Hi again!

It's been a while since I last sat down to write anything, so long in fact that in these first few words I am fumbling at the keyboard as my touch typing skills are severely out of practice. I think although I have not read it since I wrote it that my last post was tinged by a sense of disappointment in the Moelwyn Three Peaks and the circumstances around it. In the past three months or so I have had an enforced break from running, first the back injury and then torn ankle ligaments. It's nearly thirteen weeks since my mishap on the rutted descent from Pots and Pans back down to the Green Lanes. I consider it a humorous irony that my last words before uttering "I've broken my fucking ankle" and feeling searing pain that really took me back to a dark place somewhere around Edale in March 2011 were "Fleet, you know I think I can get top 5 in the Saddleworth Fell Race". The proceeding weeks have for the most part been a bit doom and gloom in terms of running and my attitude towards it, perhaps most contrastive with the amazing nature of the rest of my life at this current moment.

It can be difficult to distinguish between being a 'runner' and the rest of your life. There have to be allowances made on both sides, if I'm in all-out committed training mode then my diet, sleep and social life are regulated around my training. Over the winter I was doing 12-16 hours of hard training each week, my diet didn't shift at all- six days out of seven it was the same thing for every meal, every day with a dessert of 9 hours sleep. Despite the specific examples here, I don't think that this is a unique feature of running. I think it's an attitude that is prevalent in anyone who counts a passion as their driving force. You hear of musicians going into the studio to record an album and eating nothing but junk food chased down with a healthy dose of tobacco and beer. It's the same blueprint either way; you live to survive and you adapt to let your passion thrive.

When I discovered cross country and fell running as a kid I was content to just run and read about running. My diet and sleep were not tailored, neither was my research into training methods, variation and future goals. Even now there are periods when I'm ticking over where I feel it's completely the right thing to eat a full pack of Foxes' Jam Creams whilst cooking my tea, maybe every night for three consecutive weeks is pushing it a little far though. The important thing is that you should never push yourself to the level where a passion feels like an obligation or the demands you place on yourself are overbearing, if you're just running or painting or writing because you feel obliged to do it, then it's missing the point.

The negative aspect comes when it's not your own choice, you just can't do what you love. I said for a few months before I got injured that with weights and cycling I could deal with a running injury....the truth is I couldn't, it really hurt. Training was really solid for the first two months or so, lots of intense core work, swimming and cycling but in the past few weeks I guess it caught up, a strict regime has been replaced in parts by apathy, chocolate and restless legs. The range of emotions have been from upset, disappointment, begrudgingly hopeful but the one that really hit me most was walking the dog three nights ago. I hadn't done much for the past two weeks, just one single run round the reservoir with Fleet before he went to York to start his new job (congratulations again). It was about 9pm, the Sun was dazzling over the valley and as I looked up towards Indian's Head I got a real 'I miss you' pang. It's one part of my attachment to the valley, I just can't go to the places I love unless I'm fit to run to them. It's almost in my mind like the scene from Dame Snap's School in the Magic Faraway tree- the feast looks like cakes and lemonade but it's just bread and water.

I think about the valley more and more when I'm not running all the time, in some ways I appreciate it's objective beauty more. I notice the overflow at Ashway bringing the peaty water down to the reservoir, the mists that settle low in the valley on a bad day, the sun reflecting off Alderman. I've started to become a fan of walking to work instead of cycling, the slower journey gives me time to clear my head and have an actual look around. Every morning I feel truly blessed when I sling the left turn down the footpath at the end of the row and set off down to Tanners, I truly don't think that there is any more breathtaking a panorama in the world than following the skyline from Wharmton, to Pots and Pans, Alderman, Ashway, Foxstone and then the glance back home. In the early sun it's like the closest I think you can get to any notion of paradise and on a moody day the atmospherics and the fog makes me wonder how it is that there is so much more to life than the pleasant and the warm and yet people so often don't look out of the window on a miserable day. It's where my heart and soul truly are. I've been thinking recently that I must know the paths and trails so well that my foot placements on runs can't ever be more than mere repetition of all my previous runs, maybe my foot is placed an inch out here and there but for the most part I have my routes and I'd like to think my routes have me imprinted onto them. When I think about these things I realise that it's not about keeping fit, in fact I probably managed to get even fitter for the two months after my injury through cross training, it's just about being out on my beloved hills for me running as hard as my legs and lungs will allow.

