The Last Post Before I Heed the Lone Piper's Call

pre-scriptum: I don’t expect the logistics to be of interest to you. But at least I know where to find them if TripIt fails!

Right then – short one, this one. I hope.

Got a race on Saturday. Therein lies a cue that some runners will pick up on regarding the type of race. Most races take place on Sundays… still affording tramps like us the time to recover enough to put in a shift the following day…

…whereas Saturday’s (not ‘Sunday’s’) is one of those where the word ‘race’ is totally inappropriate, but still gets used through lack of alternatives. Few runners enter any competition over any distance to win, but can at least enjoy a race against themselves and against time. But on ‘races’ like Saturday’s, even time is of relatively little interest… it’s all about finishing…

Yup, it’s one of them Ultra things!

It’s the Highland Fling, to be accurate. Or the Hoka Highland Fling Ultramarathon, to pay the sponsors their dues. It’s a 53-mi run along the lower half of the West Highland Way. Good old Wikipedia tells us that “the route is commonly walked in seven to eight days, although many fitter and more experienced walkers do it in five or six”. Well, just as well we’re only doing 53 of the 96 miles then, because unless we’re at least 40.9mi in eleven and a half hours we won’t be allowed to continue!

Now, you won’t be getting a day-by-day account of the week building up to it, as I recently wrote for Manchester. And that’s not out of superstition: quite simply, that was a marathon. I was fine-tuning pace, keeping a close eye on each and every mile split, contemplating implications and permutations of every additional second per mile. Saturday’s all about getting round. Whereas for a marathon a minute either way is a big deal, come Tyndrum I won’t be fussed about how many hours it’s taken us. As long as we get to Tyndrum!

From a running perspective, I do genuinely believe Ultras to be simpler affairs. Not ‘easier’ as such, nor ‘less painful’, rather ‘simpler’ on the brain. What the day itself lacks in complexity, however, it more than makes up for in the packing stakes… especially with regards to food!

What food do you need for a marathon? Some carb-heavy food for carbloading, maybe a pre-race energy bar, something sweet (ShotBloks, jelly babies… whatever!)… maybe some gels… and you’re about sorted! Critically, you can run a decent marathon with just something like ShotBloks on you and rehydrating at the official stations. I know that because that’s how I’ve run my two 3:31’ maras. Whereas figuring out what food to pack for an ultra…

…let’s put it this way: I expect to set off on Saturday morning (at half past blinkin’ six!) with granola, flapjack, chocolate and energy bars and the ubiquitous ShotBloks. Oh, and water. I equally plan to have drop-bags containing cold pizza, pork pies and bananas waiting for me at the designated stops in Balmaha (20mi in), Rowardennan (27), Inversnaid (34) and Beinglas (41). And defizzed Coke for the final half-marathon… Whatever you’ve learnt about in-race nutrition for marathons goes out of the window in the land of Ultras! If you glanced in our fridge right now you’d think we were planning one mightily unhealthy party!

I signed up for the Fling on October 6, 2013, having run Chester Marathon only a few hours prior… not on the spur of a moment but because entries only opened that day! Mike had labelled it as a “natural step up” for me after we’d run the High Peak Challenge (40mi) together and the challenge appealed to me. There were the usual despairing groans amongst my nearest and dearest, although these have turned to something akin to jealousy over recent days as I’ve shared with them some pictures from Mike and Trevor’s blogs and allowed them to take in some of the scenery we should be able to enjoy. Aye, because the route runs “through the scenic Loch Lomond & Trossachs National Park to the Scottish Highland village of Tyndrum”. Then they remember the “running 53 miles” bit and any jealousy swiftly disappears…

…but if you are going to run 53 miles, why not along the West Highland Way? My sole experiences of Scotland to date are a day-trip to Montrose with a flying visit (!) to an offshore oil rig and a night in Glasgow for a Joe D’Urso gig. I really should get up there more often, but a) it’s a long way and b) it’s too tempting to stop halfway, not least on the Plymouth-Edinburgh train that stops in Sheffield… Just as well there’s crazy stuff like The Fling, eh?

Right, let’s get this out of the way: is it sane to run a 53-mile race three weeks after a mid-run epileptic seizure?

