Rocking the context appropriate look. Snow plogging microadventures r us.

Digested read: went plogging on the Sheffield Half-Marathon route.  It snowed.  It was still fun.

Undigested read: I can hardly run a bath at the moment, let alone a half marathon.  This is a shame, because we are fully into not so much the run up (see what I did there?  Hilarious) as into the actual tapering period for the 2019 Sheffield Half.  This time last year I was well into my distance runs and used the Sheffield Half as a training run for the London Marathon. That seems like a life time ago. The past is another country I did things differently there.  Now, for various reasons, I’ve had my running goals for this year well and truly scuppered.  It is a source of much squirm-inducing regret that when my lovely running club asks us each month to volunteer our achievements and post them on Facebook for each return period that I find myself racking my brains trying to think of something to say.  Something – anything?  Nope, just an echoing void up there at present.  Nothing to report.  I blagged it the last two months, by explaining February was pretty much taken up with my merchandise testing commitments (Brooks Juno Bra thank you for asking) and then March brought with it my media commitments, culminating with my companion animal finding herself the poster giraffe for the Sheffield Half.  She was thrilled!  I got glory by association.  I might not make the start of the half this year, but hopefully the 5-10% of the population who are apparently particularly susceptible to hypnosis and suggestion will come to believe I was there just because they have seen this image circulating about the right time. I like to believe so.

Anyway, irrespective of whether or not I’m running, this is my blog, my rules, I can plog if I want to, however tenuous the theme in terms of its relationship to running.  Today’s theme is litter picking on the Sheffield Half Marathon loop, so that’s almost exactly the same as going for a run yes?

The background is that a group of us did this half marathon litter pick last year, after a last minute ‘who else is up for it’ Facebook post put out by a local running shop.  A fair few of us were, and rocked up, and it was fun. We got to dress up like Nemo and everything, though the amount of litter on the route was dispiriting.  It came about because those of us who’d been using the route for long run recces couldn’t help but notice the litter that had accumulated along the way, and it seemed a poor advert for our beloved Sheffield.  Instead of waiting around for some vague ‘other’ to take the initiative ‘somebody should do something’ Front Runner took the initiative, and put out the call. Seems that hit a nerve, and people came indeed.  Litter picking in general and plogging in particular is increasingly a thing – check out Runners Against Rubbish – which is good because it has to be done and bad because it shouldn’t be needed. Plogging runs featured at the Big Running Weekend a couple of weeks back too.  Anyway, pleased to report, they did the same again this year, suggested a group litter pick along the Sheffield Half-marathon route, and there was an even bigger turn out, this year than last.  yay!  Perhaps this will become an annual tradition.  Hope so.

So you see, whilst I might not be up to much running, I can still have running related fun times scrabbling about in mud and heave-hoing unsavoury discarded bits of rubbish out of polluted ditches with my running buddies.  We are hard core we Sheffielders, and we know how to make our own entertainment!  Plus, plogging in a ditch is pretty light weight compared to fell running which to the untrained eye might seem to stretch the definition of ‘fun times’ yet looks like great larks compared to the Barkley marathon.

You do know about the Barkley Marathons yes?  In case not – you might have just blocked the very thought as a subconscious protective reflex – this is a 100 mile plus suffer fest.  It has five laps, each lap of 20-plus miles in distance and includes about 12,000ft of brutally-steep, obstacle-laden, muddy mountain ascent through thick woodland.  That’s like climbing Everest twice, apparently,  which is another thing on my list of activities I have zero desire to undertake.  Just to be completely clear, I don’t even want to climb Everest once.  In conclusion, I think it’s fair to say that the Barkley Marathons stretches the definition of ‘fun’ a tad too far for even type two fun* recognition. Just saying.  Well done Nicky Spinks for giving it a go all the same.  Shame it meant you missed the first Trunce of the year but understandable in the circumstances.  Epic.  No-one came close to finishing the Barkley Marathons this year by the way.  I’m not surprised.  Nicky looks hard core yes, but she doesn’t look like she’s particularly having any real=time fun now does she?  It’s cool she’s wearing a dark peak fell runners bobble hat though.  Respect.  She’s still beyond awesome.

 

 

 

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yes, having running related fun in the great outdoors.  So it was that last night I scooped up a friend and together we chugged up to the Norfolk Arms rendezvous for the collective litter picking endeavour.  Tooled up with our heavy duty gloves, we sat in the car, admiring the moody sky and dramatic clouds.  About five minutes ahead of our rendezvous time, heavy drops started to land on the windscreen.  ‘I hope it’s not going to rain’ remarked my litter picking buddy.  We laughed nervously.  It would only be a couple of hours.  We exited our vehicle and joined the gathering by the van, joining the queue for bin bags, struggling into our junior sized high-vis and delightedly welcoming our parkrunning buddy, Regal Smiley who’d rocked up to join the fun=fest and frolics in the name of keeping our run routes litter free. Yay!

As we greeted one another, the rain stopped.  That sounds good doesn’t it, except it wasn’t because there was no longer precipitation, oooooooooooooooooh no.  It was because it transmogrified into fat flakes of snow. Proper snow.  Full on white out, snow snow. It settled on our hats, and snowed with an intensity and density that is usually reserved for the closing climactic sequence of cheesy American films set against the backdrop of Christmas holidays. You know, where every problem is overcome, every misunderstanding cleared, and loving couples or families rush out red cheeked, starry-eyed and bobble hatted through a forest of Christmas trees already laden with snow, or along a city street with shop windows a-bling with Christmas lights as fresh snow falls and the credits roll.  Like that. Exactly like that, only colder and wetter and with less joyful cavorting on our part.  We did laugh though.  A lot.  And to be fair, if the weather was going to be dramatic, I’d sooner take the apocalyptic drama of unexpected decent snow over the soul-sapping water torture of horizontal rain.  Also, definitely better than having a helicopter induced storm hurl roadside barriers at you mid-marathon in China.  It happened.  It really did… quite relieved I didn’t bother entering that one now, especially after learning I wouldn’t get away with taking along the bike for part of the route after all.

Besides, we were here now, committed.

We took our bags, our gloves, out litter picker and our resolve and off we went, a trio of awesomeness, to take on Sheephill Road.  Time for a quick selfie first though…  Just for clarification purposes, that’s the start of the snow you can see in the flurry of white flakes, not a severe dandruff episode by a fellow litter picker just out of shot.

We bagsied the upper end of Sheephill Road from the Norfolk arms downed.  I thought we might have to fight for it – I feel a tad territorial for this section because it’s the same bit I did last year, which is ridiculous, but true.  As it happened, we three got it all to ourselves, and off we went.  We were an awesome team, covering both sides of the road like police forensic investigators seeking out clues in a finger tip search.  Litter picking is disturbingly surprisingly addictive.  No fag end is safe, no bottle too remote to be hunted down and caught bang to rights and bagged – probably to end up in land fill which is depressing, but preferable to choking wildlife at least.

There aren’t any whales in Sheffield, so I don’t think we were saving them particularly from consuming plastic on this occasion but then again, who knows where discarded plastic can end up.  No really, I spent some time volunteering at a wildlife centre in Zimbabwe and one day found myself removing plastic wrap from cucumbers flown in from the UK – probably grown in a poly tunnel, that were past their sell-by date and so were discarded from the shop and were now being used as animal food. How many countries had that plastic wrap visited in its single use lifetime? What is that about?  Crazy.  That’s why 44 kg of plastic was found in a dead whale only last month.  No fun to be had in that story, none at all.  Don’t need to be Hercule Poirot to work out contributory factors for cause of death for that one.  Or even James Herriot, or whatever the marine biology veterinary equivalent for that might be… This is plastic that emerged from a whale gut, I couldn’t be more astonished if it was a picture of Jonah himself bursting forth.

It was surprisingly companionable yomping along plogging and picking our way through the undergrowth with varying degrees of concentration. We evolved a system whereby Regal Smiley/ bicentennial woman who was in possession of the grabber (well, she does command natural authority, plus she was the one who had the foresight to bring it with her) responded to a sort of directional pointing system whereby we other two, lacking her reach, would get the bits we could and then point out to her the more elusive finds.  She would do well in the opal mines of Coober Pedy as once she was convinced of the presence of something, in this case litter, nothing would deter her from ferreting it out. Together, we were invincible.  That dear reader, is what team work is all about.

‘This image is courtesy of John Park, who you can follow on instagram at  https://www.instagram.com/parky.au/  if you fancy some virtual travel browsing through some stunning pictures of the great land down under and beyond!’

We didn’t find any opals, but we did find some vintage crisp packets, they don’t have the same market value though, well, not as far as I can tell anyway.  I didn’t research it all that conscientiously, I’ll be kicking myself when a vintage salt’n’shake crisp pack suddenly appears on eBay, with the faded lettering being described as ‘adding authenticity and character’ … I can feel my blood boiling at the very thought!

The weather did crazy things.  At times there were blizzard conditions, at times bright sunshine broke through, and there was the most extraordinary rainbow that seemed to arch across the whole city, I wished I’d got my camera with me, but then again it probably wouldn’t quite have done it justice, plus, I was able to delegate photo duties to Regal Smiley who did a fair enough job in the circumstances!

Here is the snow:

Well, some of it, and here is the rainbow. Also just some of it…

We were merry in our labours.  Also, encouragingly, the litter situation was way better than last year, and although there was still plenty, we made speedy progress.  No especially epic finds – well, apart from the almost buried plastic Christmas Tree and associated baubles, really people?  There was inevitably, lots of plastic, haylage bags, fast food polystyrene wrappers, huge amounts of cigarette ends, discarded bottles, one solitary gel pack wrapper. and debris from miscellaneous road accidents.   Had we but the time and inclination – oh yes and skill too – we could quite possibly have built our own vehicle with the bits of body work accrued along the way.  Some duct tape would have helped maybe, but then you can do anything with duct tape and imagination!  After all, if it can be used to fix a plane after a bear attack, I’m sure it could assemble some discarded car panels without too much difficulty.

 

After an hour or so, there was the pitter patter of tiny feet behind us.  Breathless, and inappropriately dressed for the inclement weather was a trio of youths.  I must be getting exceedingly old, because when they introduced themselves, still wet and shivering as ‘students’ my immediate thought was they were a detail from a local school sent to join the community initiative, but no dear reader, they were actual university students, doing a journalism course and in search of a local story.  Mind you, I do find increasingly I have become that person who notices that my GP and other officials look alarmingly youthful.  The logical conclusion of this I am actually old, not just old before my time.  I don’t know quite how to process that thought, so now I’ve shared it, I’ll ignore it and move one… Anyway, where was I, oh yes, clearly, we were the most newsworthy thing going on at the time, and so we were within their grasp. Also, I secretly suspect they’d got wind of my recently acquired poster girl status so perhaps were hoping for some sort of celebrity coup to boot, though they were far too professional to let on to that insider knowledge, didn’t want to seem all giddy in my presence I expect… So, what they wanted to do was a little piece on the community litter pick for one of their assignments. Fair enough, sounded entertaining.  ‘We are like the wombles!  You know “underground, overground, wombling free“‘ I half-said half (badly) sung, being met with looks of confused incomprehension, oh gawd, I really am old, surely they haven’t been forgotten – I had their LP at one point, ‘wombling free’ it’s a tragedy if that cultural heritage has now been lost, we do indeed need the Wombles more than ever!

We continued our litter pick, whilst they found a suitable lay-by to set up their gear.  To the casual observer they would have looked like spectacularly well equipped doggers.

They wanted some litter picking shots, featuring the grabber in action and in close up.  This required quite a lot of practise, and hilariously (well I thought so) the initial actual litter that was being used for the shot just didn’t cut it as camera eye candy.  Fortunately, one of the trio had brought along her own, more photogenic litter just in case.  This was in the form of a bottle of lucozade sport (I like to think, as the ‘sport’ reference seems especially apt, but I might have imagined the whole thing just because I wished it so), which she downed in one, so that she could jettison the bottle on the verge where it could be picked up and popped in a black bin bag on endless repeat until caught from all possible angles and the perfect shot, like the discarded bottle, was safely in the bag.  (Honestly, I’m on fire tonight!)

