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Durham Coastal Half Marathon
Two races in one week! Sunday morning found me with a couple hundred other runners at Nose's Point in Seaham for the Durham Coastal Half Marathon, a trail-ish half following the line of the coast from Seaham down to Crimdon Dene, just outside of Hartlepool. We take Ghyll walking along these trails pretty often, so a lot of it is familiar territory to me.
We started out under sunny skies but dark clouds in the distance forebode. I started near the back so for the first half hour or so I focused on trying to squeeze past folks and avoid stepping on any heels. Soon we were heading deep into Hawthorne Dene for a bit of a loop—slower going on the climb to the top of the dene but easy miles on the way out and along the relatively even clifftops heading towards Easington.
At a small aid station I scarfed a handful of jellybeans and a cup of water and continued on my way. A short spell behind a slower runner on an overgrown path gave me a chance to catch my breath, and then it was into the up/down/up at the mouths of Warren House, Blackhills, and Limekiln Gill. This last is familiar territory, being Ghyll's favourite beach—today packed with dogwalkers trying to beat the ominously advancing bad weather.
At Blue House Gill I'm passed by a man from Billingham Running Club who asks whether I was part of the group that got lost and ran down the beach instead of following the trail along the clifftops. I tell him no, and boil with secret envy at his avoidance of the awful overgrown climbs I've been navigating for the last half hour. A little while later, I'm overtaken by a European guy—Italian, I think—who seems to be taking at least twice as many steps as me. He encourages me vigorously and I run with him for a little while. I overtake him again just before we enter the holiday park above Crimdon but he keeps with me all the way to the end.
The descent through the Crimdon Dene car park makes me feel like a movie star. People double-take and leap out of their way with strollers and pint-sized dogs; cars yield. (This is, I think, how people react to movie stars.) I hurtle down the final hill towards the finish line and cross at what feels to me like great speed but which, on viewing the footage that Sam takes of the moment, turns out only to be average speed. I come to an abrupt stop and collect a medal, three cups of red cream soda, and a lukewarm bottle of Staropramen lager. It takes like victory.
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Saltwell Harriers Fell Race
A Tuesday evening fell race in Weardale saw me out in the light wind at the top of Crawleyside bank with some 80 other people to run across open moorland just about as fast as we can. A total distance of less than 10 kilometers promised a fast race, but the thick heather and tall swaying grasses would prove to put up a tough fight.
The start of the run took us across the moor to the old mining road up ill-fated Collier Law, where once upon a time I broke a metacarpal. No such foul luck this time: I made it to the top of the hill with nary a stumble.
Then following a fence along a gentle decline for a while: high knees required to clear the heather overgrowing the trod sapped me of my energy even while descending. By the time I reached Park Head I was puffing.
A short traverse took me to a long grassy descent to Stanhope Burn. Reasonably clear quad bike trail here, which helped me catch my breath before a short, precipitous descent into the burn itself. By longstanding tradition, runners of the SHFR must climb into the burn, punch their race number on the far bank, and then continue on their way. I wondered privately if I would ever finish a fell run with dry feet.
Soon we reached some old cottages on the burnside and hung a sharp left to start the climb back up to the finish line. I'd expected this climb to be a real doozy but I felt pretty good by the end, and even finished alongside another Strider, 10 seconds under the 1-hour mark.
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The God of Small Things
by Arundhati Roy
Published 1997 340 pages
It's not a bad book. I like the way that language gets recontextualised via the perspective of children, although I think it gets a little heavyhanded after 300 pages. I like the nonlinear structure: it gives the book a sort of fatalistic quality. Things don't happen; they've always been and always will be. This means that elements of the past and future are constantly insisting upon the present. The prose was a little flowery, but mostly vivid, extremely sensory.
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Now
Back from France and settling in for the rest of the summer. I was expecting long days with the windows open; what I got was scattered thunderstorms and 9 degrees Celsius. Grab your sweaters.
Since the Fellsman, running has been sporadic. I tweaked my knee during the event, and while I'm not hobbling or anything, I've been dealing with a variety of knee sorenesses since then that have kept me from putting in the miles. At the same time, I think I'm still stuck in the mental frame of running for hours at a time. So I've been going short runs that don't satisfy during the week, and then log runs that mess up my hips and knees at the weekend. I just need to get back into a regular schedule, even out the training load, and make another appointment with my one yoga YouTube video.
Beyond that, it's been pretty quiet around here. We're trying to make a push on finishing the projects that we've got started around the house: the tiles that we started in January (!), a doorframe that's rotting away a bit, the wardrobe upstairs. Trying to get properly back into reading after the slog that was Dhalgren. The long days are a boon, but the crummy weather has put a damper on our attitudes.
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Some photos from France
In the long North American tradition of sharing photos from your recent trip to France:
A lovely sunny day in Bohan-sur-Semois:
And later in the trip:
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