Duathlon World Championships 2014, Pontevedra, Spain

The 2014 ITU World Duathlon Championships were held on Sunday 1^st June 2014 in the north western Spanish town of Pontevedra, in the region of Galicia.

 
Given the relative ease at which the area was accessible from the UK via plane or ferry, the Great British team had been arriving in dribs and drabs throughout the week leading up to the event. The first time the whole team assembled together was for the important team briefing, delivered by team manager Jez Cox in a large auditorium on the day prior to the race. During the briefing, topics such as bike racking, race timetables and course info would be covered.

 
Jez likes to play a game at the beginning of his briefings, and asks everybody to stand up, at which point he asks you to remain standing if you have represented GB before, then if you have placed in the top ten, then top five and so on. As the game progresses, more and more sit down, until past medallists are all that remain standing. Finally all that is left is those who have won a gold medal whilst representing GBR at Duathlon in a World or European Championship. It was at this point, that I was stood out of a crowd amongst a few others as my peers, all of whom had earned the right to be in this room looked on. Being able to look around, I could see other gold medallists from previous competitions, and realised that my gold medal at the 2013 championships in Ottawa placed me in a group of rather successful amateur British duathletes, including uber runner and super chef Alan Murchison, sprint, standard and long course duathlon champion Gill Fullen, and nine time Euro/World gold medallist, the diminutive figure of Elspeth Knott, as well as my training buddy from Ipswich stood next to me, Jayne Williams, who shared my glory in Ottawa.

 

Jez delivers his team briefing.   Photo: Mark Phillips

Once the briefing was complete, and team photographs taken (organising 300+ athletes is quite a task, well done Jez) we were free to roam until our transition access was permitted between 8 and 10.30pm in true Spanish fashion of doing everything late in the evening. We chose to frequent a local café on the way back to the hotel from the briefing which was located at the top of a short sharp rise of about one hundred and fifty metres in length which made up the early part of the running course with which we would become very familiar with on race day. The café gave a comfortable shady vantage point from which to watch the Elite and under 23 ladies racing as they crested the hill at impressive speed.

 

The complete tem, Sprint and Standard.     Photo: Gill Fullen

After a slow afternoon, enjoying a Spanish omelette for dinner with my parents and god daughter Ella who were in town as support, it was time to head down to the athletics stadium to leave my trusty Scott “Polly” Plasma in the centre field along with lots of other shiny, expensive bikes for a bicycle sleep over. Finally it was time to retire to the hotel, only a 5 minute walk uphill into the town to sleep in preparation for the day ahead.

 

Unlike in Ottawa, where the standard distance (10km run/40km bike/5km run) had begun at around 8am, we would have to wait until noon for the gun to sound. This was unusual to me, as most local races begin at daft o clock on a Sunday morning, although it was pleasant to be able to wake at a normal time, and take a stroll down to the athletics arena to make final preparations to my transition spec. Whilst around the stadium, I was able to watch the beginning of the sprint events (5km run/20km bike/2.5km run) and see athletes coming into transition in order to get an idea of which direction run in and bike out would be, as until that point, I'd had no idea. Transition can be a bit of a maze!

 

I was anxious to get to the stadium in good time, and wandered down alone about 90minutes before my race was due to start, dropped my baggage in the sports hall, and removed myself from the excitement by warming up in a shady area beside the river, getting my legs and lungs prepared for the torture to follow.

 

As we were gathered in the starting pen, as the first wave, I was surrounded by athletes from my age group, 20-24 wearing white numbers, and also the 25-29 age group, wearing red numbers as a way to distinguish the different races. The British boys had gathered together in a circle, whilst the South Africans were in an American Football style huddle, presumably praying for good fortune. Not one for small talk, I stood to the side, close to the track stretching and taking in the surroundings.