Then we stood in a slightly self-conscious line and the director said he was going to ask us each a question to camera as a sort of vox pox segment (well, what with my work as a supporting artist elsewhere, I have all the media lingo down to a tee). Now, this is where we approach the comedy climax of the evening…  but to fully appreciate this, you need context.

The thing is Regal Smiley has many talents.  Epic runner, parkrun run director blah de blah, but one of her most public-spirited duties is linked to her being the power behind the photographic throne occupied by Mr Carman.  Yes, yes, he takes squillions of pictures week in, week out, selflessly giving his time for the running community of Sheffield, but it is Regal Smiley who acts as upholder of human dignity and public decency, acting as censor to any shot that might unduly humiliate or embarrass the subject of the photo.  Obviously due humiliation is a different thing altogether, and comedic value can outweigh an unflattering shot, but even so, she has much respected form in saving us runners from the brutal reality of seeing in high-definition our true running likenesses if that truth might mean we never left the house again.  She is the guardian of our individual and collective self-esteem, for this we should all be grateful.  Therefore, it was not unreasonable, that before consenting to our vox pox section she politely enquired

‘Do we look OK?‘. I know what she meant, save us from the spinach caught in our teeth or the inside out jacket or the river of snot that I’ve failed to notice because my face is too numb from the stinging hail. It was self-evident to all.

‘You look great!’ he said confidently.   The reassurance he gave us was to be short lived.

It wasn’t self-evident to all.  I know this, because he added with a bit too much enthusiasm in his voice ‘being bedraggled and cold and windswept and filthy is exactly the appropriate look for this piece when you’ve all been out litter picking in the snow!’  Oh how we laughed!  I’m paraphrasing only slightly, we rocked our context specific look, it is fortuitous that these clips will never see the public light of day.  Well, unless one or more of us was to go missing on the way home and they had to play that snippet of us on Look North as the last sighting of us for identification purposes, oh the shame.  And that nearly happened to be fair, but more of this later.

We did our slightly stilted commentary on the community cohesion of litter picking, and love of the peaks and running, and how we met through parkrun and all of that. Then, in a moment of clarity me and Regal Smiley realised this could be our running related achievement for April when reporting back to our Smiley record keeper, so more photos of us all together and separately in all possible permutations were taken. The sun came out, rather spoiling our hardcore claims.  I think it’s fair to say the weather was changeable.

 

 

 

We left them doing there final ‘to camera’ summary and continued our meander back along the verges.  It started snowing again, we were on a mission.

It’s amazing how you see missed bits of litter when you view the landscape through a different angle.   We’d already done this section on the outward march.  Regal Smiley was emboldened to scamper over walls and criss-cross wobbly stones to reach tantalizingly placed litter the other side of walls.   There was definitely more than one point when I thought we might lose her over a crumbling dry stone wall. We discussed this possibility.  I was thinking at first we’d get away with pretending we’d never seen her, there weren’t many cars about and nobody was taking much interest in us… as long as we other two stuck to our story we’d be fine – then we remembered the cursed vox pox sequence, and if those keen journalism students got wind of her disappearance they’d be like the blooming Scooby Doo team, endlessly screening their now highly marketable footage as they tried for a ‘true crime’ documentary full length feature on ‘what really happened’. We’d never have got away with it.  So all in all, it was very fortunate, that we were able to haul her back roadside, and make it back safely!  No search team required…. this time.

Pleasingly, just as we returned to the corner of Lady Cannings plantation entrance, where we’d piled up all our bags, the Front Runner white van appeared to gather up our rubbish offerings.  It was a leaky, sodden and unsavoury mess of stuff, I wouldn’t have wanted it in the back of my car.  Above and beyond I’d say.  You can get Sheffield City Council to pick up bags from organised litter picks if you let them know in advance, but there was a different plan at work here.

And that was that, we said goodbye and went our separate ways.

I feel however I need to add this postscript.  As me and my tail walking buddy – did I mention that already?…

were derobing and clambering back into my car, we got chatting to a guy in the vehicle next to us.  He hadn’t been litter picking with us but he does solitary litter picks around his road all the time.  I mentioned to him that there is the Sheffield Litter Pickers Facebook group if he wants help.  He brooded on this point for a bit and then said words to the effect of he quite liked the cathartic effect of doing it alone and raging at the awfulness of mankind with every bottle plucked from a hedge or broken glass from the gutter he weirdly liked finding justification for his misanthropic view of the world.  I rather respect that.  It made me laugh.

And so dear reader, it was but two sodden hours on an April evening, but it was crammed with hilarity and micro-adventures a-plenty. Sometimes, it is worth just stepping outside the front door and seeing what unfolds.  Just be wary of cameras unless you are dressed in a context appropriate way. Oh and also, I feel a  need to share that really, in our own way, we three, and indeed all the other litter pickers out there last night, were tackling the same elements as the Barkley marathoners, because they too started their quest in sunshine, only to be caught out by wintry conditions and snow.  I may not quite be in Nicky Spinks’ league just yet, but I am somewhere on the continuum of weather she has experienced in her running challenges, and that’s a start.  Also, other litter pickers took independent initiative to play their part in an afternoon pick as they couldn’t make the evening one, ploggers are everywhere it seems, how splendid is that!  See them rock their context appropriate hi-vis too.

Heart warming isn’t it?  And we could all do with a bit of good news in these dark times I’m sure.

You’re welcome.

*type two fun – things that are fun only when viewed retrospectively, from a very safe distance.

Because binners are winners! Plogging the Sheffield half-marathon route

Digested read: runners recceing the Sheffield half have been noticing a depressing amount of rubbish along the route.  The nice people at Front Runner decided to suggest a meet up to do something about it.  Lots of people went, me too, it was really good.  Litter picked, communal plogging engaged in.  All done and dusted within a couple of hours.  Hurrah.

Nobody wants to see Skip upset.

But Skip the running dog is upset though, because of all the rubbish he keeps seeing out running.  Anyone who has recced the half marathon route of late – which is basically the entire running population of Sheffield – must have felt their heart sink at the sight of some of it.  The problem is, its quite tricky to pick up rubbish whilst running on your own.  I do always make a point of picking up at least one bit of rubbish every time I’m out.  I mean, it’s not much, but it’s better than nothing, and frankly, anyone who runs any route regularly must have experienced that thing where you keep passing the same bit of rubbish every day.  Case in point, there is a bus-stop at Broomhill – just outside the Guitar Shack, it has a couple of empty spirit bottles on the roof there that have been there ever since I moved to Sheffield 7 years ago now, granted, they are not that easily accessible and only visible from the top deck of the bus but it illustrates a point. Rubbish stays where it is unless someone, maybe you or me, picks it up and disposes of it in a responsible and appropriate manner.

Anyways, in a fit of initiative and pro-activity the good people of Front Runner, under the direction of the senior management (Skip) decided to take action on this point.  Noticing a ridiculous amount of rubbish along just a short section of the Sheffield half-marathon route  whilst leading a group recce up there, they spontaneously collected a good bag full of rubbish over just 100 metres.  Figuring that other runners would similarly be dismayed by this, they put a call out for other runners – or indeed ‘normal’ people, to come join them for a communal litter pick yesterday evening.  Keeping it simple it was a question of basically turn up at 6.30 pm outside the Dore Garden Centre and take it from there.

Pleasingly, the post got quite a positive response straight away.  It’s heartening, people do want to do something about their local patch, but sometimes it takes someone to be a catalyst to harness that general sense of ‘someone ought to do something‘ and turn it into ‘we could do something ourselves‘.   It’s true that plogging has become a new and welcome trend, albeit one with a stupid name. I’m not sure I’d go so far as to describe it thus:  Plogging: the fitness craze that’s sweeping the streets,  but the enthusiasm for this apparently the Scandinavian trend for picking up litter while jogging is surely a good thing. Though it’s hardly new.  We have Runners against Rubbish locally – you can join here for just £2 and make the pledge:

The Pledge:

1. I will never drop any rubbish and will always take my rubbish to a bin
2. I will encourage others not to drop rubbish
3. I will pick up rubbish when I see it and am able to do so

I must admit, I’ve not paid up my £2 yet, but I will do so.  I thought until today it was just a concept and a Runners Against Rubbish Facebook page, but it seems it is evolving further.  Hurrah.

Hurrah, because rubbish not only looks awful, it can be catastrophic for local wildlife too.  Plastic straws up turtles noses is bad, but rubbish isn’t only devastating in the oceans, it does damage on our streets too.

 

 

 

and David Sedaris has been on a solitary endeavour of picking up litter during his epic walks in Sussex for years and years.  He’s even got a bin lorry named in his honour!

Still, it would be unwise to pick up litter in the hope of getting a bin lorry named in your honour, picking up litter is rather its own reward.  Upshot is/was there was a little flurry of enthusiastic interest, and it seemed a fair few runners, myself included were totally up for this.  It was a great idea.  A perfect example of many hands making light work, it would be soul destroying and impractical to head out solo and litter pick a 13 mile route, but with a good gang of people, armed with bin bags, gardening gloves and enthusiasm, we’d be able to split up and cover a reasonable stretch quite quickly.

The hour came, and people did indeed gathered.  I’m not good at counting, and also I forgot to do so, but I’d say maybe ten of us or so.  Skip personally welcomed everyone with a sniff and then left his minions to action his plan.  50% of the Front Runner team explained it was all really quite disorganised and clueless, and they hadn’t got much further than setting a time and place to meet and dragging some bags along.  The other 50% of the Front Runner team quickly interjected the correction that this should be seen as an informal approach to the collective endeavour, with all participants being recognised as having equal value and therefore able to make their own decisions about where to go and start plucking litter from the trashed verges along the route.

Despite the ‘informal’ approach, actually there was organisation.  Loads of rubbish bags- proper heavy-duty ones which was just as well, some of the rubbish was pretty substantial.  Someone had brought along a load of extra gloves for others to use, one was tooled up with a proper extension picker thing (I nearly gave in to some litter picker tool envy there) –   plus, there were plenty of hi-viz to go round. Good idea, as dusk was falling.

I was the first to don one. In my defence, this is a lot harder than you might think. this particular vest was the fabric equivalent of super-glue infused mercury.  Mercury, in that it just wanted to reform with itself, and super-glue in that in then wouldn’t detach from itself.  It was like trying to clamber into spandex spanx pants by hauling them over your head.  Not that I’ve tried this, but I’m confident the comparison stands.  Did you know that you can get different discomfort levels?  Everything from ‘smooth’ (they lie) to shaping level 3 ‘sculpt – a super firm hug’.  That is a hug, but from an abusive partner or one with little understanding of the concept of personal space and/or robotic limbs which are incapable of interpreting feedback from the hug-ee, such as when they start gasping for breath and their eyes start trying to escape from their eye sockets.  Less bear hug, and more Heimlich manoeuvre.

It wasn’t altogether supportive that those around me were scrambling for their mobile phones to capture my writhing distress rather than stepping up to assist me, but I took enormous comfort from noting that the next person who tried to don one found the process similarly challenging.  I think it’s because they are small and designed to stretch, which they do, but string vest like there are too many holes to work out which one is for your head and which one is for you limbs.  However, more pleasingly, once someone else was wearing one, you are basically camouflaged as a clown fish.  No really.  I have no idea when Ronhill took over Pixar Animation or if it was the other way round, but anyone wearing the kit was essentially dressed up as Nemo.  Making him easier to find in terms of all round visibility, and harder to find in that they probably weren’t going to be looking for him in Sheffield and there were quite a few decoy hi-viz wearers.  The clown fish kit though was not a bad idea given how much water was sloshing around everywhere.  I didn’t actually fall into any ditches, but it was a close run thing.  I daresay those Ronhill vests would be buoyant in water too.

 

 

I think it was making the connection between wrestling with this hi-viz garment and string vests, that led me at least,  on to the obvious next topic of crocheted swimming trunks.  Disappointingly, the youthful contingency that surrounded us took this to be a jump into surreal humour, not understanding that the concept is not funny at all.  They were indeed a thing, back in the day, and a splendid garment in which young bucks and silver foxes alike could pose on yachts or whatever with far more style and class than could ever be achieved with budgie smugglers. This is no doubt why you can still get the vintage men’s swimwear patterns here,  though to save you the arduous task of clicking on the link, here are some highlights I’ve found especially for you dear reader.  Not that I need to prove my point exactly, but I do feel some sense of responsibility for educating the younger generation coming through.  Terrifying to think this sort of fashion knowledge is at risk of being lost for ever.  We can start the restoration of this garment in Sheffield, and from there it can once again spread out across the world!  That’s stirring stuff.