Anyhow, I've just managed my second run in three days today. It was just around the reservoir but the Sun was beating down, the water was shimmering and all felt well both in terms of body and mind. I'm really looking forward to getting out on the fells again soon but until then I know that they're waiting; same places, same trails and the same views and yet each individual journey is as miraculous and eye opening as the first time.

Negative perceptions and self-reflections

When you have the inclination to do a particular thing, be it making an album, starting a painting or even just walking to the shop there comes a point at which that thought has to make the bridge into reality. You have to define whether it's a passing fancy, a flash in the pan or a project of love and labour. You have to plan, immerse yourself and take it beyond mere fantasised abstraction into an honest reality. Less so going to the shop, but getting up off that sofa on the promise of Oreos is still a difficult one sometimes. I can be very sluggish about that, a self-proclaimed 'ideas man', like Steve Jobs but without the jobs essentially. I like concepts, theories, abstractions; the tools to know but often not to do, so I put the groundwork in, underpin a project and then lose interest. I think the big exceptions for me are sports and other peoples' passions, the world is richer for yourself if you learn according to what other people love because knowledge given with true heart is so much more special than straight up learning, that's why a passionate teacher succeeds over a text book warrior in my opinion. That's an aside for another time though, back to sports; fell-running, cycling, lifting weights or even just making sure that I'm the person walking fastest down Market Street in town. All of those just open up some feeling of fulfilment in my being, sharing a walk or a day out with my dad also captures that spirit but that's the beauty of mutuality and connected understanding. On the subject of sports, I believe that if you work yourself to the point of physical and mental exhaustion each moment becomes purely meditative.....is there any higher degree of total awareness of body and mind than feeling destroyed and using all your will power just to raise your leg up for one more step? Once that individual action is done the next step is to convince yourself to just do it one more time, that's meditation.

Some time around the end of last September I got the idea into my head that I'd have a serious crack at the Under 23 category in the British Fell Running Championships this year. It had been my season aim the year I got injured and I felt like I had some unfinished business with it. I was running relatively well by September, I went up to Scafell Pike and had a great run by all accounts so I settled in for a long winter training. I haven't ever really applied myself with such enthusiasm as for this race, training twice a day became a staple part of life. For a time when I was jobless my diet and life schedule was the same every day; 7am bran flakes and coffee, back to bed, 10am run or bike, cous cous, job applications, toast, weights session, 4 omelette and beans, bed. I was exploring new ideas, new ways to train; extra tough core days, which weights sessions left my body in a good way to run hard the next day. It was simply fantastic. There was no real measuring of progress or times at this point, just a steady commitment to go out and really put the hurt on to improve myself. When you don't have a steady work life to commit yourself to exercise and healthy living definitely goes some way to plugging that gap. The ten mile tempo run became a real close friend of mine through the winter and I have to say it's probably still for me the toughest session I can do. All in all, I should have been delivering myself into the first race; Ras Y Moelwyn in great shape, all things aside I did. Two weeks before the Moelwyns, I decided to go down to see the members of my old club and do their first summer handicap series race. I couldn't have been more delighted with my run, nor could I have been happier with my measured run 2 days later. I was flying.