 

We were finally called to the start line for an agonizing three minute wait for the officials to begin the race. Once the gun was fired, we set off for a two hundred metre dash around the track, before exiting the stadium into the streets through throngs of cheering fans screaming best wishes in a variety of languages. The race soon took shape as we rounded a barrier in the road and, as expected, the Spanish representation had stormed to the front, creating a barrier of red. We had quickly split into small groups and I found myself running step for step with a Spaniard and my British team mate Dean Watson.

 

The Spanish Armada creating a "Flying V".     Photo: Tim Ostler

GB Boys, AJ, me and JC at the first turnaround.    Photo: AJ Meager

 The first time up the hill, which had been an effort to walk up the previous day, passed in a flash, at this speed, we wouldn’t be ascending for long! The course then weaved uphill a little more over some light cobbles before entering the narrow winding rat runs that make up Pontevedra’s beautiful “Old Town”. The first section along the smooth stone floors was a wall of noise that would continue for another kilometre with cheers of “go GB”. The course was now flowing gently downhill in amongst cafes and restaurants, through the Plaza de. Ferraria, where I became acutely aware of somebody cheering saying “Go Ryan”, not “Go GB” or “Go Ostler” as my tri suit read, but “Go Ryan”, this supporter obviously knew me, but I couldn’t place the source of it, and I wouldn’t until we entered this section again on the second run. Running downhill well is as much of a skill as being a strong uphill runner, and I kept finding myself striding away from those around me, until a ninety degree right hand turn immediately after the burgundy awninged restaurant named “Il Toro” where the course rose again slightly, and we re grouped. After a two hundred metre stretch through the narrowest section of the 2.5km course, and where the support was intense, we were spat back out of the classic Galician buildings, to a downhill stretch of road, in the shade, and the welcome sight of volunteers offering up bottles of water. With the temperature in excess of thirty degrees, I happily took water at each of the two water stations located on the course, following the routine of drink, tip on back, tip on chest, tip on head, drink. Forcing the water down was important, you may not be consuming a huge amount in the hurried mouthful, but it was something, and served to keep the throat moist if nothing else.

 

Seeking shade on the edge of the road, alongside the Rio Lerez (river Lerez), we were finally welcomed back into the stifling heat of the stadium to a thoroughly impressive soundtrack, including classics from Fat Boy Slim and De La Soul, a far cry from the Olly Murs song, “Dear Darling” that was on repeat in my head in Ottawa back in August.

 After completing a half lap of the running track where we had started less than ten minutes earlier, the course once again left the athletics arena to complete another three laps of the same 2.5km loop. The short climb immediately after the second water station (drink, back, head, chest, drink) was not fazing me and we were soon back into the pretty streets through the plaza’s and narrow Rua Real. By the end of lap two, I had become a little bored of the loops on which we were running. To think there was another two laps to go was more daunting than I had expected, mostly because of the intense pace that we were sustaining. Taking a glance at my heart rate monitor on my wrist, I logged that my pulse rate had been hovering around 179 and 181 bpm, near maximal, and well above the rate at which I felt I could comfortably maintain.

 

Tackling the hill, Dean smiled and chatted throughout the 10km!    Photo: Dean Watson

The small trio that I was a part of stuck together for the duration of the run, and as we neared the stadium for the final time, a cheeky northern voice in the crowd shouted to Dean and I, “sub 35, you wrong’uns!” referring to our time for ten kilometres which  was about to tick over thirty five minutes as we entered T1 with a 10km time of 35:32, only 45 seconds slower than my stand alone 10km PB, and only 11 seconds slower than I had run on a much flatter course in much cooler conditions ten months earlier on my way to gold in Ottawa.

Run Course, travelling clockwise from athletic track.    Photo:ITU

 

I still pride myself on my unusual talent at transitioning from run (or swim) to bike, and this race would be no different. A dash alongside Dean (we were racked only a few spaces apart), helmet fastened before unhooking Polly from the scaffold for a long barefooted run around the perimeter of the football field. Crossing the track to the road and bike mount line, swinging the leg over the bike, feet into shoes and off we go.