 

 

In the swim indeed!  And why stop at just knitting your own trunks?  Back in the 1920s I see there was an early prototype of the onesie tri suit that’s just crying out for a come back. I’m sure it would look absolutely fabulous, custom made in club or Front Runner colours.  For some reason I’m thinking the Dark Peak runners vintage hues would be especially magnificent in this style!

The possibilities are endless, knitted or crocheted trunks are endlessly versatile and practical too.  Perfect for a snow run for example, the evidence is out there, I mean, granted, he might not have the most efficient running form, but looks fabulous. These ideas could be a game changer once the new tri season gets properly underway:

 

 

Whilst waiting for others to assemble, the chit-chat covered nutritional tips for fuelling marathons, though unfortunately at that point I hadn’t uncovered this helpful bit of research into identifying the best cake for runners.   On the plus side, I was also at that moment in time, unaware of the new fad of using baby food to fuel long runs, so that was some small blessing.  I do accept it comes down to doing whatever works for you, but why not have proper food?  I’ll concede these are a much better option than gels in terms of ingredients, but I think I’d struggle with the texture.  Also, I’m so slow I can take my time a bit more when fuelling on longer runs.  I’m never running with that much speed or urgency.  Plus, all that packaging and waste, it’s terrifying.  Ironically, I picked up some of these baby food wrappers along Sheephill lane.  Maybe it is becoming an adult ‘thing’, it can’t all be recalcitrant children hurling spent wrappers from their buggies as they are pushed along.

We were surprisingly focused.  Some people had come on their own, others in couples or pairs.  With relatively little faffing, we sort of spread out.  I went with two others (hello :)) who drove us up to the far end of Sheephill Lane where we parked by Lady Cannings Plantation and basically worked our way down the hill.  It was noted that passers-by seeing us in our combos of hi-viz and track suit bottoms and hoodies might have assumed we were out there doing community service. That’s fine, as long as they didn’t run us over.

It was quite bright sunshine when we headed out, so I was wearing dark glasses, which no doubt looked increasingly ridiculous as dusk fell.  Mind you, I have plenty of experience of looking ridiculous whilst engaged in running related activities so that was OK, and also I was frankly quite glad of the eye protection as I dived into hedgerows to retrieve wedged in bottles from prickly undergrowth.

A few things you need to know about litter picking.  It’s strangely satisfying and compulsive, once you eyeball a shiny degraded and discarded crisp packet it’s surprising what acrobatic challenges you will take on in order to seize it.  It’s also harder work than you might think, all that squatting and stretching, and even ‘clean’ litter is surprisingly gross.  A lot of the stuff I scooped up out of ditches was full of stagnant water or worse, and even though you shake out what you can, there is definitely a residual ‘ugh’ factor.  On the plus side it’s rewarding to see instant improvement, and sometimes it’s quite fascinating.  Yes there are sweet and crisp wrappers and discarded gel packets and other unremarkable stuff, but can you explain the seemingly empty jam jar apparently placed on a wall.  One section I cleared seemed to have a significant part of the front of a car – including a number plate – I had a momentary fear I was inadvertently clearing up a crime scene and there was bound to be a body submerged in the ditch alongside.  Although to be fair, we sort of agreed really big stuff, like fly tipped goods or indeed corpses we wouldn’t be able to move so I suppose it didn’t matter all that much.  There was a ceramic bowl that was a bit random.  I wonder if someone was carsick into it and just threw the whole lot out some time. We may never know.  The items that enraged me most included banana skins, that I think people deliberately threw into the hedges because they are biodegradable, but without removing those little yellow stickers; and piles of cigarette ends where I think motorists must have just opened their car doors and emptied their ashtrays onto the road.  Top tip, if it’s too gross to want to keep in your car, then it’s also too gross to discard on a public highway.

I was complaining about this to one of my fellow pickers, he said he didn’t think it was necessarily always motorists to blame, could just as easily be cyclists or anyone else, but personally I’ve never seen a bike with a built-in ash tray so I remain unconvinced.

In fairness, not all littering and destruction is intentional.  Some items may have been carelessly blown away out of the grasp of someone and ended up on the route.  Who amongst us has not had a littering accident of their own. I  still feel awful about losing a helium balloon at a birthday parkrun, and have vowed never to run with a balloon again.  Knowing how bad I feel about that, we should all spare a thought for the hotel guest who inadvertently drew a flock of seagulls into his hotel room, where they completely trashed the place.  “The result was a tornado of seagull excrement, feathers, pepperoni chunks and fairly large birds whipping around the room. The lamps were falling. The curtains were trashed.”  As a result of this mishap, which honestly could have happened to anyone who absent-mindedly laid out a whole suitcase of pepperoni on the windowsill of the seaside establishment at which they were staying – he was subject to a lifelong ban from the classy hotel.  Though got pardoned on appeal after 17 years.  Quite right too.  You have seen the Hitchcock film The Birds right?

 

Anyway, pleasingly, just as I had nearly filled my second bag of rubbish, I met other litter pickers who’d come up from the bottom of Sheephill Lane, thus we did indeed do that whole section.  There was however a bit of confusion at this point.  I opted to continue onwards so I could leave my bag with the Front Runner vehicle which I could see up ahead pulled over in the huge external driveway of a rather grand house up there.  My two litter picking compatriots would return the other way, picking up the full rubbish bags we’d left en route and pick me up in their vehicle as they passed.  Unfortunately, the Front Runner vehicle sped away before I could catch it. Then when my litter picking buddies appeared in their very fine souped up mini, they didn’t have room for my bag along with the other three already stowed in their boot. We agreed I’d stay with the bag whilst they went to dump the others and they’d come back for me.

I waited.  It was quite peaceful standing there, watching the dusk.  Various half-marathon runners had constantly jogged past as we were plogging away, but now there were fewer, just one or two, who offered weak smiles as they trudged by.  I waited some more.  It wasn’t an especially long wait, but long enough for me to entertain the idea that if my compatriots were to suffer some freak accident, or indeed just get bored and decide to ditch the plan of returning to collect me I could be out there for days.  At what point would I leave my post.  Should I take the bag with me?  To leave it might just constitute fly-tipping anyway, the very anathema of what I’d set out to achieve.  Also, it was actually pretty isolated up there, peaceful even. There might be a Zombie global apocalypse just starting out from the epicentre of the Sheffield peace gardens RIGHT NOW this moment, and there was I, oblivious, standing in my inappropriate shades and clown fish hi-viz, next to a bag of rubbish. Maybe, though I didn’t know it yet, my future survival would depend on how I utilised the contents of that bag as the only resources available to me to defend myself.  Waiting, waiting, little knowing what tsunami of horrors was about to unfold.

That didn’t happen though.

Fortuitously dear reader, they did return, my bag went in the boot, and I went in the front as the boot wasn’t big enough for me too. We returned to the Dore Garden Centre and found everyone else gone, just three bags of rubbish and some returned borrowed gloves.  We weren’t sure what to do with all this rubbish, it wasn’t stuff you would really want in a car interior.  I reckoned we might be able to sweet talk the pub to let us use their bins, especially as the plan was to have a drink in there afterwards.  I did ask, and to be fair the guy behind the bar was really good, and I was thinking I’d definitely be able to get signed off for my NVQ competency relating to ‘negotiation skills’ as I asked so sweetly if we could avail ourselves of their bins what with having done a local litter pick and being all so public-spirited and everything. Plus I was wearing my hi-viz albeit my companion was in her community service trackies, so we looked like we’d definitely been doing something worthwhile and important.  Alas, it was not to be, turns out they have a strict recycling policy for their bins and so if we put random rubbish in it they could end up being fined, which was disappointing but fair enough.  Instead we divvied up the seeping bags between us, and realising no-one else had lingered for a drink and that we were also now in need of decontamination ourselves, made do with some mutual air-hugs and went our separate ways.

The whole thing only took a couple of hours tops, but between us we got loads of rubbish.  I mean, it’s depressing all that garbage was out there in the first place of course, but heartening that you can make such a difference relatively quickly, and now none of that rubbish is there any more.  That’s good. This picture is not even a third of the total bags gathered up. Bravo.

So all in all, that was pretty darned satisfying I’d say.  Thanks Skip for taking the initiative to set the plan in motion.  A very fine plan it was too.

Afterwards, I was able to wrestle out of my Nemo outfit in the privacy of my own home.  Result.

So there you go collective plogging comes to Sheffield.  No reason we can’t all do it on our own too. The best bit of this evening was realising that other people care too, and saccharin as it may sound together we can make a difference.  In a world where often times I feel quite powerless, that makes for a nice change.

Hurrah!

So how about you?  Have you joined in the RAR roar yet?  Go on, go on, you know you want to!

Round Sheffield Run 2016? Neigh Worries!

Reading this is optional.  Could be a time-vampire, but then again, so is daytime TV.  Scrolling down to look at photos also an option.  If you are hardcore, then this account is a bit like a TV box set binge, just so you know.  Maybe get some Pringles in just to be on the safe side.

Digested read:  I like the RSR.  It is even more fun in fancy dress.

Magic Realism I think it’s called.  That is, the acceptance that magic can exist in a rational world (not that the world feels particularly rational right now, but let’s not go there).  It might of course be false memory syndrome or just general common or garden personal delusion, but when I think of the Round Sheffield Run (RSR) I just feel a little warm wave of happiness pass through me as I take the opportunity to indulge in some temporary escapism by filling my mind with memories of the event 🙂 it really is magical.  To recall it in your mind’s eye is to give yourself a virtual hug.

For me, the RSR has a personal symbolism and significance.  I entered it the first year it took place from a foundation of complete ignorance.  I had only ever done a parkrun 5k before, and took very literally the blurb about it being an all-inclusive race for all abilities.  I figured you only ever had to run about 2.9 km in one go, so that should be fine right?  It never really dawned on me that you end up doing near enough 25 km and there is more than a smidgen of hill to negotiate.  But you know what, I’m so pleased I was that naive, because if I had thought about it too much I’d have concluded it was way beyond me, not been brave enough to enter,  and I’d have really missed out.  This event was just brilliant from the outset.  The route and location are fabulous of course, but it is the organisation, attention to detail and friendliness that makes this trail run,  in my experience at least, a really social and inclusive event.  2014 was my first time tackling anything like that distance, and my first experience of running and enjoying the experience of doing so actually at the time, (no really), instead of just retrospectively when awash with a post runner’s high and feeling smug afterwards.  You know, that Goldilocks zone, when the endorphins have kicked in but the stiffness has not?  So what is this darned race then?  I hear you cry.  For any still uninitiated, I shall try to explain.

Firstly, here is the course profile (thanks veloviewer sponsored athlete for sharing) it is from last year, but hey.  It isn’t my time either, but maybe I won’t draw attention to that and so some reader, somewhere, will be left believing it is.  (I was way faster, obviously).

The official blah de blah on the Round Sheffield Run‘s website reads thus:

The Round Sheffield Run, trail running enduro is a unique creative “multi-stage” running event following the beautiful Round Sheffield route, a superb running journey linking some of the best trails and parkland. It would be a tough task to find anywhere in the UK that showcases these kind of trails & scenery within its city limits.

The 11 timed stages make up 20km of the 24.5km route.

The unique format breaks the route down into stages. Each stage being raced, and competitors receiving both results for each stage as well as a combined overall result.

Competitors have the opportunity to relax, regroup with their friends and refocus before the next stage begins. Competitors are allowed to walk or jog in between stages. The unique concept creates a special and unique social vibe.  The race format also opens up the course to all abilities.

Personally, I think they deliver.  In the first year, there were just 600 runners, last year probably double that number.  I don’t know exactly,  I didn’t count, though I could have done had I taken a clicker with me, as pretty much all of them overtook me at some point on the course.