Firstly: is it sane to run a 53-mi race regardless? Quite possibly not. Then you can skip the next couple of paragraphs.

Look: all joking aside, I’m a responsible human being. I love my running but it comes after my family. When the paramedic looked at me in the ambulance in Manchester and asked me if I had any other races planned, he was only asking me a question I had anticipated. I said all along I was lucid quickly… and I had already decided that, should the conversation arise, I’d listen to his advice and most likely follow it. The fact that his response was “I see no reason why you shouldn’t run that” just made it all the easier to do so.

It is also worth qualifying that I’m not disappearing into the Scottish wilderness alone. That could only too easily result in a new myth, say that of The Balmaha Hairy Git ( the ‘Balmahairy’?): and, quite frankly, Scottish tourism is doing well enough out of ‘Nessie’. Mythology aside, it would be daft. Not just in terms of being alone in the event of any injury or illness, in themselves no small details: but daft for the strain that spending such a long amount of time in isolation whilst expanding energy would put on any mind, and daft because…

…well, why would you?

Why would you spend hours on end in beautiful scenery in total isolation when you could share that experience with kindred spirits? And that’s just for the good bits. There will be less beautiful bits, as well as a lot of painful bits where, for all the pre-race excitement, carrying on will not seem the most appealing (or sensible) option. Bits when a helping hand and a boosting word will go a long way. And, hopefully, so will we.

It’s Thursday. I fly up tomorrow, leaving home around 11:00. Meeting Bumblebee and Bear (you’ve read “Fat Man To Green Man”, right?) at Bristol Airport: have never met them, but it doesn’t feel that way. 12:45 departure, 14:00 arrival – with, hopefully, my checked-in bag having been on the safe flight. Will check in at the Milngavie Premier Inn, relax, read a little, meet Marco (a Bologna native now living in Glasgow) (one of those “pre-running friends” of mine!) around 15:30 and, at some point around 6pm, head to The Burnbrae for registration, a bite or two – and, most importantly, to meet up with my fellow runners, be they folk I know and have run with before, folk whom I’ve never met but whose Twitter handle I know or… well, other folk. Then bed because…

…race o’clock is 6:00 (!) on Saturday, with the promise of the fish and chips Mike’s been going on about for months at The Real Food Café my reward. Aye, it’s really just one, long chippierun at the end of the day… right?

There’ll be eating, there’ll be dancing… there’ll be a “traditional  Ceilidh  at  the  Village  Hall”. How can you beat that of a Saturday night? I bet I’ll sleep well after that… once Sarah and Mike have kindly detoured to drop me off at the Crianlarich Hotel. Then, assuming I can get up in the morning, I might just nip out for a streaksaver before catching the bus to Glasgow Airport at 12:28 from “Crianlarich Layby near toilets” – providing it’s not late (ETA 13:42) and I don’t miss my flight (ETD 14:45) I’ll be home around 5pm.

Yup. It’s going to be a whirlwind…

…and it’s going to change my life. Because I suspect running 53 miles isn’t something you forget that quickly; and I’ll be sharing that with people like Mike, Andrew and Martin, having run the High Peak 40 with Mike and (for the most part) Martin, Chester Marathon 2013 (for the most part) with Andrew and Manchester Marathon 2014 (for the most part) with Mike. I’ve never seen any of those guys outside of races. But I tell you this: I know I can count on them. They’ve got my back. And I’ve got theirs. We take care of our own. As does our fabulous support crew of Martin and Mike’s other halves, Sue and Sarah, who give up their weekend so that tramps like us can live out our dreams a tad more easily than in full ‘unsupported’ mode. It really means a lot – thank you!

Running as a solo pursuit? Not a team sport?

Hey, you know at what time of day I run. Sometimes in winter I’m the only person out there, let alone the only runner. I’ve run up the Alps at 4am, I’ve (twice now) celebrated New Year by going out for a run at 00:01. But that’s in the name of convenience. Even I prefer running in a pack. Sharing the experience, knowing someone will help me and hoping I’ll be able to help if needed. It’s a beautiful feeling, one that gives running such a far more complete feeling than those on the outside think we get by just putting one foot in front of the other. And I can but dream as to how that will work over 53 miles.