 

The course immediately crossed the river via the spectacular suspension bridge, Puente de Os Tirantes, before circling a couple of roundabouts and heading straight up the highway N-550, the Avenue de Compostella. A couple of riders passed me as I took a drink of water and took care to consume an energy gel whilst the road was still flat. I noticed that neither had got their feet into their shoes(already clipped to the pedals) by this point, so I bided my time before passing them as they had to slow down to get secured.

 

The bridge over the Rio Lerez and onto the bike course.    Photo: Tim Ostler

There had been a lot of talk on the GB team Facebook page in the weeks leading up to the event regarding the ‘Alpe de Pontevedra’. There had been a little bit of scaremongering, and some concern about an apparent 13% gradient near to the top of the climb with an average gradient over the ten kilometres to the turnaround point of 4%. Early settlers from the team had been out equipped with crampons and oxygen to check out the course, including team mechanic Graeme Knott, who is also a friend from the local Harwich Runners club. Graeme is a fantastic athlete in his own right, as proven in his emphatic 5km fun run victory over team manager Jez, as mentioned in my blog reporting on the Ottawa Championships. His breakdown assured us that it was a “fantastic time trial course, big ring all the way” cue sniggers from the girls, and re assurance for the big boys that they could go full gas all the way to the top, avoiding the shame of dropping to the “granny ring”.

 

On the Friday before the race I had conducted two recces of the infamous bike course, firstly with a huge group in an organised team ride, and later in the evening alone with just the wonderful Jayne for company. On the first recce I rode up in the small chain ring just to spin the legs out after a day of travelling on the Thursday. With so many cyclists on the road, the patience of the local drivers was sublime, even lorries seemed content chugging up behind us, giving a small toot of the horn signalling “careful, I’m coming through” rather than a prolonged blast of the horn saying “get outta the way!!”

The second recce was a lot more peaceful as the two of us climbed away from the town doing our own individual efforts, testing what kind of gearing we would be comfortable ascending the “alpe” on. I found the road to be a nicely rolling uphill, with mostly false flats into which the downhill allowed you to carry enough speed so as to not be struggling to get going. The road surface, once onto the tarmac out of town, was beautifully smooth and the carriageways adequately wide to allow lots of cyclists to occupy them without any risk of drafting infringements.

 

I identified a slip road joining the N-550 from the right where the gradient did increase somewhat, and I deemed it necessary to drop into the small chain ring and spin gently up the hill. It was possible to charge up the hill in the 53 tooth chain ring, but this was a duathlon, not a time trial, and I personally found it much more comfortable and efficient to twiddle the smaller gears. Further up the road, I decided that a petrol station would be my marker of the road flattening out a little, and time to shift back into the big dog to get up to speed again.

 

Back to the race, and once we had navigated the rough concrete road and roundabouts to get to the main highway, It was simply a case of keeping the tempo high but sustainable. It was comfortable to climb whilst staying aerodynamic on the tri bar extensions, and I looked up ahead to see the athletes that had run a superior ten kilometre time dispersed along the carriageway. Going into the race, I had not felt the fitness level on the bike that I had been enjoying at the end of the previous summer, so I was surprised to be catching up to other competitors, particularly as the gradient increased. With a wide section of dual carriageway, I was able to take my time to ride up alongside and past other riders whilst staying clear of the 7x3 metre “drafting zone” around them. Venturing into this box would result in time penalties if caught by race officials.

 

Upon cresting the first summit, a short, fast descent followed as we passed road signs for the village of A Mean. I finally caught and passed a few competitors, including several Spaniards, a Frenchman and a Japanese athlete, strung out ahead who had maybe gotten over excited on the run and were now seemingly struggling up the climb. I reached the slip road identified as the start of “spinning time”. It was still possible to push a good speed if I was able to pedal hard enough. About the time of reaching the petrol station, the first competitor came thundering downhill in the opposite direction, having rounded the turning point about a mile ahead of me. It was a GB athlete, wearing a lime green aero helmet, it was Duncan Bullock, on his way to an impressive 1 hour 3 minute bike split, and a gold medal for his 25-29 age group.