Why so brilliant?  It might not entirely sound fun to the uninitiated.   I excitedly told a non-running friend of mine about having done it before and that I was doing it all again this year (‘it’s really great – pretty much all off-road; lots of mud and hills and 24 km of running all at one go!’) and she said ‘oh poor you‘, so maybe there are gaps in my communication skills. You’ll have to draw your own conclusions.    It helped me, that the first year I ran as a pair with my  Cheetah Buddy, and we got the most brilliant number EVER by chance.  It is true that we missed out on the comedic potential of the  best fancy dress opportunity of all time by not realising it was in our grasp until we got there, but this was at least partially rectified by Photoshop afterwards:

Last year (2015), as far as I remember it delivered all over again.  The trails were paved with gold.  A continuous archway of rainbows lined the course, and at intervals unicorns appeared in the woods to silently guide our way.  The unicorns in this part of Sheffield actually crap golden nuggets so you could gather those as you passed if you wanted, though most favoured the jelly baby alternative option for ongoing sustenance.  Tables groaned under the weight of jelly babies, bananas and water at the feed stations, and every marshal applauded each runner as they approached them, and then hugged them as a long-lost friend once you reached them.  Volunteer marshals are always intrinsically, probably even pathologically brilliant, but in many races you pass them breathless and faint and don’t get to interact with them all that much beyond a slightly strangled ‘thanks’ as you pass.  The RSR is different, loads of opportunities for hugging and chatting. What’s not to like.  All very nurturing and moving.  I found this account from a marshal’s perspective from a previous RSR, they seem to have had a fun time too!

To turn my head even more with regard to the RSR, I cannot tell a lie, later on I had a brief period of fame (ish), as their unlikely poster girl to promote the 216 RSR so get me and my running fame.  Naturally I am a massive fan of this event.  All in all, I was looking forward to doing it all again on 26 June 2016.  Yay, bring it on.

When I say ‘bring it on‘ I do of course mean that there was a bit of pre-event apprehension this time.  It is weirdly a bit more daunting if you know what you’ve signed up for.    I’d fondly imagined that by the time RSR 2016 came around I’d have lost weight; trained loads; perfected my gazelle like bounce for bounding up the hills.  Best laid plans eh…   These things did not happen.  I have however, learned a little from experience.  My regular hobbit running buddy and I agreed to run together but not as a formal pair.  The idea of running as a pair is great in theory, but in practice I think it’s quite hard to get someone who really is the same pace as you, and if one of you gets injured and has to drop out, well la de da.  It seemed less pressurised to enter as individuals and run together anyway if that seemed to be working out on the day.  I may be deluded in many respects, but not so deluded I was expecting to be in the running (great pun there) for any prizes.  I suppose for competitive dudes out there, the pairs option does give the chance to clean up in a different category, but dear reader, this did not apply to us.  We also were completely committed to the fancy dress option, and that was going to be AWESOME.  We even had a trial run out together in fancy dress to check it out, that was hilarious.  I’d run in fancy dress every day if I thought I’d get away with it!

My Sheffield half-marathon experiences have convinced me that fancy dress is always the way to go if you want to harness the maximum fun and comedic potential of any event (other than job interviews possibly but never say never).  Fancy dress brings you extra crowd support, reduced expectation from  others about your running prowess AND people assume the costume must slow you down.  ‘Naturally, without the 250 gram drag of Roger and Ginger we’d have been way quicker‘ we can say afterwards, should we feel the need to justify our run times at any point.  Secretly, (see magic realism reference above) I was rather hoping the equine assistance would speed us up those hills, that didn’t happen either.

The pre-event recce:

What did happen, is that we went on a recce the week before.  I figured it would help us psychologically if we familiarised ourselves again with the route.  Afterwards we’d know better, where we could push on (yeah right) and where we might best conserve our energy.  This was  a mixed hobbit hashing shared experience truth to tell.  Less team bonding and more team incredulity.  High points were giving parsley to a goat (Betty I think she is), low points were about 7km in when my running buddy stated ‘so, that must be about half way now yeah?’ This was followed by a long pause from me whilst I processed her statement – maybe it was her dry wit?  She was probably being sarcastic.  Careful scrutiny of her face suggested otherwise. ‘Erm, no….’  It took her a while to fully absorb the enormity of this statement.  It wasn’t so much that she was whingeing, more that she was utterly incredulous.  I felt awful, and completely thrown.  It was like I’d broken it to her about the tooth fairy, and knew that shortly I’d have to explain about Father Christmas too.   I wasn’t sure how she would take it, well, I knew it wouldn’t be well, and we were rather a long way from outside assistance…  I thought it was going to be OK at first, as I saw she had slowly registered the logic of my account of the course.  I also pointed out (perhaps cruelly) that there was a tad of contributory negligence at work here, because she had actually run the RSR before in its first year, so it wasn’t entirely unreasonable of me to think that she knew how far it was.  She made a conscious effort to think positively ‘oh well‘ she replied, ‘at least we’ve still got a few weeks to get ready! ‘  This was a bit trickier ‘Erm no.  You know how tomorrow is Saturday?’ I said.  Slowly and deliberately, to avoid any possible further ambiguity.  ‘Yes.’ She said confidently.  ‘And you know the day after that is a Sunday right?’  ‘Yes.’ she replied again.  ‘Well, it’s a week after that‘.  Pause.  ‘Oh.’ I think it would be fair to say morale dipped a bit after that, we made it round, only squabbling mildly as we found ourselves lost coming out of Brincliffe Edge.  A passer-by intervened and pointed us in the right direction so we didn’t have to retrace our steps right back to where we had started from fortunately.  Even so, not quite the confidence giving romp of the  circuit we’d maybe anticipated.  I’m not telling you how long it took, but let’s just say it’s lucky we were still pretty near the summer solstice.  Nice goat though:

The build-up

So, once the awful reality of the distance we would be required to run and the time we had left to us before we joined our start wave had sunk in, we decided that best option was just to do one more joint jog out to pick up our numbers, and thereafter just focus on our tapering.  (I am particularly good at this). We met the Wednesday before the run and did a gentle jog down to Frontrunner to pick up our race numbers.  Even this task turned out to be a bit beyond us as we didn’t know it only opened at 10.00 o-clock.  Never mind, we had a nice detour browsing in a local antique shop, we could have added a bit of extra onto our run instead I suppose, but one should never under-estimate the importance of a good taper, so not worth the risk…  At five past 10.00 we were back trying the door of the shop, and bouncing on one leg the lovely staff member opened up to us.  A cruel and judgemental customer might have thought he was still getting dressed and had been caught in the act of hauling his shoes and socks on, but an experienced runner would instantly recognise he was just doing some one-legged running drills.  After all, everyone who knows anything at all about running, knows it is really a one-legged sport, improved by practising hopping at all and any opportunities (you can thank accelerate Thursday morning breakfast woodruns for that insight!).  He didn’t actually laugh in our faces when we explained about coming in to pick up our race numbers in advance of the RSR.  But then we got in first about perhaps not looking like we’d realistically make it round, but contrary to appearances we would be  giving it a go.  (I bet we were the only two of the hundreds of people who went into Frontrunner to collect their numbers who made such hilarious quips and original observations whilst being horribly over-excited… yes?)   To be fair, he was very encouraging.  We said we’d done a recce, but acknowledged there might have been a bit more walking and talking than actual running going on (we didn’t mention the squabbling) and he said that was the whole point of the RSR so that was fine!  We were  a bit giddy with excitement of pre-race anticipation, and also our 10% discounts.  I bought a new pair of running socks (which are blissful) and my hobbit friend got a visor.  I now have visor envy, but tried to be pleased for her outwardly at least.  I did contemplate going back later and buying one of my own, but then she probably would have noticed if I’d turned up wearing with it on Sunday and I’d look like a stalker.  We also got our numbers and felt VERY EXCITED.  Big up for Frontrunner, they are always really helpful in there and trust me, I’m very needy when I nip in, I’m like a nightmare mystery shopper on acid or something, self-parody is my speciality when it comes to acting the part of the clueless beginner runner to test their customer service.  They’ve done alright so far, though I will always be a bit scared of running shops I think.  They are also good at taking selfies which include a reflection of the RSR venue in their cool shades apparently, so that’s good to know.

With just a few days to go, most important activity was weather-watching.  Mainly it was torrential rain.  It wasn’t entirely heartening to see periodic film clips of flooded crossing and quagmires from the event team.  Participants also helped by supplying snaps of fallen trees blocking the way.  Still, there was a sense of an atmosphere building, and what’s the point of going off-road without extra mud and additional un-mapped river crossings?  The yin of encouragement to the yang of fear was periodic postings of  event T-shirts, water in bottles (as opposed to falling from the sky) and stock piles of jelly babies and post-run refreshments.  All good!

The video clip of a raging river more suited to white water rafting that the organisers thoughtfully uploaded on Facebook the day before helped clinch any indecisiveness about footwear.  No question, rather than debate between trail or road shoes, the jury was definitely decisively in favour of Wellington’s, so that was one less decision to have to wrestle with on the day.  Good oh.

So before I go on, can I just say I’ve used photos from RSR Facebook page as well as friends and fellow Smilies.  The RSR organisers (rather brilliantly) and as in previous years, make the photos freely available, but ask for a donation in lieu.  Good plan and fair enough.  I donate each year, and would encourage others to do likewise.  Bargain I reckon, and a good local cause.

All the event pics are being uploaded to Facebook for all competitors to enjoy for free! The page we are using for donations to Weston Park Cancer Hospital is https://www.justgiving.com/rsr16 in lieu of any good photos! Last year we raised over £1500 lets see if we can beat this target this year!! smile emoticon

Race day rendezvous

Always good to wake early on a race day, need to get that breakfast down nice and early.  Thus I was naturally really thrilled at being woken by a 4.00 a.m. torrential downpour.  Oh well, at least I could listen to the early morning radio play whilst I had my breakfast porridge.  Played Facebook messaging tag with my running buddy over what to wear (Smiley Vest over T-shirt, tick); when to don/ mount horse (last-minute) and moment of leaving house.   This was early morning view from my window by the way.

Who wants to hang around on a street corner with their pony all alone like nobby no-mates for longer than they absolutely have to?  Anyway, all went according to plan, 7.45, slightly over-excited, we two hobbits met with our respective steeds, rearing to go rather than raring to do so (see what I’ve done there?)   We are lucky in being walking distance from the Endcliffe Park starting point, so spared the horrors of driving and parking, so the plan was to meet a short distance away and stroll down together.  opportunities for some early morning mutual photographing were exploited before we cantered down to the start all frisky with excitement.  Maybe our horses were a bit fresh, there might have been some giddy-upping, and whinnying and maybe some bucks and bolting off out of control going on.  Possibly we should have tried to save some of that exuberance for once we were actually underway, but where would be the fun in that?

 

The gathering

So off we trotted to the park.  Once we’d got our steeds under control (Hobbit buddy is on Ginger, and I’m on Roger – see what we’ve done there), we were able to shriek delightedly in recognition as the first person we espied in full marshalling gear was one of our own.  Ready in place, it was fantastic to see a friendly face and get some Smiley motivational pep talk from our expert running club compatriot.  Big shout out to all the marshals, I mean, all of them were fab, but obviously known marshals are even more cause for whooping with delight and recognition. She was positioned at the first critical dibbing point too, an important location, and good to know we’d have sympathetic assistance to call on there in case of need.  She was also sporting a RSR tee – rather good this year I think, though I have a feeling that the white will look less good on me, but we’ll see…  Presume the ‘M’ stands for ‘Marshal’ in case of any ambiguity about her status.  Attention to detail you see – that is what the RSR team have become known for.  Similarly they have carefully erected those railings as a  crowd control barrier to avoid her being trampled in any stampede inadvertently generated as each wave of runners comes past.  Genius.

Once we entered the park, I immediately spotted a group of people ahead of us who were all dressed up as pirates.  Oh good, people in fancy dress!  Except they weren’t, as we got closer, we realised they’d maybe just got a bit carried away with the matching bandanas.  Oh well, easy mistake.  I wonder if people might think we were in fancy dress and not riding actual horses?  Or worse still, think we’d done that really embarrassing thing of doing the race equivalent of turning up to a posh party and finding you were wearing the same outfit as one of the other guests!  Oh the shame!

