Rites of Passage

My Dad never played any sport at competitive level. By the time my brother and I were in secondary school we had already stopped asking Dad to join our kickabout or bowl to us on the worn garden cricket pitch. This type of sport simply wasn't for him. He was a strong swimmer, a wily and patient coarse angler and he took us to see cricket at Trent Bridge Nottingham, but his interest simply wasn't there for competing with a bat or ball.

So I never reached that moment when I could "beat my Dad".

This weekend my son James and I had signed up to run in the Ravenstonedale 10k, in the Howgill fells, about 40 miles north of Lancaster where he is at university. As he has never run another road race, has started running only about 3 months ago and has yet to fill his online training diary with more than 3 sessions a week, my job was clearly to coax him around. Talk in the days before was of "getting round", "breaking the hour" and "beating my sister's time". Talk on the morning of the race was of "session last night", "hangover" and "sore head".

I had asked James to run a "tempo" of about 3 miles in the middle of the week and this showed that breaking the hour was a meagre objective for him. This allowed me to turn my thoughts in a more selfish direction - I wanted to run about 52 -53 minutes for reasons of my own and I felt I would be able to "tow" him to such a time, even if he lost touch in the last mile or so.

It is one of the great pleasures of running in the UK that races such as the Ravenstonedale 10k still exist, literally and figuratively off the beaten track of the glitzy, big city centre road races. Tucked away in the lower fells of the moorland east of Kendal, Ravenstonedale is a handful of stone houses, a babbling stream and two welcoming looking pubs. It was in one of these, The Black Swan that the race had its HQ. As we got our numbers in the bar the temptation for a quick pint was balanced by the knowledge that it would taste that much better after the race. A few more than a hundred, nearly all clad in the vests of local fell running clubs, jogged to the start. Here a short shouted description of the course followed before the lowest of low key starts,
"Off you go then! Good Luck! Watch that first bend - it's a bit slippery!"

And so off we went, still chatting about what pace we would do, James loping alongside me. He and I are around about the same height (although he would claim perhaps a centimetre of inevitable superiority perhaps), but he is wiry, skinny even, and I have a "weight advantage" of about 20 kgs on him, as well as about 31 years. I should have known what was coming!

As we began the first ascent on one of the lanes out of the village, the first mile passed in 8:10. Maybe a bit too quick, I thought, but we'll soon drop into a rhythm. At mile 2 we were at 16:30, nice and steady, and I had the impression James was sitting back a bit. "Ah, that'll be the excesses of the friday night clicking in, I thought. And it's been mostly uphill so far."

"Let's try and keep up this pace and see how we are at 4 miles", I said as we turned downhill to start back to the village. We crossed the village via a bridge over the stream and on the other side was a fairly steep section leading back out on the other side. I sensed the downhill had given us a good rhythm and we had speeded up. James was alongside now and seemed not be breathing at all deeply. As I moved into my uphill style of deliberately pumping the arms and shorter strides, I sensed him gradually pulling away, so I speeded up slightly, or at least I felt I did. He passed 2-3 older runners who had been just in front of us for the last two miles. Then the reality of the situation struck me - I had been holding him back!

At the 3 mile marker the time was 24 minutes, and, seeing James glancing over his shoulder, I waved him to go on. A moment's hesitation and off he loped, his lazy stride showing promise of plenty of scope in the future if he could apply himself.

The second half of the course was quite tough (isn't it always thus?). The wind was getting up and angry low grey cloud was starting to froth over the fells. Each of the uphills seemed a little sharper now. I began to run my own race, reeling in a couple of runners and setting sights on others. The 3 mile time had told me that, if I kept to my rhythm, kept my concentration, I would "sub 50". Some earlier research had told me that the last mile was mainly downhill, so a strong 2 miles now as what I needed. I dug in, ignoring thoughts that I hadn't run at this sort of speed consistently for years, and therefore should slow down. James gradually receded into the distance, picking off one or two runners as he went on his way.

Coming back down into the village I picked off the runner I had been eyeing up for half a mile and with the finish in sight smiled to myself - just as an unknown adversary came sprinting past me! That's the nature of this though, isn't it? But someone wearing an Ipod! That's insulting! Crossing the bridge and into the small crowd of officials and recent finishers, I stopped my watch - 49'08". Very happy indeed!

And there he was, now re-joined by his sister, Lisa, looking like he'd just been for a stroll with the dog. His time - 47'43". I knew from his expression that "beating Dad" had not been one of the scenarios either he or Lisa had envisaged. But it was one that gave me an enormous amount of satisfaction, more perhaps than any of my own running achievements of the past. But he still has a bit to do before he can claim to be "family record holder" at any of the distances - although his height and nnatural running style indicate that with regular training he will run much, much faster times than this very soon. If he wants to do the work that is!

The after-race was entirely in character with this friendly well-run event for dedicated runners. A cup of homemade vegetable soup and a roll in the back bar of the Black Swan, a beautiful well kept pint of Black Sheep bitter and a prize giving ceremony led by the Howgill Harriers committee who organised the race. We clapped politely as the winner (a local schoolboy who, like James, had the impudence to beat more experienced rivals!) and the placed aged group runners stepped forward for their prizes. Last came the male over 70 prize and up stepped a wiry fellow in thick lensed glasses. I wonder if he still breaks the hour at that age, I mused? Must check the results. When I downloaded the results on monday I was stunned, and in a way gratified, to see that this gentleman had been in fact 2 minutes "up the road" from James, rather than struggling to beat the hour! You have my total respect, sir, and like the 80 plus vet at the Herberts Hole Challenge the week before, you have given me hope for the future of my "second running career".

The rest of my running week was pleasing. The hamstring problem gradually receded into a slight twinge, only to be replaced by the vague onset of some achilles soreness. Oh, well, I knew it was coming! I put in a 11.3 mile run on the Phoenix Trail in the rain, my longest run since the hospital episode and my overall mileage got back over the 35 mile barrier again. A February marathon, perhaps temporarily, no longer looks that unrealistic, and I have signed up to the Bedford Half Marathon on December 10th as my next race.

I have had a spring in my step this week - and today set off for 14 miles along the Grand Union Canal towpath near Tring.

The next father / son exploit? We're negotiating on running the Great Langdale Christmas Pudding 10k on December 17th ahead of re-patriating the boy back down south for a xmas de-tox! I have the feeling that we will "each be running our own race" from a bit earlier.