 

My final push to the top of the climb passed quickly and up ahead I could pick out the shin high socks of my good friend James Coleman. James had been in the leading group on the run, and is a strong cyclist, so I was very surprised that I had closed the gap to within one hundred metres so quickly. I was aware that James had suffered a bout of illness ahead of the race, probably the result of some dodgy calamari, culminating in a comedy sketch describing his symptoms to a local chemist, bearing in mind there is very little English spoken in this area of Spain. We crossed paths in opposite directions, exchanging a wave, before we began the long sweeping descent, cashing in on the uphill struggle.

 

Of course, what goes up must come down, and so another key aspect of the recce rides had been to test our options whilst pointing downhill. In the evening when I had ridden alone, it had been particularly windy, coming in from the right hand side. The bends of the road were wide enough to take them “full” still in an aerodynamic tuck on the tri bars, and at times I had been “spinning out” in Polly’s top gear 53x11. A case of being unable to pedal as quickly as the wheels are rotating.

 
Being the first wave of runners to begin the race meant we were also the first competitors to get onto the bike course resulting in a clear open road on the descent back down towards the town. This was pleasing in terms of safety, as we could pick our own line, and not have to worry about any kamikaze sideways deviations from riders descending a little more tentatively. That could be a problem on the following lap though.


Helpful kilometre markers punctuated the descent, and they ticked by rapidly, as I weaved the nine kilometres back to the town. I’m certain that I didn’t touch the brakes for the entire time, only once I approached the initial roundabout after crossing the river, back into a cacophony of support, a shock to the system after the tranquillity for the last thirty minutes. Along the river’s edge, and back over the iconic bridge, it was time for more water and another gel whilst the road was flat and sheltered.

Back into town after lap one.   Photo: Mr Bracegirdle

Onto the second lap of the twenty kilometre circuit, there was now a lot more cycle traffic ahead on the road. The leading ladies who had started thirty five minutes after me had now finished their ten kilometre run, and were now embarking onto the bike route.  I continued around the roundabouts, beyond the shirtless men on the central reservation and I was now picking up the tempo as I saw the familiar yellow cycling shoes of fellow Brit and age group rival Anthony Meager coming barrelling down the adjacent carriageway completing his first lap. I was well aware that Anthony (AJ) was a strong cyclist, having spent a good winter training in Fuerteventura and Mallorca, seeing the gap to him made me realise that perhaps it had been me going well, rather than James having a bad day back at the top of the climb. I knew AJ would be chasing hard though.

 

Bike Course, travelling from Left(South) to Right(North)   Photo: ITU

The second ascent of the Alpe de Pontevedra went much the same as the first, only with more athletes to pass as everybody was now on course. I had begun to feel the onset of cramp in both my calfs, so the descent to A Mean was a welcome relief from the initial bout of climbing, and a chance to freewheel a little and stretch them out. I had commiserated with GB elite athlete Danny Russell in the hotel the night before, he had raced on the Saturday, and suffered from crippling calf spasms which rendered him inoperable as he couldn’t even turn the pedals, and thus pulled out of the race. I was very conscious of this and didn’t want the same outcome for myself, so sacrificed a few seconds of speed to recover my calfs.