We arrived pretty early to be fair. We already had our numbers, so just a question of picking up our dabbers, getting a t-shirt (I found I had actually bought one in advance, which I’d forgotten, so it felt like a freebie).  They were £9 in advance £10 cash on the day.  Very cheery T-shirt sales volunteers I felt.  Then there was baggage drop, also well organised, and a Frontrunner stall for emergency purchases.  Deck chairs and various tents and awnings scattered about, music playing, all great for building atmosphere. It has a sort of festival vibe, even more so afterwards when the sun came out.  We started to spot other runners we knew and fellow smilies from our smiley paces running club too.  One big love in basically.  Thought I might have spotted a potential cani-cross entrant, so reckon that vindicated us in going for the equine-assisted passage.   Turned out not to be so, this isn’t a cani-cross friendly event.  Roger and Ginger were made very welcome though.  Rules are made to be broken I guess. Loads of marshals were assembling, and there was a sense in general of the event being made ready for off. All very exciting.

 

The recognition

So we had some mutual ‘hellos’ and a bit of posing:

Hobbit buddy, Ginger, Roger and I were trying to play it cool, but it was always inevitable that we’d get spotted by the paparazzi at some point.  (Honestly, this is for real, magic realism aside, this genuinely happened).  Just as we’d finished posing for our own Smiley assembly shot, a guy with a camera approached us.  He was from Runner’s World magazine (he said, we didn’t ask for ID because we were too star-struck), obviously he saw our cover potential immediately and so asked us to pose for  a picture.  We dutifully posed, asking that our fellow smilies could flank us.  Even if the photo is never used, we have our memories, even if it is, with the caption ‘If they can, anyone can!’ with the strap line ‘trail running just got truly inclusive‘ I don’t care, it felt like external validation.  It also occurred to us, that even if we didn’t finish now, the possibility remained our faces would smile out of some future edition of Runners World for all eternity, forever linking us with running excellence and the sporting elite.  This notion pleases me.  I don’t need to be confronted with the awful truth, the truth at the moment is all horrible, let’s stick with the magical side of the coin rather than the real one.  Pick the version of the story you prefer as in The Life of Pi, that’s my advice.  I haven’t got the Runner’s World shot, but handily, an RSR photographer also got us posing, so here we are again.  Don’t Ginger and Roger make a lovely duo?  How can ignorant people confuse them with camels?  Even one of our own?  I won’t name names though, but I hope they know who they are… ‘I thought they were camels and you were the humps‘ indeed! What was she thinking?

The reckoning

So, because it was all running quite smoothly (even managed to fit in a precautionary pee which was more challenging than you might think as it involved taking a horse into a portaloo) we were all ready to go.  To be fair, we Smilies were split in 8.30 and 8.45 start waves, but a call went up for red, orange and yellow (I think) numbers to assemble, and we got ourselves into the line up – towards the back so the faster runners could charge off unimpeded) and were able to depart together.  This might have been a bit sneaky, but we took the view we’d hold back if we were in the way, but go with the flow otherwise, and that seemed acceptable if not exactly to be condoned.  You have to individually dib your dabber (or should that be dab your dipper, or maybe dip your dibber, who knows?) through the timing thingamajig as you set off, so we probably looked like bees exiting a hive, one by one, but tightly behind one another till a great swarm was heading off down the route.  Here are some Strideout folk demonstrating nicely.  Thank you, good team showing there.  Also my endurer buddies later on, sorry I missed you.

So we were off. Stage one!  You get a handy little race card (not the same as a dance card) that tells you how long each of the 11 sections are.  Bit of feedback for the race organisers, not such a good quality print run as last years, this paper version was in danger of disintegration (last time it was a good quality card, more like a business card kind of thing). Didn’t rain this year, so got away with it, but high risk decision with the paper choices there I feel.

So anyway, even though we’d given one copy to the Runner’s World photographer, we were still equipped with a version for our own reference.  It was well signed as well, and of course we’d done our recce, you’d be unlucky to get lost on this route. One year they even put signs up where you could go astray saying ‘Not this way, turn back/ here be dragons‘ kind of thing, which is another RSR innovation I like.  Didn’t see that this year, but then we didn’t get lost.

Stage 1   :  2.9km Endcliffe Park to Forge Dam – A pleasant gradual ascent leaving Endcliffe Park, up through Bingham Park and Whiteley woods, a stage to take nice and steady through the paved and dirt tracks up to Forge Dam.

Liaison between 1-2  A short walk / jog up past the Cafe to the start of the next stage

We headed out up Endcliffe Park, and espied some super-heroes just arriving coming towards us in the other direction which was good to know.  Presumably to replace the need for any St John’s Ambulance folk.   They are an impressive quartet on the local running scene and a distinctive look to them I think you’ll agree.

We shot off pretty fast (by my standards) there is definitely a buzz from being at an event and being underway.  In next to no time we’d waved in recognition at our Smiling Smiley marshal buddy, and dibbed in and out for the zebra crossing (they are called zebra crossings because of the stripes – who knew that hobbit buddy?  Pelican crossings are weasily distinguishable because of the stuffed pelicans at the side of the road.  There is actually a very useful guide to the five types of pedestrian crossing you might encounter here.  You’re welcome.)  Off up through Bingham park there was a photographer here, but not sure we got snapped (we did pose a lot though, so give it time).

Here is a shot of one photographer who forgot his camera and so was made to run the whole event instead. This is some sort of racing equivalent of forgetting your gym kit at school and being made to do PE in your knickers I think. He seems OK with it though.  Stormed round.

Hobbit buddy and I had agreed to take it easy, but we were in good spirits, and kept our yomp going pretty much up to Forge Dam.  It is fun that, because the race is split into different sections, you get to sprint finish 11 times.  They thoughtfully put 100m to go signs up at the appropriate spot to motivate you to do so.  We took advantage of the breathers at each stage.  Bit of foot massage when needed for rearrangement of bones and muscles in feet, and general chit-chat.  I’d been meaning to ask about what had happened with regard to that outstanding gym membership for ages… plus, was keen for hobbit to come up with some ideas for names for guinea pigs that another friend of mine has just acquired.  Some nice action shots of other runners at this point on the route.  It is possible there was some posing at this point, and some horseying around too:

At one of the other road crossings en route, it was great to see another familiar face from parkrun, Trunce, anywhere and everywhere to be fair (though not a Monday mobster apparently, she is otherwise very well-connected on the local running scene).  Great encouragement, and also a supportive enquiry on the state of our chaffing, and a recommendation for runderwear as the ultimate non-chaffing technical underwear option from wiggle as we passed.  Must look into it.  This kind of expertise and advice is priceless.  I thank you.  I don’t have a marshal shot of her, but I do have one of her running at Sheffield Hallam parkrun the previous day, so here she is, salute our runderwear ambassador if you will.  Looking a confident runner there, no chaffing distractions impeding progress there I’d venture!  Anyways, runderwear is ‘the ultimate chafe-free running experience for committed athletes‘, so clearly right up my street.  I’ll admit I’m tempted.  Though for the record, got away with my M&S standard issue ‘lord-knows-how-old-they-are’ pants today.

Stage 2   :  2.5km Porter Valley Ascent – Up from the Forge Dam Cafe this stage leads us up the porter valley and away from town towards the Peak. The gradual ascent becomes slightly more aggressive half way up leading up. This is possibly the toughest part of the course, a good one to get under the belt early on.

Liaison between 2-3 The “Recovery” Stage along Fulwood road sticking to the trail on the left past the Alpaca farm to Ringinglow road, this stage is nice and flat and will allow for nice recovery after the endeavours of the previous two.

Local knowledge definitely helped for the Forge Dam ascent, it’s our patch, we run it every week (albeit not always with that much emphasis on the ‘run’ aspect of the outing).  I think if you didn’t know the area, it would be a bit of a shock.  We’d already agreed we’d just take it easy-going up and save ourselves for the long haul and whizzy down hill bits later on.  In fact, we got loads of encouragement from other runners.  We did a sort of companionable leap-frog with some other runners who were at a similar pace to us.  And inevitably, at some point the faster runners from the following wave came through so we let them pass and cheered them on.  A few were familiar faces who called encouragement to us too.  Plus there were a few complaints about our unfair advantage what with having six legs each to their two, but most accepted our point that we’d not really thought this through and as Roger and Ginger were more feet or even ‘airs above the ground‘, rather than kicking their heels behind us to give us added forward thrust, they weren’t massively or noticeably contributing to our success.  Nobody really quibbled with that argument.  How could they?  The cafe wasn’t open, so no detour for that.  We didn’t run the whole thing, but we had a reasonable stab at most of it, some bits were really, really muddy, I was very glad of my super expensive but good investment trail shoes.   Hobbit buddy was similarly very glad of her decathlon specials, which astonishingly, though second-hand and cheap to begin with, are the only ones in which she can run with comfort.  Takes all sorts I suppose.

Just as you think the uphill section is starting to take the piss, there is a handily positioned bloke with a pirate flag to call you in.  He was there last year too, same place exactly.  Maybe it’s a variation on Brigadoon, I don’t see him during the rest of the year, but he appears out of the mist at significant times.  HUGE flag, very impressive dimensions, and the flag waver managed to shout individually tailored words of encouragement to each runner.  In our case, he picked up on our team logo ‘Go Smilies’ that’ll do!  So a final scramble up the muddy steps, and that was the worst climb of the run done and dusted, now we met with the feeding station, water, first of many photo stops.  I mean honestly, how cool is it to do a race where it’s not just legitimate to linger at water stations taking photos of each other but positively encouraged.  There were jelly babies a-plenty, mountains of water (mysteriously it did run out briefly later on but was rapidly replenished, but in defence of the organisers it did look like they’d made good provision at the outset, so not sure what happened there).  There were banana halves and trek bars, which looked tempting, but I didn’t risk because I’ve never had them before.  I did gulp down water (mistake, drank too fast) and had jelly babies which I feel really guilty about as I am supposed to be vegetarian.  In my defence as a vegetarian for the past 33 years, the only time I’ve lapsed is by eating jelly babies both whilst running the Sheffield half marathon and the RSR because I can’t seem to find a suitable alternative, and these are so freely available at both those events.  I know, it makes me a terrible human being.  If only I could run fast enough to catch up with one of those vegan runners, I’d quiz them for better options.  Maybe it was bad karma that uncharacteristic jelly baby consumption gave me a stitch for the next section…  who knows.  Maybe the jelly babies were sacrificed for the greater good, or maybe they took their revenge at the shallowness of my conviction by endowing me with instantaneous belly ache.

So, after  the feed station you get a walk to recover and chat down past the alpaca farm (hello Betty, hiya Bamm Bamm and Pebbles).  You pass some cottages in Ringinglow, where when we came through there was a family cheering and clapping next to the Norfolk Arms.  We thanked them for their brilliant clapping, and even put on a bit of a half-hearted jog by way of appreciation even though technically it was a non-running section!  That’s the kind of crowd-pleasing mentality that characterised our efforts all the way round.  They were pleased we were pleased, and shared they’d actually been told off by one of the house-holders for waking them up what with all their loathsome noisy cheeriness and good-humoured public-spirited clapping (bah humbug etc.)!  This kind of censure seems a bit mean to me, it wasn’t that early, and it is only once a year.  I’d be pleased to find some sort of event happening outside my front door of a morning.  Plenty to look at and laugh at with a cup of coffee in your hand without the stress of even having to get dressed and leave your own house.  Oh well, maybe they’ve not seen ‘A Christmas Carol’ yet, they’ll learn…

Stage 3   :  2.5km Limb Valley Descent – Wide open grassy trail, leading into windy, flowing single-track down through the Limb Valley, a real nice downhill section that everyone is bound to enjoy. Our personal favourite.

Liaison between 3-4 – A short walk / jog across the main road and down onto the playing fields to the start of the trailhead.

Next, hiya and thanks to the marshal who pointed us over the style and down Limb valley.  yep, this is a favourite section.  Or would have been if I didn’t have a stitch and increasingly need a pee.  It was still good fun though, a bit squelchy, but also some novelty value at the top as we espied a mystery man with a remote control and realised he’d got a drone overhead to capture us in action.  To be fair, I don’t think it was only us he was hoping to get on film, but we still enjoyed our moment of movie stardom.*  I don’t feel a pressing need to source an agent just yet… though we did speculate on possible sponsorship deals as we ran on.  On balance it’s probably the ride on horse costume manufacturers that would be our best bet to access any funding, we did get quite a bit of interest from other runners in our equine companions, but we don’t want to rule any other options either in or out at this stage.