As I said, just a short one…

…whatever happens from this point on, I suspect I’ll be committing some thoughts and emotions to the screen in due course. Now that could be a long one. And with pictures, hopefully…

…because this is going to be epic. Heck, this might be the time that Karen truly ‘gets’ why people I see so rarely are now amongst my closest and most dependable friends. I think the penny’s started to drop – but another 53 miles should seal it…

So stay hard, stay hungry, stay alive – and meet me in a dream on this hard land. And remember: In a big country, dreams stay with you. Like a lover's voice fires the mountainside… Stay alive!

My Recordstore Day 2014 Release

Happy Recordstore Day!

May I take the opportunity for my own special release? Something about music, rather than the r-stuff – given that, after all, it’s not just about the running?

Back in February, having spent Sunday-Thursday morning in Nice for work I headed East of the Alps to pay my parents a visit. Whilst meeting a High School friend, I seized the opportunity to pay a record store a visit, too. I rarely get the chance these days: I find out what I like and buy it online. And I don’t buy as much anyway, purely because family life has its many pluses (or so Mrs S tells me) but time to enjoy some music in peace ain’t one of them. I do most of my listening whilst working, one of the benefits of working from home. But, for all my love of technology, when I do buy music I still buy CDs: I like to hold music, to read through the liner notes and the credits… old skool.

I’d walked into the store looking specifically for any new Ligabue releases. He’s the one guy who’s been able to make the combination of the Italian language and the sound of rock&roll work; I’ve enjoyed his music for some twenty-five years now and always keep a look-out for his new stuff when over there. Gives me summat to do, if nowt else.

Now, the store I walked into wasn’t the one I… well, “grew up” in. That closed some six years or so ago. And this one, in Rapallo, the next town along (one store was more than enough for Santa Margherita) threatens to go the same way – as the “Shop for Sale” sign on the counter suggests.

I actually found what I was looking for. Yet I walked out empty-handed. I couldn’t figure out why, till it struck me…

…the CD was locked in a plastic container. I couldn’t pick it up, hold it, feel it. I’d have had to ask for permission in a pseudo-purchase offer and I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to browse friends old and new, not visit prisoners. Otherwise I might as well do my purchasing online – as per usual. And let me tell you, the desolate look of the (presumed) owners as I walked in and out was more akin to those of prison guards than of people passionate about music. Because I remember those faces: Dino and Donatella, who ran “Disco Club” in Santa, had that. Their CDs were also locked away: but I’d often spend an hour or so in their store listening to stuff, be it at my request or their suggestion. They’d just throw me the keys and, like a teenager with his father’s car keys in hand, I’d go on a journey. A gentle cruise along the boardwalk more than a race round The Circuit. No headphones required: what I listened to, everyone listened to. Just like I often enjoyed music others were trying out. And yes, that often meant recordings of Springsteen music that you wouldn’t expect to find out on the street, courtesy of a very Italian law… That store can’t have been any more than 20ft x 7ft, yet for me it was a true Aladdin’s Cave: I’d carefully save up, ponder my options… and buy not just a disc but a true experience. As I still listen today to most of the artists whose music I bought in there, I truly did grow up in that little corner of Santa Margherita Ligure (GE), Italy.

Anyway, back to Ligabue…

…when I looked on Amazon, I saw I’ve more catching up than I thought. Then again, with no record store in Santa Margherita anymore it’s been years since I walked into one over there. Amazon’s prices look lower than the ones in the store. Not that I could tell you which album I picked up, mind. Because I couldn’t pick it up: it was lying there, all shackled up, and I couldn’t even be bothered to decipher its name from the spine.

I’m often told I should support local stores more. But sometimes they do make it hard… whereas online stores are genuinely friendly… you can listen to stuff beforehand, have it within seconds of purchasing (even if you order a CD, Amazon’s AutoRip means you don’t have to wait for the post)…

…now don’t get me wrong, I don’t envy record stores. “Disco Club”, in Santa (aMediterranean seaside resort), made most of its sales in the summer, selling chart compilations the owners duly and understandably despised to the tourists. Their loves were prog-rock and modern jazz, with Peter Gabriel and Pat Metheny top of the pile. I’ve often wondered whether they could have survived by focusing on those niches, for which they did have loyal customer travel miles. And I’ve routinely come to the conclusion that no, that wouldn’t have sufficed to pay the bills: Italian dance compilations may be bad for your health, but they paid those bills alright… So no, I’m not surprised that my nurturing record store closed. Not when in the early noughties I walked in with an iPod and Dino greeted me with “I’ve heard about these things, how do they work?”. I’d had mine for a year or so by then, he was hardly keeping a close eye on his environment!