 

Onto the slowest part of the course again, past Jayne’s slip road (so named as it is where she dropped her chain off the small chain ring on the recce (it helped me remember!)) and I found myself passing my roommate from Ottawa, Nick Beales, and spluttering an encouraging word to him. I got no reply, either he didn’t hear me as his ears were covered by his helmet, or he was focussing all his effort on kicking the pedals around. At this point, I forgot about my aching legs as a major worry came into my head…

 

...Usually so informed about race routes, turnings and transition protocol, I had the awful realisation that I did not know where the run out section of transition was, or how to get there from my bike. This played on my mind, worrying that I would lose everything I had gained on the bike by going the wrong way through transition. Fortunately though, my concern was short lived, as up ahead, once again, were the pulled up black socks of James Coleman, and I was closing the gap on him as I seemed to thrive on the toughest part of the course. I quickly caught up to James as I was keen to pass as soon as possible as he was being pursued by a motorcycle official, presumably watching the movements of the rider behind my friend, who was getting tantalizingly close to a yellow card and a drafting penalty. A quick hello and onto the turnaround to begin another breath-taking and enjoyable swoop back towards T2. Keeping an eye on who was coming up the hill the other way, it seemed that the gap to AJ was still about the same, we had climbed at about the same rate.

 

There has since been a chat on the team Facebook page about top speeds reached on the way downhill. Fortunately, Garmin cycle computers record your maximum speed. On the recce, I had reached 72.7kmh for one section of the descent, and on race day, my maximum speed was 67.5kmh. These now look rather tame as it was revealed by 16-19AG Sprint Distance Champion Tom Stead that he had reached the thunderous speed of 82.51kmh (51.3mph), pipping Alan Murchison’s 81.50kmh, perhaps by the drag produced by a flappy race number!! The recklessness of youth!?

When I first began watching cycling videos that my dad had on the shelf, I watched in awe as the camera motorcycle followed Italian Marco “il pirato” Pantani down an alpine descent, focussing on the motorcycle's speedo reading of 100kmh, I can’t even begin to fathom that speed!!

 
Rolling back into town and breaking off course to the right to retrace our wheels back to the dismount line beside the running track, it was time gulp down the final dregs of water in my bottle. Feet out of the shoes and performing a postman coast before dismounting, I was soon bouncing along tenderly into transition to re affirm my talent of changing my shoes quickly with a fifty eight second transition.

 

Calm before the storm, transition first thing on race day.     Photo: Jez Cox

After shouting, politely, to a transition marshal to point me in the direction of run out (it was really quite simple!) I was trotting past Graeme and Jez on the inside track informing me that I was currently fifth. As it turned out, they meant fifth off the bike, but I had taken that to mean fifth in my age group. With a 40km bike split of 1.04.39, I had produced the second fastest bike ride for the 20-24 AG, and was third off the bike, in bronze medal position and was being closely pursued by AJ who must have come down the hill at warp speed.

 

Out of the stadium and back to the torturous run course, after passing the water station (drink, back, head, chest, drink) and navigating the turnaround, I got my first glimpse of the distance between myself and AJ, currently lying in age group fourth. I maybe only had a twenty metre gap, and he was moving well, with an angry look on his face. If I wasn’t aware of his presence by sight, he made me aware, I’m unsure whether intentionally or not, by a wave of discarded water across the road, which was actually quite refreshing and a good shot!! At this point I was feeling fairly smooth in my running as we continued for a fifth ascent up the hill, which had somehow gotten steeper whilst I had been riding my bike. I was able to gauge the gap behind me, listening for the cheers of “Go GB” for myself, shortly followed by those for my compatriot.

 
After navigating the now quite suffocating old town, it was back through the second water station, (drink drink drink drink drink this time) and onto the shady relief of the riverside road, now even more heaving with British support. We passed a host of athletes who had competed in the earlier sprint race, including David Boyes and his family, as they gave me personal cheers, which whilst not acknowledged where greatly appreciated. Finally it was time for “the take”. Not even pausing to match my stride, AJ strolled past me at a fair pace, which I tried unsuccessfully to match as we approached the stadium for the final time. Entering the stadium, and completing the penultimate half lap of the track, I was greeted by the fierce and occasionally intimidating screams and hollers of “Team Meager” as I watched the bronze medal disappear over the crest of the hill and barring a miracle, out of touch. It was now about conservation and remembering how to run forwards.