It's been six days since the race now and I've flitted between upset about the situation, apathy and acceptance of what happened. If you dedicate seven months of yourself to something I generally believe that if it doesn't go well then there is some self-reflection which will be inevitably negative. Racing is so much more objective than say writing a piece, if someone doesn't like a piece of writing then it is a matter of opinion but there are clear pointers towards a bad race and therefore it's possible to carry out a very thorough analysis of individual points and issues. It's a dangerous territory though, when you apply cause and effect to an arbitrary event like a ball smashing a window it's all acceptable but when you try and analyse an event that personally matters like a bad race, it comes across as either excuse making or severely self-deprecating. I become subject, during self-analysis, to this overriding expectation that I believe others expect the way I look at the world is from a very self-absorbed standpoint, negative self-analysis I think can come across as egotistical unintentionally. I believe this is why when someone has a bad day they are more likely to say they are ok but more likely to elaborate on a good day, there is an element of guilt with negativity or discord in your life.
In short, and in the least excuse making way the factors behind my perceived bad race were; a pulled back (which is now stopping me from running), calf cramps from two miles onwards, possible dehydration causing said cramps and lastly I definitely misjudged the course, I thought it would all be highly technical but rocky paths, the reality is that it was largely grassy and boggy so not conducive to extra fast running at any point. The final result of my self-analysis; a bad day at the office and a slightly off approach to the race; nature vs nurture in a fell-running capacity. I put off writing about it at the time because I realised it would become like some self-absorbed existentialist struggle from the depths of Nieztche's mind- "I stared into the abyss and the abyss stared back at me". It's only after simmering down and taking a bit of a step back and looking at the most fantastic months of my running life that I can see the result was so much more than 165th in 1.41 something. I'm injured now so I can just about get on the bike and do a few hills but those months brought on such improvement. It got me through the cold winter with purpose, it was a very Aristotelian few months I guess.  I know where I came from, what I did and where I have to go to improve....except for one day of it I loved it all, I don't think that's as bad as it initially seemed. Self-reflection can be the judge, jury and executioner but if you take the time to properly gather evidence it can be an awesome defence lawyer.

In the few days since the race, I've done things that my mind was distracted from. I've had a fantastic time; gig watching, drinking, eating well, stargazing, walking in beautiful places with great people......the step back required by self-analysis has given me an opportunity to step back in my attitude towards running and life in general. Immediately after the race, it felt like an anti-climatic seven months, but now in hindsight it feels more like the start of the start of something really great. That's my warning to myself I guess, aiming towards goals is always positive but you have to see that goal as a centrepiece in your life not your life as a centrepiece of that goal. This is just a short piece with little point I realise, but I had a spare 20 minutes so yeah and I haven't proof read it yet, existentialist angst provided by my Elliot Smith playlist. 

A lofty subject.

"La fatica in montagna per me e poseia",

"Exertion in the mountains is poetry for me"
Marco Pantani.

Some people are mountain people. These are the effortless types, the sherpas who know the Himalaya like the back of their hand, great athletes like Kilian Jornet and Marco Pantani and the great chroniclers like Wainwright and Bonnington. These people share an innate connection to the high places of the world, an unbreakable almost inevitable bond of their body and mind to these places. You only have to watch a Youtube clip of Pantani ascending the Alpe D'Huez in the 1998 Tour to see that he and the mountain are not two distinct objects, Pantani's mind and body descends into chaos in order to scale heights of spiritual being that we can't imagine. No man on a bike can climb that hard without being embroiled in some quest to discover something fundamental about themselves, their character and their essence; I'm sure of that. Yet as this plays out to the onlooker and thereby in nature, Pantani is engaged in a performance with the Alpe, he is the epitome of poetry in motion, tapping away on the pedals as the mountain appears to yield before him. The same goes for Kilian Jornet, he seems to effortlessly glide over the terrain, eating the miles up. He doesn't work against the mountain, he is engaging in a dance with it; imprinting his soul upon it with every step. There are countless other mountain people who I am in awe of, Alex Honnold, Billy Bland, Joss Naylor, even Rob Hall whose death in the Everest climbing disaster gripped my attention from such a young age. Their achievements and attitudes instill the idea that they are not merely completing these amazing feats in the mountains, it is almost like they complete these feats with the mountains. In these moments; Pantani climbing to victory, Kilian ascending Aconcagua in record time, Alex Honnold free-soloing El Cap, they are synonymous with the mountain; the mountain is an extension of them and they are an extension of the mountain. They were born to be in the mountains, they are intrinsically linked to the spirit of the mountains; they animate the inanimate.