That said, there is still scope for stores to prosper – especially those with a clear focus. Kudos, on that note, to Cheltenham’s own “Badlands”. I dread to think how much I’ve spent with them since 1989… and yet even now that I live in Bristol I have still to set foot in it! From days of cheques written out by my Mum whom I’d compensate in lire to today’s nifty online store, I’ve bought many a Springsteen 7”, limited edition CD, book, box set, picture disc… and even concert tour package from them! And therein lies the music: I’ve never just had music from them, I’ve always had memories, spiritual growth, intellectual challenges, friendships, kinships… although just how much of that is down to them and how much is thanks to Springsteen is a different matter!

Badlands: Taking care of their own. Read here about their t-shirt project to support HelpDan.com.
(Well, I say 'their'... credit where credit's due, Pauline started it and Kev was behind it all!
Proud to own one of those shirts, delighted the project helped Dan.)

But well done, Badlands. To the late Steven and his brother and partner Phil, who foresaw the demise of the traditional record store in light of the availability of music online and the ease of sharing it, even when it entailed burning a disc, and branched out into organising concert packages. I had a conversation on the topic with Steven on our first trip to the US in 1999, and to this day I maintain I gave him something to ponder on the matter. I couldn’t tell you whether he was agreeing with me, ignoring me or humouring me: his expression didn’t really change much… What is a self-evident truth is that many music acts and lovers owe at least a part of their ability to perform and enjoy music, be that in the comfort of a living room, in some sweaty bar or at a major stadium, to the Jumps’ love for genuine rock and roll, as defined by its values rather than its rhythm, melodies or notes. ‘If Music Could Talk’? Well, out of St. George’s place, an address I recall from the many envelopes sent that way even without having ever visited it, it truly did.

On a different note, when flying back from Pisa last February I spotted, of all shops…

a Brooks Running Store!

It was hard to miss: adverts were plastered behind all check-in counters. PSA is small, plus it takes forever to drop off bags… although I wouldn’t have found it but for the ads, as it was on the first floor and this side of the ground floor security check. So not sure how many see it – although maybe locals go to the airport for their shoes? Begs the question as to how you get your goods on the plane, too…

Pisa's latest landmark.
Here's hoping it's still standing in years to come!

…I went in to try on some shoes. Not with any intention to buy, you understand: as did the owner, for I spelt it out. “I’ve bought five pairs of Brooks in the past twelve months – I just want to try on a few for size”. Whilst there, I couldn’t resist asking him how many miles one should expect to get out of a pair of the now discontinued Green Silence. I obviously expected a lower figure than I’ve achieved: I’d be disappointed in any other outcome in a Yorkshireman-Salesman exchange. But, having suggested 300km (they’re minimalist shoes, dontchaknow), he certainly wasn’t ready for my “Oh – I managed 2,000” response!

Given that was February, his chin should just about be off the floor by now. Oh, and note to self: get to PSA with ample time to spare next time. Just in case, like. But, for the time being… I’ll keep buying my shoes online, safe in the knowledge that the likes of SweatShop provide an excellent returns policy. And, given I’ve ordered six pairs of Brooks Green Silence from them (I’m on my third and fourth, with numbers five and six waiting in the loft), I don’t really need to try a new pair before knowing they’ll do.

p.s.: my Dad never did give me the keys to his car – that was pure Springsteen imagery I used earlier. I only learnt to drive after leaving Italy. Given that on one rare occasion when I was allowed to confine him to the passenger seat (of an Italian car in Sheffield – let me get that in!) I reversed into a parked car, you can understand his reluctance. And the rollicking I got thereafter. In fact, sod it – it wasn’t a rollicking, it was a proper bollocking. No point toning it down!