This bit ended more quickly than I remembered, so we must have been practically ON FIRE.

Stage 4   :  1.8km Ecclesall Woods having crossed Eccleshall road south on the liaison between stages, we are into Eccleshall woods, a favourite with locals. The first section stretches through pine, skipping between roots and pine needles, then up onto the main trail and down through to Abbeydale Road.

Liaison between 4-5 – Along the road past Dore Station and the a left up over the railway and up to the next trailhead, up the stairs to the start of the next stage. We were kind enough not to make the stairs part of the timed section.

I can’t lie, lovely as this section is, I was becoming increasingly preoccupied with bladder issues at this point.  Pelvic floor exercises can only do so much.  Yes, yes, trees, lovely, was this the bit with the miniature railway alongside?  Can’t even remember.  I do remember, that at the first appropriate opportunity I left the path and did the necessary, my mood improved after that.  I’d got to the point where I figured nobody would see me because they’d be too focussed on running ahead, and even if they did, they’d just think ‘oh, there is a runner needing a pee‘ and it’s not like anyone would recognise me, they’d be too busy admiring Roger, in the event, I got away with it.   Phew.

So this recovery section takes you up quite a steep hill, and then massively steep steps.  Somewhat cruelly, the dabber in which to dib at the start of the next stage was right at the top of this muddy vertical challenge. I’m sure in previous years it was further along the woodland track. We joined a couple of other runners who we’d been leap-frogging earlier on (metaphorically, not literally, that really wouldn’t have helped us to progress at all) and stood slightly to one side of the top of the stairs so we could get our breath back before cracking on.  We made a big show of ‘waiting for another runner behind us‘ which hilariously the guy who was waiting took seriously enquiring what they looked like so he could hep spot them whilst the woman who was with him laughed in appreciation of our subterfuge, and explained with a knowing wink that by complete coincidence they were doing the same – they were stuck with a real slow coach apparently, and might be there for absolutely ages!  After a bit, we gave in to the inevitable and on we went…

Stage 5   :  2.5km Beauchief Golf Course – Undulating Single track up and over lady woods, until Beauchief golf course can be seen on the left, the track then hugs the course through the woods popping out onto the road down to the beautiful Beauchief abbey, back into the woods continuing on next to the GC eventually coming out onto the road.

Liaison between 5-6, A short walk across the main road and up the pavement and down into the next set of woods.

In the photo below these aren’t THE Tough Steps by the way, they are a little sneaky run of steps that appeared later on. Truthfully, in terms of my course description, it’s all starting to be a bit of blur about what was when and where.  But this is a nice photo, and it was on the route somewhere.  Be reasonable, it’s not like I’m trying to describe a route to law enforcement officials so they can rescue a kidnap victim or anything, I’m just trying to give you an illustrative vision of a trail race.  If you really want to know what it’s like, don’t waste time reading about it, just go and do it.  It will be better exercise and probably a lot more fun.

Hmm, tricky section to describe this one, as this bit is definitely hobbit country.  In fact, it might have been just as we went into the woods here a kindly participant warned us to be careful as it was bear country too.  The warning was really helpful, we didn’t see any bears at all, because we knew to pass through noisily to keep them at bay. Without such a warning who knows what might have happened.  Although the track is called ‘undulating’ it was quite narrow, early on, though once you’d pulled away from the narrow bit, it opened up quite markedly, lots of room for overtaking and things without having to dive into nettles or risk tumbling down an escarpment down to the railway line for example.  To be fair, we had no problems with other faster runners.  Most just called ‘coming through on your left‘ or something and that was fine.  Did have one moment of hilarity with a runner telling off a group of us for not being in single file, but as it was at a later point in the course when there was a FIELD alongside the wide path, so plenty of room for all of us, we felt she was being somewhat precious.  Making a point about being a ‘proper’ runner to us ‘have a goers’ perhaps?  Well, wait til she sees the next copy of Runner’s World that’s all I’m saying… we’ll see who the proper runners are then won’t we!

Some people have fed back frustrations about having to negotiate with other runners out on the course.  Fast runners feeling blocked and slower ones feeling shoved, but with 2000 runners out there I thought it was pretty good.   Part of the fun is all these interactions in my view.   If you really want an unimpeded run, then I reckon you need to get yourself in the first wave, or accept that this particular event is all about inclusion, and that means there will be slower runners, and it does have a social aspect so be prepared to compromise a bit on times or think again about whether you’d prefer a more out-and-out competitive event.  It’s hardly rocket science…  Personally I love the chattyness of it all.  However socially phobic I normally am, for the duration of the RSR I feel like I have loads of friends. Granted, most of them are closing down on me menacingly from behind initially and then subsequently running away from me again as fast as they can, but that’s understandable.  Anyway, with Hobbit Buddy beside me and Ginger and Roger too, I was never alone on this journey.  If you haven’t ever done it, you can never know how comforting the view through a horse’s ears can be.  The reassuring bob of head going up and down in front of you is very lovely to behold.

Stage 6   :  0.9km Chancet Woods  A cheeky fast short section of flowing undulating singletrack.

Liaison between 6-7, Across the busy A61 and along the pavement up to the entrance to Graves park. The stage starts a little further in.

 Stage 7   :  1.4km Graves Park,  gradual ascent through the mature woods of Graves park, this is another stage to take at a steady pace, up and over right across the park popping out at the main car entrance.

liason between 7-8, Following the main road on the tarmac path up around 500m to the New Inn Pub, turn left onto road here, following to the start of the next trail.

OK, so stages 6 and 7.  Chancet woods, quick sprint through (ish) can’t remember, probably muddy, might have been quite narrow actually now I come to think of it.  I did dive into some nettles at one point to give way, but that was fun because a heap of Smileys and other known runners came hurtling through.  During the liaison bit, we met another runner, who came up with the brilliant suggestion that in subsequent events we do more to pimp our rides.  A bit of cunning disembowelment of Roger and Ginger, and we could maybe have opened up say the legs, and replaced the stuffing with other supplies (gin, chocolate, clean pair of knickers whatever).  I took the point, but he hadn’t factored in that our ponies were real, and so we wouldn’t dream of mutilating them in such a way.  Food for thought though….

The Graves Park section I found a slog.  You are back onto tarmac, and although generally speaking I really like Graves Park (the Graves parkrun is always a hoot),  the RSR doesn’t take in the best bits of this park (apart from one rather dramatic rocky bit that I have never got around to photographing, it looks suddenly prehistoric with dramatic ferns and the vertical rock face with trees precariously on top of it).  Also, the surface of the tarmac felt really slippery.  I don’t know why, I mean obviously there had been loads of rain, but so many runners had been through you’d think any algal bloom might have been worn away by the time we got there.  I even wondered if I felt I was slipping because the tread on my trail shoes was giving a false surface, but I was knackered and not confident to run much (any) of this bit. I did slow hobbit buddy down here, and gave her the option of going on alone, but she heroically refused.  Start together, stayed together (apart from my pee point – which on reflection could have accounted for her mysteriously faster time) and finished together.

Coming out of Graves Park was where I’d got lost on an earlier recce, but this time it was OK.  It is a bit of a walk to the feed station.  (Weird phrase that, sounds like either a bird table or like you’re going to be tube fed, but neither of those options were actually available).  This was a great gathering point.  Like animals in Africa gathered around a water hole.  Loads of people were milling around, and there were plenty of impromptu reunions taking place.  Highly sociable.  More like a drinks party than a race.  Here hobbit buddy and I had some fellow smilies catch up with us.  Cue, massive photo opportunities.  Again, how brilliant to be at a race where you can stop for photos, chat, even ask other runners to take photos for you AND try different location options to create the right ambience.  So it is we ended up with a group photo of all of us together, and some Ginger and Roger  shots re-enacting coming out of the woods and actually ‘in action’ running despite it being a non-running section.  So easy to make your own entertainment in such situations, and indeed to be disproportionately amused in doing so.  I shall let the evidence speak for itself.

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 We were a bit over-excited and quite possibly also on a sugar high by this point.  Maybe that’s why we thought it would be really hilarious to fool another runner into thinking we knew them by all as one shouting ‘hiya David’ to some random runner on the spur of the moment.  This seemed like a good idea at the time.  It arose from us remarking how you forget you have your name on your number, and how disconcerting it therefore is if people suddenly call your name.  We tested this at the next person that passed.  He did look at first, confused, then horrified, and then relieved and amused in equal measure as the sight of us rolling around laughing with our ponies revealed our cunning jape as innocent mischief.  We surely don’t look all that threatening.  He did take off at quite a sprint at the first possible opportunity afterwards though, but probably just competitive runner, not at all that he was trying to escape from us or anything…  Anyway, good to meet you David, or ‘Dave’ as I like to think we are on more informal terms now.  Thanks for being a sport.

Just to break up the text a bit more, here is a gratuitous shot of a tooled up smiley ready for action.  We may look Smiley on the outside, but it seems none of us are to be messed with…  For the record she galloped past us at one point, definitely well in touch with her inner pony, shouting the motivational cry of ‘prancercise, prancercise’ at us in her wake.  I felt a bit emotional on hearing that.  I like to think in my own small way, by spreading the prancercise word, I’ve enabled her to access her own inner equine strength and performance potential.  Roger and Ginger were hobbit buddy and mine outer ponies perhaps, but tooled-up regal smiley has her own pony prancercising within.  It was a timely reminder that if we accessed our inner, as well as outer ponies we would have double the horse-power, genius!  It is a coincidence by the way, that she was already a very capable runner before, I feel confident she would be the first to admit that now she has embraced prancercise (entirely thanks to me), it has allowed her to grow and gallop ever onwards and upwards.  Inspirational running and steeplechasing, I applaud you gunner/ ghost-buster smiley, oh, and you’re welcome!

Hobbit buddy (whilst happily married to her imaginary partner) meanwhile speculated that for running singletons RSR must have pick up potential because of this social side. I’m not sure.  Firstly, I think you’d need some sort of signifier that you were potentially interested and available (but not actually desperate) for opening dating negotiations, and I’m not sure how easy that would be to achieve (tattoo on the forehead perhaps, if that space was not already taken up with a running club buff?) Secondly, I don’t know if flushed, grubby and sweaty from a run is necessarily the best pulling look for all of us.  Still, another one to feedback to the RSR team I think.  They are described as ‘very responsive’ on their Facebook page, so I’m sure they’ll give it some thought in order to keep their 4.9 star feedback rating.

Revitalised with laughter and Smiley smiles, we were off again.  Nearly home now.

Stage 8   :  1.3km Lees Hall Golf Course – This is an exciting fast, flowing trail down between Lees Hall Golf course, down past the academy playing fields, opening up to some great urban views and then diving round to the left and back up towards Meersbrook.

Liaison between 8-9, Along the road in a straight line for about 500m, past the row of shops joining the main road and up to Meersbrook park entrance.

Stage 9   :  0.8km Meersbrook Park – This stage is extremely fast, bearing left along the paved path and hooking right down to the far corner of the park. One for the short distance specialists. Do take care, and don’t go too fast

Liaison between 9-10 Out the park across the A61 following the permanent signs, across to Abbeydale rd and Edinburgh Cycles, turn left onto Abbeydale Rd, and then turn right by the mirror shop for the start of the next stage. Marshalls will be in key positions for this slightly tricky liaison.

The Lees Hall section is fun, pretty much exactly as described, and with a good enough path that you can pick up some speed without wanting to cry with fear.  This photo is within those sections and I picked it because it features one of our temporary running companions en route.  Hello!

Quite a few good snaps from this point too.  Including capturing some of the one-legged running club contingent.  Amazing.  They hopped the whole way round as far as I can see.  Whereas me and hobbit, we just screamed and adopted unflattering gurning facial expressions throughout. Also no mean feat to keep up for 15 miles.

