yet surprisingly calm man at the podium was able to find two alternative flights to replace our one flight and get us to our destination several hours late, but still before midnight. Deep joy. We felt so privileged. Armed with my compensatory voucher for $125, useful only to American nationals, I made my way to the new gate where, you guessed it, the flight was delayed, but fortunately not so much that I missed the next flight to my final destination. US air travel is the pits.

The Can Lake 50 Ultras are 50-mile and 50k road runs from Canandaigua in the Finger Lakes region of northern New York State. I’d normally go for the long option, but logistics meant that I would have to be content with the 50k to prevent me from seizing up completely on my two-week business tour of the States. It had been a toss-up between New York and Tampa, Florida, where I had to be by Sunday evening. Consultation of the UltraRunning calendar meant that I would be spending my weekend in New York and getting to see those much talked about autumn colours.

I walked down to the Finger Lakes Community College from  my accommodation close by, but unfortunately I just missed the 7am start of the 50-mile race. We 50k runners would later get taken by school bus with its 12” leg room part way around the course until just 31 miles of it remained, at which point we would offload to our starting area beside the lake. The sun shone brightly, the sky was a vivid blue and the air was cool – perfect for running. We cheered a few passing 50-milers running through their 19-mile point before we were set off on our way at just gone 10am. We all wore a timing chip on our ankles for second-perfect recording several hours later at the finish.

Compared to the rough terrain I’m used to, the undulating roads provided easy running – too easy, meaning speed was up, meaning leg trashing would be accelerated. Leg trashing was brought even further forward by my lack of fitness, thanks to a week of sitting down with no exercise, late arrivals at hotels and surviving on junk food grabbed whenever the opportunity presented itself. (Picture if you will a midnight dinner of two bags of crisps and a pack of cakes from the hotel kiosk.)

I was enjoying the autumnal views, the pleasant conditions, the friendliness of runners and supporters and the excellent race support as I shuffled my way along, but I was not enjoying how slow it was feeling. Still, I wasn’t in a hurry. It would take as long as it took as I tried to find my stride while chatting with 50-milers and 50k-ers along the way. I ran with fellow 50k-er David Weiss for a good while, during which we had an interesting conversation about the specialist glass industry as we ran past the vineyards (I never knew they had vineyards there).

My experience was made a pleasurable one by the fantastic support and attention to detail given by Race Director Tom Perry and his team of volunteers. Everything is covered with nothing left to chance. Not only is there good support along the route, there are pre-race refreshments and a post-race sit-down buffet meal. Taking into account the wealth of detail on the website as well, it is the perfect event for the Ultra first-timer. It’s pretty good for the Ultra veterans too. Our swag included a finisher's medal and a useful technical T-shirt of fluorescent yellow colour, which is perfect for running in the gloaming while remaining visible. It might get its first airing on next weekend's Round Rotherham.

After the finish, my heart rate monitor told me that my pace was a little slower than, and my heart rate much higher than it was for the much more rugged 32-mile Wuthering Hike in 2009. The ministry of funny walks over the following 4 days from my trashed legs confirmed my lack of fitness. Still, I had another week of sedentary existence, cramped for hours in cattle class airline seats (provided my bookings are honoured) to regain full racing fitness for next week's Round Rotherham 50-miler. I live in cloud cuckoo land, you know.

I took a few hazy pictures through my contaminated lens (but at least the camera functions now after its wash).