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.