Also, another segment where we seemed to see familiar faces.  I also got to be a bit smug, because turns out I did navigate correctly on our recce.  I just knew that hobbit buddy would be thrilled to be reminded of this quite frequently as we went round.  There were people various enjoying the park, so that was good.  A few shouts of appreciation and recognition from children at our ponies.  Some spectators on a bench who must have been there all day clapping and offering jelly babies who were caught on camera by the drone too.

As Smileys, we also had had a heads up about an official supporters contingent who were on hand in Meersbrook park, supplied with not only a sustaining picnic but also an assortment of children who were particularly excellent at shouting support.  Possibly, some more competitive runners might view this as an unwelcome distraction that might impede their times. However, hobbit and I are sufficiently confident in our athletic prowess that we have nothing to prove.  We therefore felt able to stop and chat, hug, give thanks for support, meet the children and ask about other runners who might have been seen going around before we went on our way.  As we ran off, we agreed that it would be only fair to knock say, half an hour, off our official time to get a true sense of our performance.  We know, don’t need to go on and on about it in a blog or anything…..

Some people really hurtled down this section, we were possibly a bit more cautious.  Above is a photo of someone hurtling, who I can’t help noticing may also have hurtled a bit too horizontally earlier on in the course, but such mud-sliding antics don’t appear to have marred his game.  Saw him at the end too actually, with runderwear ambassador, he had some minor war wounds but will live to run another day.  Good job, well run!

Can we have another marshal thank you interlude?  The support going round the whole way was great.  One shot is of an esteemed Sheffield inaugural Strider I think, on marshal duty, flanked by two other marshals wearing possibly the finest millinery accessories I saw sported all day.   Later on, another Sheffield Hallam parkrun regular, and my buddy on the monster hill for the Sheffield half gave huge encouragement as we approached the streets of Netheredge.  Aw, she is so encouraging.  Thanks for the hug, and for disposing of my empty water bottle for me.  I’m really sorry about your injury, but can’t wait to see you hurtling round the RSR yourself next year.  (Marshals get free entry the following year for either the RSR or the TenTenTen just so as you know).  When you finally get to do the run yourself, you will be carried round on a wave of good wishes, positive vibes and good karma from this year’s runners.  Awesome support all round.  Thank you.

So, where next.  Oh yes,

Stage 10 :  2.2km Brincliffe Edge –  The end is getting close, this urban stage takes you up the road on a gradual climb to Brincliffe edge, keep going up the road and then duck into the woods onto the trail, contouring round, then up and down into Chelsea park, popping out in quiet suburbia on the other side. A few quiet wide streets to negotiate on the pavement before finishing just before Psalter lane.

Liaison 10-11, A nice gentle trot down the hill to Hunters bar roundabout and the entrance to Endcliffe Park saving those legs for the final push knowing the end is in sight.

Now, to be honest, when I was thinking back to last year, with the rainbows, and unicorns and everything I think I must have just completely blanked out this section.  Even when we recced the whole route, I had it firmly in my head that we walked all the road bits.  Alas, not so, outrageously we were required to continue running. I hated this bit.  I’d have cried were it not for the rallying support from our parkrun kindred just at the beginning of this segment to wave us on our way.  Also, didn’t want to let Hobbit, Ginger or Roger down at this point.  It was a trudge though.   It seems that even inwardly reciting (I don’t think I was doing it out loud) the lyrics for ‘horsey, horsey don’t you stop‘ will only encourage you to a certain extent.   Plus, as Roger and Ginger’s hooves were airborne rather than in touch with the ground, it was a challenge for them to ‘Just let your feet go clippety-clop’ homeward bound or otherwise.   Also, they are unshod.  Barefoot horses don’t make clippety-clop noises all that well.  The sun was out, which ought to have been nice, but just made it hot and a slog.

Some faster runners tried to encourage us with a ‘giddy up’ but it was only marginally affective.  There was a ‘caution runners’ sign, but I couldn’t work out if that was to warn other road users about us or vice versa.  One guy went past contorting himself and clutching his inner thighs.  ‘How can you get cramp here‘ he was pleading to anyone who would listen.  I felt like we’d left someone dying of thirst in the desert, but we felt helpless to assist.  It’s true what they say.  You learn about yourself when you run, just remember you might not always like what it is you find out about yourself.  We (or perhaps I should own my statements and say ‘I’) walked on by…  Actually, that last statement is really for dramatic effect.  Pained as he was, he was still making faster progress than me and Hobbit and our equine companions.

Chelsea park was a relief because it meant we were near the end.  Also, good to notice how well the grass there always bounces back after the Fireworks Display each bonfire night.  Excellent ground management.  I’d forgotten though that we had to keep running on the roads afterwards. This bit I did not like.  It’s unavoidable though, but I can quite see why I had entirely erased it from my memory.  I will again in time for next year.

The final liaison bit, we drifted into complete idle chit-chat about whether or not hobbit buddy should invest in a T-shirt and if so, whether to stop at a cash point somewhere en route to facilitate this purchase.  Then she had to phone her imaginary husband to arrange a rendezvous time and point for when we got back.  Very practical and helpful for childcare purposes these recovery sections.  We ended up doing a detour in Hunters Bar to find one (a cash point, not an imaginary husband).  Hilarious really, a running race event where you can do this.  Some kindly runners called after us, thinking we were lost, but we weren’t, just distracted.  Money was taken out of the cashpoint and we rejoined the route for the final bit.

Stage 11 :  0.4km Endcliffe Park Finish – A final flourish, starting at the park entrance up onto the park itself where you will join the marked course for the dash for the finish outside Endcliffe park cafe. You will be greeted by fellow competitors, adulation from the crowd and if you wish a cold beer!

Now, I can’t help but notice this blurb mentions a ‘flourish’.  Hmm, depends what you mean by flourish.  I’d already done some negotiation with my hobbit running buddy, and we’d agreed on a half-hearted jog to show willing once we entered the final section, but that I wouldn’t manage to sprint the whole 400 metres.  We did want to cross the line together, that was important.  Anyway, we did our dib dab thing, and trotted off for a bit.  Then reason got the better of us.  No-one was watching.  We decided to just walk for a bit, as nonchalantly as is possible when you have a pony strapped round your waist, and only started running once we rounded the corner of a hedge that had previously hidden our progress, and saw the crowds lining the last few yards of the finish line come into view.  It was great that last bit.  There aren’t many spectators going round, so when you suddenly see the crowds at the finish it really makes your heart race.  We picked up a bit of speed and enjoyed the applause and shouts of recognition as we headed under the glorious inflatable arch.

Job.  Done.  Yay!

One final dab out, and a medal each, we weren’t sure whether it should go to our horses or to ourselves.  Mine went on Roger for a bit, but did end up rather a lot round my neck later.  You can then pick up an instantaneous print out of your times as you return your dib dabby thing, and fall into the arms of your Smiley compatriots, all of whom finished hours ago, but who was noting that?  Incidentally, other running clubs and familial/friendship options are available, but if you don’t have those, most members of Smiley Paces are free and easy with congratulatory hugs in case of need,  just ask. There was an official photographer, though he missed our crossing the finish line.  Never mind, we could do our mandatory post-run selfies anyway.  Hobbits are brilliant, hobbits on horses? Better still!  I’m still nursing some poorly repressed visor envy though, hope it wasn’t too obvious…

The aftermath:

So this is what we ran round according to strava, 14.9 miles in total and 1684 ft elevation, which is quite a lot actually:

More of a rhombus than a circle some would say.  Good route though, really nice.

The goodie bag

So you get a plastic co-op bag (that’s worth 5p now for a start) and can join the queue to sweep the goodie bag table.  On offer was water, banana halves, trek bars (definitely energy bars, made my teeth tingle and I couldn’t eat it, I’m sure they would be really good for ultra-runners who needed a calorie fix though) and this weird drink thing.  I had an iced coffee one.  Really liked it, quite a thick consistency, and it might be that it was just perfect for after a run and less desirable in ‘real life’ (like a wine you love on holiday and find out to be truly disgusting if you try it at home out of context).  Great recovery gloop drink though.

Post event festival

So job done, there was a lot of gathering around in the sun.  Because the weather was so good, loads of people lingered soaking up the atmosphere in deck chairs and making the most of the pizza and beer tent options.  This made it a bit harder to regroup in terms of spotting people in the crowd, especially as we hadn’t made a Smiley post-run rendezvous plan.  Other local running clubs pulled this off with greater aplomb and could be seen cavorting with one another in Dionysian post-run revelries.  Good for them.

Truthfully, I was feeling stiffness setting in, unlike my hobbit buddy who was behaving like a hobbit possessed, feeling not just fresh, but up for going round all over again.  Runners high is one thing but she seemed to me to be oxygen-deprived delusional quite frankly, but in a good way.  I declined the offer, but am up for next year.  I took in the atmosphere for a bit, and then headed home for a bath and a lengthy appointment with my sofa afterwards.  Wish now I had stayed for a bit longer as I missed out on an impromptu reunion with my Endurer Dash buddies  Love you guys, sorry I missed you, I expect it was just that we whizzed round so fast with Ginger and Roger we left you for dust, nothing to do with the fact that you started 2 hours after us.

In conclusion:

Once again, a fab day out.  A few niggles for some this time, but I think that’s inevitable as the event has grown and I’m really confident the organisers will look at feedback and sort anything that needs sorting.  Thank you RSR team, marshals, fellow runners one and all for restoring faith in human nature at a time when restorative powers are very much needed.  Thank you especially those out and about who gave equine related puns by way of encouragement, and laughed at our somewhat lame (gettit) return quips too.  Thank you for the prancercise shout out, and the ‘go hobbit’ cries too.  All the interaction helped get me round.   Also, seemed to be a bit of a thing today about coming to the event in matching outfits.  Who thought of that?  Loads of runners did that, never seen so many colour coordinated teams, running club team vests en masse are a glorious thing to behold!  Special thanks to hobbit buddy.  We did it, we are awesome.  Full trail marathon next I reckon!

Oh, and in case you were wondering, she did make her rendezvous, so happy families all round, even able to take advantage of Mr Pullins very splendid inflatables.  Endcliffe Park has everything it really does.  I do like happy endings.

I shall leave you with a smorgasboard of atmospheric photos to browse and enjoy.  Well, that’s the plan anyway, I’m going to add to them as more and more photos become available.   I love looking through photos post an event from the comfort of my sofa.  You can relive all the thrills and spills without having to do any actual running in the cold and wet.  Genius.  Have you made your donation in lieu of RSR photos yet?  Hope so:

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What a day eh, what a day.  The only thing that would improve this event for me would be mandatory fancy dress, but then again, that would only add to the competition for coverage by Runner’s World, so sometimes it really is best to stick with the status quo.  Don’t you think?   More unicorns would be good though.  Just saying.

As for the morning after the day before?  Well, we have our memories, and some also have extra straw for their allotment, so I say, everyone’s a winner!

 Same time next year everyone?  Good oh! 🙂

*UPDATE:  So, we didn’t make the final cut for the film version of the RSR (too expensive probably) but there is a very fine  video of the RSR 2016  made possible ‘thanks to JS Collective – Video/Photo & Orbit Media Ltd’ apparently.  Great capturing of the occasion, and a stunning showcase for Sheffield to boot. Aren’t we lucky?  Hope we are still the greenest city in Britain when Amey have finished with their chainsaws.