The Take, AJ digging in to move into third.    Photo: Tim Ostler

 

I was greeted at the top of the slope by my dad who had been roaming the course, mostly around the hill, (why do running supporters always stand near the hill!?). Despite my dark sunglasses, he could see my fatigue, pain and disappointment, as the wheels came off. Probably seeing it all in the facial expression as only twenty four years of fatherhood can. A delicate wish of “go on buddy” carried me up the gradient until it was time for the final descent into the plazas of the old town. Here I finally identified my mystery supporter in the café as Piers Arnold of Tri Anglia, a top quality runner with whom I had raced at a local duathlon during my preparation. Piers had been competing in the 25-29 age group but in the sprint distance race, earning a sixth place finish.

 
Following the last sharp corner at Il Toro, and the collection of water (throw contents of bottle in general direction of mouth) I was thankfully approaching the athletics arena for the final time. Approaching the gate, a figure loomed behind me briefly, it was James Coleman, having caught me two hundred metres from the line, on his way to a bronze medal in his and Duncan’s 25-29 AG. A hushed acknowledgment, and around the track, my overwhelming desire was to walk, which I finally succumbed to 5 metres before the finish line, after a quick look behind to ensure I wouldn’t get pipped, a Spanish competitor was one hundred metres behind, just entering the blue carpet signifying the finish chute. With the cheers of my supporters Ella and Mum from the grandstand, bedecked in their Union Flag hats, ringing in my ear, I stumbled across the finish line in a time of two hours, two minutes and five seconds, desperately wanting to sit down. A brief pause to double up over a barrier, exhausted, whilst a volunteer removed the timing chip from my ankle, I proceeded to the athlete recovery area, seeking shade beside a wheelie bin whilst James occupied the chair beside. I felt truly dreadful, and whilst sat propping up the bin, tri suit pulled down to the waist, a kind British athlete, I think it was either Duncan Bullock or 35-39 World Champ Richard Shephard continually passed us bottles of water. I think I guzzled about two litres immediately.

Ella cheering on from the stand.   Photo: Michele Ostler

I was massively disappointed, but more relieved that I could be still and didn’t have to run any longer.

 After a quick word with my family, I hurried off to the baggage area to change into something more comfortable, and scrounge more food and drink on offer from the organisers. Back outside into the furnace of midday Spain, I returned to the trackside fence where I had hung the t shirt in which I always warm up, it was gone.  If you see a Spaniard in an ill-fitting Parliament Hills XC t shirt, nab him! Burying my t shirt disappointment, I sat on the kerb with two Canadians in the shady boulevard beside the turnaround point at the beginning of the run route. Here I was able to witness the culmination of the older male age groups, including Nick, as well as the ladies completing their final run laps, including the Scot Fiona Bracegirdle running swiftly to her AG gold medal in emphatic style, defeating second place by a whopping seven minutes.

 

Fiona’s father, Mr Bracegirdle (I’m ashamed to say I still do not know his first name!!) is a legend in the GB team’s eyes due to his photography prowess, tirelessly snapping every competitor during their race. He is a legend in my eyes after I saw him at Ottawa’s aviation museum having yomped the six miles there in the stifling midday heat, to look at aeroplanes. I had been there to satisfy some nerdiness, visiting the accompanying Star Wars Exhibition. This is the source of my delightful ‘Chewbacca in Aviators’ t shirt for those of you that have been privileged enough to see it.

 

Once I finally managed to catch up with Jayne, we sat in the shade of the stadium’s grandstand, sharing each other’s desire to be still as athletes streamed passed us, occasionally stopping to chat and discuss the brutality of the racecourse and conditions. It is always a relief in a sport where you cannot really converse with other athletes, to learn that they shared your turmoil, reassuring you that it wasn’t just you struggling.