I love the mountains, I feel at home in the hills and high places. I don't quite remember the first time I actually recognised my enjoyment of them. I think the holy trinity of holidaying the Lakes as a kid, being allowed to watch 'Vertical Limit' and being taken climbing to Standedge when I was 6 or 7 are probably the root causes. I probably attribute 'Vertical Limit' with the most responsibility, I was gripped from the start- the life and death nature of choices, the scenery, the desperation and the camaraderie. As an impressionable young kid, I don't think there is any more of an awesome start to a film than people climbing in Monument Valley suspended hundreds of feet in the air when disaster strikes, all these new concepts in one action packed bundle. I don't watch the film anymore, I've probably not seen it since I was 12. I fear that it will ruin an awesome childhood memory through bad script writing or cinematography, but it really made its mark on my young brain. It just snowballed from there I guess.

 I remember staying at my dads and spending time reading about the Himalayas, Sunday afternoons spent making 'mountain top trumps' and drawing pictures of climbers going up big mountains in the Himalayas and then later the Andes, especially once I'd learned about Machu Piccu. I got the 'Horrible Geographies' series, I poured through it all but my favourite edition was by far 'Freaky Peaks'- learning about Mallory and Irvine, the tallest peaks on each continent, glaciation. Looking at the 1998 DK World Atlas, spending hours going through all the countries and finding the highest peak in each country, tracing the Pacific Ring of Fire, learning about tectonics and how British mountains used to be so much higher. Watching Touching the Void, seeing the Everest documentary at the IMAX, going to Oldham climbing wall the odd time. My teacher in Year 5 was a member of the Mountain Rescue so that gave me ample opportunity to ask countless questions, she'd climbed Mt McKinley- so I started learning more about North American mountains. Excuse the pun but I guess in hindsight these were the things that peaked my interest. In later life I remember discovering the Tour De France; stage 19 in 2008, Carlos Sastre launched a lone attack on the Alpe' to deprive Cadel Evans of the Yellow Jersey.....I was hooked, I've not missed a stage since that day, I've gone through the folklore of cycling immersing myself and feeling connected with the riders of the 60s and 70s- Simpson, Mercyx- real mountain men who left all that they had on the mountains of Europe, performing for themselves and the millions of people for whom their performances captured something inherently inspiring and human; the test of man with and against nature.

Discovering Fell-Running through Saddleworth Runners Club was my first foray into the outdoors under my own steam. I have to say, that was it for me, I realised I'd found my thing. I started to get academic about that too, reading about the Bob Graham round, memorising record times and race routes, reading into the history and spending far too much time on the fell running forums. I started regularly going up to the lakes doing things I'd never imagined I could do....11 hour runs through the night, supporting Bob Graham legs, mountain marathons. I found that I was put off the junior scene which was much more linked to 'athletics' and athletic prowess, whereas the senior scene and ultra-distance events (before they became a gimmick) were about experiencing the mountains, pitting yourself against nature. There are no coaches screaming at you during a fell race, just your quads, calves and lungs begging you to stop whilst your mind has to scream at them to keep going- it's masochistically brutal and so simple. I loved the scene, travelling to these amazing places with kindred spirits. Thankfully my parents have always been really cool so they let me do my thing, it would be Snowdonia one week, the Lakes the next, then a midweek race in the Peaks, maybe go and support friends doing the Old County Tops. I didn't necessarily race, I spent a lot of time watching races I wasn't old enough to compete in.

Nowadays I believe in running hard, I find hurting myself on a run to be cathartic. Hurting yourself on a road run is easy, you settle into a rhythm; 150 strides per minute is my average. The hills are less predictable, its natural, immeasurable- they make the rules. If it's snowing, windy, clag is down, the ground is soft underfoot, these all massively effect the experience that you're about to have. I've had some worrying experiences on days out; twisted ankles, almost getting hypothermic on the Welsh 1000m Peaks Race and dehydraton. If you take the rough then sometimes the mountains yield moments akin to religious revelation; sunset over Hall's Fell, clag clearing on the descent of Alphin, sun rise over Fairfield and many other special moments I hold dear. There's something beautiful about such a lack of control in an otherwise finely tuned world based around human need and desire. If I want a takeaway, a film, a video game experience they are all readily accessible, but that clag clearing was a finite moment, it's been and gone and will never be recaptured....now that's something really special eh.