Venturing over the threshold – into the Local Independent Running Shop

Imposter syndrome.  The paranoia I experience when thinking about stepping over the threshold into a running shop has a name.   That sense that I will be unmasked as a non-runner at any moment.  My flailing physique and limited grasp of running jargon will betray me.  However much the staff may have tried to perfect the art of appearing to be non-judgemental in the face of overwhelming evidence of lack of running prowess, they will surely crumble confronted with my self-evident ineptitude.  They may not actually laugh and point, but something within them may die as they try to convey some crucial detail about the relative merits of different sorts of running socks and come to realise that I am experiencing their insights as white noise.  I want to understand, I really, really do, but the learning curve is practically vertical, the concepts alien and as I try desperately to keep up with the key points of the debate I feel my understanding slipping away from me and a rising sense of panic akin to that experienced in school ‘games’ (what a misnomer is that) sessions, when waiting to be picked for a team.  Oh the horror, oh the shame.  As someone who previously only ever purchased my ankle socks in packs of three along with the groceries at Asda, it was a shocking realisation that socks could be so pricey and so complex…. and even more of a revelation that actually, they do make a difference.  Who wants blisters running, a good pair of socks are indeed a fine investment, but oh my, the time it took to get to that outcome, that was a painful lesson indeed…

I like stationery shops – I nearly said stationary shops, which would greatly upset the grammar police, who are many and manifest, though I suppose a shop that stays still may be dull and predictable, but does have some merit.  My appreciation of stationery means I do sort of get how for some even the scent of a running specialist shop can set their hearts racing.   I can get very excited over pencil types and post-it notes.   Others can lose themselves amongst rails of running gloves or bins of discounted running tights; gaze at racks of technical tops; lovingly tease themselves by caressing display pairs of fell shoes and positively drool over the gadgetry on offer that may pare precious micro-seconds off their personal bests.  For them, time stands still in such an environment, they could die happy amongst the buffs and Garmins inhaling the heady scent that is a mixture of deep heat and fresh sweat from other runners similarly browsing this playroom for runners,  each for now suspended in their own personal paradise.

Unfortunately, this is not me.  I feel out of my depth, and this is compounded by my perception that many running shops – particularly the independent ones, are managed and/or owned by actual runners who know what they are talking about.  This means that on the one hand you can access remarkable expertise, but on the other it is inevitable I will be exposed as a ringer, fraudulently crossing the threshold.  Plus I fear I will disappoint, they have all that expertise, and I need help in knowing how to thread the laces on my trainers properly.  (No, really, I do – it was a revelation to me when I discovered a way to secure them with a back-loop thing through that mysterious ‘extra’ eye hole that I always thought was an implausible design statement rather than a functional feature).  My anxiety is further compounded because too many running shops seem to stock specialist women’s clothing that is entirely based on the physique of an adolescent boy’s fantasy girlfriend.  This fictitious creature dresses only in violent pinks apparently (turquoise or sparkly purple at a pinch) and, being solid muscle,  has a physique that is ideally suited to donning a compression-Lycra size six vest with no inconvenient wayward bust to ruin the line and fit of the garment.  For me, a middle aged hobbit, running shops are places to be feared.  They play havoc with my already fragile self-esteem

Nevertheless, I do recognise in my heart of hearts, that if  I can over-come this phobia, the pay off is usually significant.  Access to professional expertise and knowledge.  I don’t go to my local independent running shop very often – mainly just to pick up race numbers or for something really specific, like a head torch, but I’ve never made a dud purchase there.  They do know their stuff and care about getting it right, I’d never have the confidence to buy online, and they will take the time to help.   The time has come, I have a couple of purchases that I ‘need’ to make, and I can’t do this alone.  I am still not confident enough to just breeze in though, I phone ahead first.   It will be easier to fess up to my base level of ignorance over the phone than face to face, I can hide my phone-number and identity, if necessary lie about my name, and talk through a scrunched up tea-towel, then if I’ve over-stepped the neediness mark, they will never be able to trace me.  Other people phone ahead to shops, granted, normally because they are celebrities in need of personalised and confidential services, rather than because they are so needy they feel they need to give the proprietors the opportunity to close shop for the day rather than stay open to serve them, but the principle is the same.

So, my ‘necessary’ purchases were as follows:

1. Trail running shoes.  I had a perfectly OK pair of Innov8 ones, but over time they have started to develop open wounds on the inside heel of the shoe where the fabric has rubbed away.  My cheetah running buddy carried out extensive surgery on them with plasters and special padding to prolong their life.  I helped by drinking coffee and looking on whilst she did this repair on my behalf.  I think it’s called strategic incompetence, or possibly ‘taking the piss’ I’m not sure.  In any event she did rescue me for a bit.  However,  on my most recent run out this patching technique finally failed, that, combined with complete saturation of my socks and shoes following poor decision making during bog-crossing on Eyam moor led to me having trainers full of water for the last few miles home resulting in open wounds in my actual heels, misery, and me falling out of love with my trail shoes.   Replacement is therefore genuinely necessary.
2. Less essential, but highly desirable.  I have been flirting with the idea of entering the technological age.  I’ve not been able to participate in some recent club running challenges because I lack a gps watch of any description and a strava profile.  No-one is more surprised than me to discover that I am starting to realise I may be missing out.  However, I am what might be charitably termed a late-adopter with technology.  I still lack a smart phone, and whilst I’m not actually stupid, and I daresay I could be more IT literate if I could be bothered to engage in using it,  I lack patience in learning technical stuff and I’m not really interested in how things work, I just want them to do so.  The thought of having to learn how to get all these things up and running has been a major deterrent in entering the strava age, but it seems the time has come to be dragged kicking and screaming into this brave new world of monitoring distance, altitude, terrain and pace.    I fear it, but it is inevitable.

There is no doubt in my mind, these desires do necessitate that I step across the threshold of a running shop, but I am too fearful to do this without testing the waters first.  Hence the anticipatory phone call.  I ring the day before my planned visit in.   I state my aspiration to join the technological age, but my utter ignorance in how to do so.  It is actually a bit of a relief to come out, and not as bad as I feared.  Yes, they can help, I just need to bring down my laptop (of course I don’t have a smartphone, what do you take me for?) and they can help set me up. I could have cried with gratitude.

 

Even so, I felt pretty nervous heading down to the running shop for the consultation and shopping.  This is ridiculous. The running shop is very local, just a quick walk through the park to get there. The guys that run it are really knowledgeable and friendly, but I still feel a bit like I’m trespassing when I go in. I don’t feel I have quite earned the right to be there as they are very talented and knowledgeable runners and I’m… well, I’m  not. They have given me great advice in relation to equipment in the past – see previous reference to head torches – once again I am to throw myself on their mercy.  They will have to work hard to earn any profit today.

I step over the threshold just after opening time.  Initially I can’t see anyone around.  I wonder if they have actually taken the precaution of hiding as soon as they saw me approaching on the CCTV.  When I lived in Leamington and was self-employed, I used to use the local post office almost daily.  Raj the  postmaster there hilariously used to dive under the counter to hide from me every time I called in – how we laughed!  I like to think it was our little joke, but maybe it was just an early warning sign of how shop staff and proprietors all seek to avoid me given half a chance?  Who knows.   (No answers on a postcard please, some things are better left unsaid).  Well, if they were trying to hide, they weren’t very good at it, because soon enough the guy appeared.  It was like  in Mr Ben, where the proprietor of the fancy dress shop magically materialises as if from thin air.  Anyway, once he’d made eye contact, I had him in my powers.  I explained the projects, and he remembered my call from yesterday and was up for the challenge.  At just this moment a friend of his called in bringing a hot cup of coffee and a mince pie.  I came between this man and those refreshments.  The guilt will haunt me possibly forever.  Such was his professionalism he said he was fine without them, but how could he have been?  It isn’t possible is it, to be deprived of a caffeine fix seems cruel and inhuman treatment to me.

So first up, technology.  I am illiterate re running GPS gadgets so just went with the recommendation which for those of you who care about such things, was for an entry level tomtom, which was set to charge up on my laptop whilst we looked at shoes.  Sorry, trainers, or do you call them running shoes?  I don’t know actually.

The fitting of shoes was altogether a bit more problematic, I do have hobbit feet, and whilst I am aware of this there was some metaphorical dancing around the issue as the poor proprietor guy tried desperately to avoid using the Bunion word, for fear of causing offence.  Throughout his linguistic acrobatics I blinked  expressionlessly into space, wondering how on earth he would maintain this feat of not stating the obvious, when my deformed feet with arthritic rigidity, combined with bumps and swellings that would add interest to any landscape are  nigh on impossible to ignore.  He did pretty well, working largely with euphemisms like ‘individual foot structure does vary’, and ‘it’s actually very common for feet to be a bit asymmetrical’, even experimenting with ‘there is always some getting used to with any new shoe’ and so on.  I did actually think he might achieve this seemingly impossible goal, and so it was I really felt for him when he eventually said ‘the thing is, I’m not saying it is a bunion but with a widening of the foot in the mid area… ‘ he’d failed in his evasions.  It reminded me of that time I’d had some 12 year old girl do a fitness assessment on me at the gym, and watched her writhe in agony as she plucked up the courage to tell me that according to her computer print out that calculated my BMI based on height and weight I was actually fat.  It was as if this news would come as an absolute shock to me.  I was quite tempted to let out a shout of horror, screaming into a void with ‘Noooooooooooooo, it can’t be so, I had no idea?’   Likewise with my feet, I am all too aware of their idiosyncrasies, it really is OK to call them what they are.  Arthritic, and in possession of bunions.  Frankly, it’s a miracle I can walk, let alone run.  Let’s just celebrate this achievement in the face of adversity and not agonise over the terminology.

Anyway, it seems that whilst gadgetry is great, the shoes are also from the fantasy girlfriend range on the whole.  This fictitious individual has sleek, petite narrow feet instead of big round plates like me.  She also has feet of the same size, so doesn’t have to try on every shoe in the shop, to the repeated complaint that one seems too tight whilst the other seems too big.  There was a great deal of getting on and off the treadmill, repeatedly trying different trainers on and off.  I found it nigh on impossible.  The sad truth is that I’ve never been wholly satisfied with any shoes I’ve ever bought, it’s always a question of least worse option because I’m always in pain when I run.  I still hold on to this dream that one day I’ll find a pair that make me feel light, pain free and like I could run for ever, but this miracle is yet to occur.  In the meantime I fret and sweat over the available options.  I’m so used to my existing shoes that even though they’ve started to give me heel blisters they still fall into the category of ‘the devil I know’.  I was in the shop for hours.  I feel some guilt, because that’s a couple of hours of his life the poor guy will never get back, but equally, I suppose it is an occupational hazard in his job, and it was not an insignificant purchase in the end.

Eventually I settle on some Brookes which are a half size bigger than I usually wear, and are an acceptable level of discomfort, especially with some deft re-lacing courtesy of the shop guy who found a bunion-avoiding strategy to ease some of the pressure – check out that corsetry below.  Phew, it was hard work!  They don’t sell them muddy by the way, this is them picture taken after their first trial trail run on Christmas Eve.

Back to the tomtom setting up process.  This brought about further paranoia, as the helpful proprietor knew my name, and used it throughout our discussion.  On the one hand, this was companionable and quite friendly and appropriate.  On the other, how the hell did he know me?  I don’t go in very often, am I really so demanding that I am now recognised (and dreaded) within the running community?  It was only when I got home that I twigged it’s because my name comes up on my laptop as I log in.  Duh.  Anyway, there isn’t anything very much to remark on in terms of setting me up with my tomtom and strava.  Basically, this was all achieved by magic, whilst I looked on.  He even set up a request for me to join the Smiley Paces running group on Strava, that’s surely quality service.   It does indeed look straight forward to use now it’s on my computer, but I think impatience would have got the better of me if I’d tried to put it all on myself.  I am quite excited about whether or not this gizmo will motivate me to get out more, I think it may, we shall see.

So just a little question of emptying my bank account into Frontrunner’s, but I do not begrudge them, they are fab.  I also got a ‘free’ T-shirt for spending over £100 (quite a lot over actually, but hey ho, seeing as it’s Christmas).  It is in fetching purple.  I got medium.  I could fit into the small, but it was rather unforgiving, so I prefer the more drapery option whereby fabric gently wafts over my spare tyres blurring my silhouette into a less clearly defined form.

So, that was me, enduring swamping, as a technique for over-coming my running shop phobia.  You know, when you get exposed to the thing you are scared of as a technique for becoming de-sensitized to it?  I don’t think I’ll ever experience relaxation in a running shop, I feel too out of place, but I was happy with my purchases.  Plus, it gave me a bit of a boost to my confidence that nobody actually laughed in my face, and whilst he  didn’t take the opportunity of watching me using the treadmill  to talent spot me as their next sponsored runner, my running mentor did engage in small talk around whether  I was planning to do the Sheffield Half in a few months time, implying such an idea is not actual insanity. Stranger things have happened it would seem….

So thank you nice folk at Frontrunner for helping me out.  I shall enter 2016 fully equipped to take on the running trails with gusto.   Bring it on!