Mad Max Runs

I do not like that DNF, I do not like the miles I left. I do not like that memory - Of quitting time, of stopping me. I do not like the dream replay, I'm at mile 70 every day. No bones were sticking out my leg, I cracked just like a broken egg. Two points of pride are what I've left, Along with one fat DNF. It's not Shakespeare but it's all I've got at the moment. Tell you what, had I known the level of torment that Ridgeway 86 conclusion would deliver me, I'd have mulled it over a bit longer.  I don't know that I could have physically done things any differently to be fair, but to say I'm haunted by the outcome is a bit of an understatement. It's also significantly unfortunate. But more so, I think it's just mostly about the unfinished business. So seeing as I was struggling to identify the perfect way to mark my 50th birthday next month, this is now a no-brainer. I retired at 8:47 am. So on my birthday, October 28, at 8:47 am, I will set ...

Who knew a cinder block could be so comfortable? May well have been at The Four Seasons, that. Solid underneath and a place of rest. Again. My goodness, what a journey was that Ridgeway (not)86. To my right, the path up to Waylands Smithy, tucked neatly behind a curtain of mist. Ahead, a young man and woman who'd just passed, while eyeing me curiously to determine whether I needed some kind of assistance or perhaps some kind of rubber room.  Neither, friends. Just a bed. It seems that my thousand mile stare is also hideous at maths, as it must have gone light years by then. And out there ahead, more fog swallowed up those two people walking with feet that weren't battered by miles, and effort, and hills and chalk and...and...and... There's me, so slumped over I may well have been boneless, taking one deep breath after the other to regain control of my breathing, regain some mental focus, make some decisions. I looked around again, closed my eyes and shook my head....

Surrounded by the inky Shropshire pre-dawn sky, I sat cross-legged in the road, hand torch clenched between my teeth, shining feebly over a map of the area. I'd fortunately been meticulous in marking up my desired route on the map, which is extra lucky, as the GPS I'd finally begun to rely on had just lost connection. I managed a(nother) stream of cursing around the torch without it falling, so that's something. My watch was looped around my vest, still running, still ticking away the hours, still chasing cutoff times. One lead connected it to the charging block in my pocket, while I'd been swapping another between phone and headlamp for a few hours, currently settled on the lamp. I frowned and leaned over to get a closer look at the map in a desperate attempt to identify my position on the planet, and the charging block flew out of my pocket for the first time of what would be many before this seemingly endless night was done. To say I was tired of being lost in ...

This was a two stick job, no bones about it. Three if you count the Buzzer baton, but that  has now apparently transformed into a sausage , if you believe Dave Payne of Ultra Challenges. I'm not sure where to begin as per, when something so massive has exploded and been once again left simmering, with swollen knees, brain fog and lungs full of wheeze from an overabundance of hay-smelling farms and pollen. It was a lumpy sort of weekend. That kind of weekend I suspect I'd have absolutely smashed, howling in the most triumphant of triumph - would I have been injury free. But (very stupidly, in retrospect) I told those tendons I'd injured by merely tying my shoes too tight (the shame of it all) that they weren't going to take me down, I'd be 'aving them. So I went in the car and up up up to Kendal therewith that magical Realbuzz Baton whispering sweet nothings in my ear. "Go forth and Buzzzzzzzz..."  It's what I do after all. There has never m...