THE ENDLESS FRUSTRATIONS OF RUNNING, BUT STILL LOVING IT

If Benjamin Franklin had been a runner, the certainty of death and taxes might well have extended to picking up an injury when on the threshold of some good form.

It bloody well always seems to happen.
Feeling good about my training going in to Autumn, I had earmarked Shepherd's Skyline. This is an early November middle distance classic and a fell race which had somehow slipped my agenda back in the days of racing most weeks and I reckoned it would be a good one to tick off and test me out.
An approach of less mileage with emphasis on more shorter effort runs appears to be the key to feeling sharp both physically and mentally about my running again.
I even felt in good enough shape to take on an Ian Dandy cross country fartlek session with a view to making it a weekly must, until the following week the inevitable happened.
Many athletes would agree that when feeling on top is when you can be most vulnerable to injuries. Sure enough, one day comfortably zipping around the roads on a four miler in just over twenty eight minutes. The next day, when seeking to pile on some steady mileage and break back on to the fells, half an hour in I foolishly chose not to listen properly to a touch of tightness in my calf - a background niggle which I thought I had shaken off a week earlier. I continued plodding towards Winter Hill as planned and then thinking I was still thirty-five, tried to run out the whole steep side climb from the crossing on Belmont Road.
As usual, stupid stubborn will had overpowered sensibility and experience. Earlier, I told myself I needed to turn around and head back after half an hour, but the other side of my brain was telling me, "Just carry on owd lad, it'll be reet".
A couple of bouts of very mean cramp prompted the acknowledgement that I'd overcooked it and done some damage to two sections of my right calf. Still four miles to hobble back made matters worse, though thankfully it was good weather and reasonable temperature for the time of year or I could have been in bother.
Nearly two weeks ensued resting up from running or biking until a break on the Lyn Peninsula in North Wales. Rude not to tenderly try out some gentle running, but it was literally either up or down from the door of where we stayed and not ideal rehabilitation for unruly calf muscles. Mrs S, the two dogs and I were cooking up the miles walking however and fortunately that didn't seem to irritate it at least.
I survived a couple of gentle trots along the headland and back and then set out for the dominant peak of Garn Ganol, the highest of the three peaks of Yr Eifl thàt impressively rise steeply out of the Irish Sea. It's classical volcanic shape had been teasing me all week with the tip of it's peak just about visible behind the steep coastal foregrounds of our base. I got as far as the foot of the main climb when it became clear I was doing more harm than good - at least I managed to draw myself away from temptation this time and limit the damage. The day after, we walked it up there which was more than sufficient consolation. Garn Ganol's modest height of around 1850ft doesn't quite entitle it to the mountain classification that it's geographical might quite deserves. From the summit, immense views to the West of Snowdonia and to the East above the rest of the peninsula were soaked up and probably more appreciated walking than running, as it would turn out.
But back to the running and another runless two weeks required after those cautious jogs in Wales.
Calf mended and now strengthening up again, a couple of weeks back training revealed a surprisingly very good base fitness level had remained intact despite a disrupted six weeks or so.
There's no particular goal or race in mind. For years now, even the slightest ambition seems to be scuppered by an untimely setback.
The aim is merely to get feeling sharpish again and then, perhaps, off the cuff could pick something out from the racing calendars.
Sometimes there would seem a complete pointlessness of including my running endeavours in this journal, for no doubt bowls is where the competitive drive is now mainly focused upon. But running is where the heart is at and after all, this is my journal, these are my ramblings and I'll damn well mention what I want to thank you very much. 
Someone touring South America seems to be the only reader in recent times and what type of content I provide for their occasional attention is also absolutely none of their business either. 😉