I believe anyone who goes into the mountains (round here it's hills but the spirit is the same....it's a high place where the weather is usually awful, the terrain rugged, the views awesome and risk of death, if stupid, very high) imparts a part of their being into that terrain. When I run around the edges, or up Alphin or on the track up to Chew, I give a bit of myself to that place. I feel it when I run in these places, a self-assuredness, a knowledge that there is some element of oneness between me and the places I hold dear. There is something magical about a 20 metre patch of scree that the 16 year old version of myself used to seek out on every run because it made me imagine I was Billy Bland tearing it up on the Corridor Route on the way to setting the Borrowdale record. Or running up Wimberry pretending I was chasing Rob Jebb up the path to Great Gable in the 2009 Wasdale race wth memories stirred from seeing the pictures in the Autumn Fellrunner that so brilliantly captured my imagination. There is no doubt when I run in the Chew that I am no longer an outsider, a stranger to the valley, I feel like I have worm my heart on my sleeve, ran hard and earned some degree of unity with it. I enamoured myself with every little bit, leaving no stone unturned, exploring every path, nook and cranny, and as such I opened myself up completely to it.  

I don't think I'm like a Kilian Jornet or a Marco Pantani....not in accomplishments (I have two Strava KoM though, lets see Kilian take my 'Alphin ascent and descent') but maybe in my connection with the mountains. They are essential features of the greater story of the relationship between man and mountains, like The Busby Babes are an essential part of the Manchester United story. Any account of the history of mountain accomplishments must necessarily include what they did, they have defined what it is to exist in the mountains, they transcend any notion of mere human activity, a Duncan Edwards or George Best. I'm Bebe or an Obertan......a footnote, an irrelevance to all but myself in the grand scheme of things, a story which is complex and potentially the things I have done are interesting but they are not groundbreaking, they just are. The mountains are in unison with Jornet and Pantani whereas my relationship with the mountains is more symbiotic, more straddled with superlative and hyperbole on my side. I consider my running in the hills to be running hard not because of physical exertion but because I feel we aren't on a perfectly similar wavelength spiritually, I've worked hard but it's not innate. My dance up the hill is a struggle, like a Jackson Pollock painting, chaotic and not at one with the canvas upon which I paint, Pantani is like Cezanne, perfect brushstrokes that match the grain of the canvas so perfectly it's as if it was always there. I don't envy Kilian or Marco, the things they've seen or the things they've done because they've missed out on my experiences, the places I've been. They've never seen the Chew at sunset, felt the scree of Ashway Gap beneath their feet, drank from the streams above the valley- I'd wish these experiences on everyone, they're profound and deeply spiritual to me.....maybe their story is more important than mine in the grand scheme of things but it's no less beautiful or pure.

All Hail Hail: Blurring the boundary between pain and pleasure.

This article is dedicated to all those brave souls who have fallen victim to the unexpected hailstorms and also to the hail for giving us something un-superficial to complain about, so here it is; Hailstones- An appreciation.

Hailstones are an anomaly in the world of weather. Rain is a given, especially living in Manchester, snow and ice are an inconvenience but seasonal and quite rare most of the time. Hail is a different matter all together, probably the most finite weather condition you can get and also the only one that causes true physical pain. It drifts in and out of your life at irregular intervals, like an absent old foe who you don't see for eight years but, then one day they see you at some traffic lights and direct a 'wanker' sign your way.....true story.

I was sixteen when I had my first real run in with hailstones; during the Moel Eilio race. Stranded on the ridge between Foel Goch and Moel Cynghorian, I was subject to an almighty battering by nature's ball bearings. The icy little bundles of misery pelted down for a good 3 miles whilst, 60 mile an hour winds buffeted my emaciated frame and mind. I ambled along like the kid in Limbo, just hoping for end to the meteorological madness. Battered and bruised, especially after chasing a few hundred metres off-course to grab my over trousers which had been carried off by said wind, I eventually finished and thus began my relationship with hail and gales. Much like Bilbo Baggins' attitude towards adventures, at this time, I felt that hailstones were "nasty disturbing uncomfortable things" and I didn't want anything to do with them.

Well over five years had passed before my next run in with hailstones. Maybe it was the three years of drinking, partying and essay writing and this felt somewhat cathartic, maybe it was an adherence to the velominati's fifth rule or maybe I had just lost the plot. A left-field possibility is that 9 months of Moyes and the subsequent fall-out numbed my sense and desire for security and comfort, after all what can be more painful than watching homegrown Danny depart to our historical rivals who had Champions League football, maybe I now needed the chaos. Regardless of the cause, for some reason, I loved it.

