The photo you see on the header of this blog, Lowry like stick men heading towards a sun filled vanishing point against a blue autumnal sky, means a lot to me in many ways. I can recall the day I took it. I didn't run, but watched Pete and Jason...and regretted it instantly. It was a race up from Birch Vale. A lot of up. I side stepped a gem, frightened by the notion of tackling the terrain up there. But this photo is one I kept coming back to. I've tried to paint the scene a number of times, but failed to capture what I see in the photo, or in my head.
Soon after that race, I started this blog, and photos have been the major part of it, with a few words to stick them together. I've never once considered changing it. The reason I mention this, I had a text from Pete on Saturday. You can see the words...and the response. I've not raced for well over a year, and aside from a compulsion to reject his kind offer, I couldn't. He'd got me...I couldn't say no. To be fair, he didn't really know much about it, what the race was or where it started. Jason knew...a man arrangement, just enough 'need to know' details.
It did in fact turn out to be the same race from my photo. I can't say I recognised it, though there was a faint memory. The weather did a fine job of hiding the romance of my memory from that day in 2010. But on Sunday, Clodagh was in charge, the wind howling a gale. Orange triangle weather. Anyway, it's clear I've forgotten how to race. By this I mean all the preparations. There was the usual nonsense in the car as Pete and I discussed what to wear. With each response, each of us changed our mind...
'Well if you're not wearing a hat, then I'm not wearing gloves'. Part of the ritual. We decided it was best not to take our cappuccinos to the race entry tent. This was Pennine territory, and I was already feeling out of my depth. There was the usual race briefing where a man stands at the front, shouting at you but pointing away, in the direction of where we'd be running. Of course, he'd turn in that direction also, and all we heard when he faced us was repitition of the word 'up', a few 'along's' and curiously the word 'fun'. Then we were off. And up.
My lack of fitness was stunning. A real awakener to my true running status just now. The weather was shocking, but I loved it. Battered by the wind, it was like being drunk, but on speed. It was impossible on the top of the final descent to predict where your feet were going. Leg turnover was furious, the ground rough, but simply no control over where you went, irrespective of the direction you were pointing. Then there was the scenery. As beautiful as my blog photo is, this was the opposite. Dark, angry and gnarly...and just as beautiful.
I'm not bothered how or where I finished. On days like these, it's not about the running. It's everything else. Pete also enthused about the atmosphere of the race. It cost us £2 to enter. I can't even begin to quantify the value in that. It's a notional amount, absurdly low, not worthy of discussion, yet that in itself, a formality, frees you to get on with what these races have to offer. I found some of these Photos on a Flickr site of Nick Ham and show them here because they illustrate what a great event this was...and this last one, like mine from 2010. Almost identical!