A gusty and dark November night, the runner about two stones heavier than those years ago and drifting through tarmacked paradise, grimace already broad and legs feeling wrecked. The initial outpouring of hail annoyed me,  flashing back to being on that ridge, a form of weather induced post-traumatic stress is now weighing on my mind; "Great, I have four miles to go and I'm going to be running in this shit, get me home". The leg cadence started rising, the heart-rate with it, the hail at this point battering my legs, just get me home. I'm in constant pain....both internal and external, cars are driving past and I see the passengers looking and pitying me so I run faster, after all why do we run if not to look hardcore? Three minutes into this storm I'm grinning from ear to ear and probably running better than I have for years. I'm drawing positives from a tough situation, adding to my experiences. Bad weather makes faster and hardier runners all by virtue of just being awful and unappealing. Similarly any challenging situation with an independent fact like the weather, however apparently unenjoyable can be ultimately very rewarding. Like the unknown person at a get-togethers who you don't know or understand but if you put in a little hard work and persevere getting to know them then you may make a friend for life. 'All hail hail', I chuckle to myself at the word play, my legs are moving faster than ever, my mind is a blur just going over variations of word play, 'hail the king' and so on. I have found a new source of enjoyment, and I must seek it out more often.

Last winter was a particularly good year for the hail. Perhaps it was the three and a half years without running that made it seem that way, hailstones aren't that bad if you're all wrapped up but in a vest and shorts they really come out to play. On the four or five subsequent occasions that hailstones got involved in my training I thoroughly enjoyed them all. A couple of times were out on the road bike, I genuinely don't think I've ever felt as strong as climbing up to Standedge Cutting, hail smashing into my face, being driven by those strange Pennine winds that always seem to be cross-headwinds. I embrace it nowadays, the redness of my legs, the pain on my forearms, even the sound, like one of those rainmaker instruments we used to use at primary school....the hailstones talk to you, skittling up and down as they hit the road- "We're coming for you". I started to get into a mental state whereby on those occasions that the hail came out to play, so did I. It was character building and probably the closest I was coming to doing some interval training over the winter. In a winter training schedule devoid of any true challenges or races, this was my struggle, my obstacle to overcome, my test of fitness and mental hardiness.

I think it says a lot about development and attitude to training and the things that we love when we derive pleasure from what is on the face of it a very uncomfortable phenomenon. I'm talking about the people who don't actively enjoy exercise but have that feeling of fulfillment after doing it that actively boosts their mood, those who are scared of performing but do so anyway. Exams, gym classes, live performances, job interviews....they are all to different people what the hailstones are to me; sources of positive discomfort. We redefine this discomfort as a positive. I say, it's not that any of these individual acts or events are inherently uncomfortable, we just haven't opened our eyes to it, defined it as anything that we can interact with, until it is quantified for us by some experience.....all those women who reading after Fifty Shades of Grey, how many of them clamour after a 'Christian Grey'  when they once would have baulked at the idea? Yes it's crude and a bit strange to consider from an outsiders standpoint, as is the idea that getting your legs cut open by the weather is, or for me, that someone can stand on a stage in front of thousands of people and perform a song. I'd say it's an issue of open mindedness allowing us to reassess struggle or unconventional ideas as success, self-improvement or even just simple joy.  Hailstones over the winter represent this change in attitude in my own life. They're a microcosmic representation of the shift in my priorities in life and attitude towards running post-injury. Previously when the tough got going, so would I. An intended ten mile tempo run would become six, I would avoid the hard hill at the end and just take the quick path home, I would shelter from the physical and metaphorical hail.....now I bask in it.

Anyway, I'm just going to leave this here for now....maybe you got something from it, you probably didn't. I think this attitude perhaps comes across a little overly masochistic, but then again it also represents an interaction with nature which is about as primitive as we can get in this area of internet security, pre-foraged food and excess. It may not be hail, but unless you do something which brings out that kind of feeling of actively enjoying overcoming a struggle I'd say your life would be less rich in it's experiences.