 

After sharing the final morsels of my walnut CLIF bar, we mustered the energy to move from our shady slab and return to transition to witness the carnage which we had left, and remove our belongings. There hung Polly, cycling shoes dangling to her sides, having carried me over the terrain faultlessly. It was at this point that I picked up on the Spanish announcement being made over the tannoy, declaring the medallists from each age group. I stood motionless as I deciphered the message, confirming that both I and Jayne had finished fourth in our age groups. I wheeled myself over to her changing spot, with a shrug and a hug, and made her promise that we could push the bikes the short trip back to the hotel, as I didn’t have the energy to swing my leg over the frame.

 

Interest in my race had been overwhelming pre-race, with messages from home via Facebook, twitter and text wishing me luck. The support continued as friends and family searched in vain for the results to go live on triathlon.org. The athletes themselves did not even become fully aware of results until after eight pm that night and even then they were rather sketchy. It was frustrating to be unable to declare my actual result, as I didn’t want people to think I was ignoring them, but my radio silence continued until word did get home the following day and waves of congratulations came my way.

 
I have to admit that I was disappointed to have finished fourth, and viewed the messages saying “congratulations” and “well done on fourth” as a little patronising. I thought I had given a terrible performance to suffer and go backwards on the run. After all the hype of Ottawa, and the ensuing eight months as World Champ and a local face, I had failed and didn’t need to have my result justified by the heat/terrain/time of year (delete as applicable), I simply had not run fast enough (although I certainly changed my shoes quick enough!)

 
Hindsight is a wonderful thing though, and viewing my experience my mind-set changed and I cheered up a bit. My initial run time of 35.32, on a much more challenging course, was only forty five seconds outside my stand alone 10km Personal Best (something which Graeme says should be a minute quicker!), only 10 seconds slower than I had run in Ottawa. The average bike speed of 37 kmh (23mph) was respectable for the course, and within the top fifteen out of over four hundred male standard distance racers. I genuinely believe that the performance I gave in Pontevedra to finish fourth would massively eclipse my performance to win gold in Canada in August.

 During Jez’s initial briefing, he encourages athletes to take three lessons from every event they do, be it positive or negative. Two weeks later I am still trying to work out these lessons, but the experiences I will take away will certainly make me a better runner, cyclist, duathlete, triathlete and person tomorrow.

 I must express my gratitude at the end of this blog entry to those that continually support my journey onto madder and badder things. Kind of like an Oscar’s acceptance speech but without the star studded selfie.

 Thank you to my friends at Ipswich Jaffa Running Club, Ipswich Triathlon Club and Stowmarket & District Cycling Club for allowing me to chase them around Suffolk in the name of getting faster.

 Thank you to sponsors Glen and Kay at VUE CCTV for their support in funding me to race in the sports I love.

Thank you to Mark, Lisa and Andy at Pedal Power Cycles, Ipswich for supplying a lot of my kit and nutrition for the race, as well as allowing me the time to train. also to Paul, my running encyclopaedia for teaching me about heart rate monitors, allowing me to realise that 181bpm is far too high! And to Liam Manser for being the best fan boy an EX WORLD CHAMP could ask for.

 Thank you to Jayne for being my travelling buddy and friend away from home. Also thank you for going half’s on the kettle as the hotel didn’t have one, so we could enjoy gallons of tea!!

 And finally thank you to all of my family for allowing me to be highly unsociable whilst playing outside on my bikes and running. And for their support both in Pontevedra and from home.

Results for the race HERE!

Move and Smile 

 

 

 

 

Why Kissing Gates and Cow Fields?

Four hundred metres from my house; is a gate, a kissing gate.

If you are a city dweller, or are unfamiliar with this breed of gate, follow this link and see the picture below. 

 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kissing_gate

Beyond that gate is a grass path. That grass path leads to a small footbridge surrounded by trees. Beyond that bridge, is a whole world of enjoyment and beauty. Kind of like Narnia, only real. And without lions…

 The path follows the River Gipping in the form of the Gipping Walk public footpath. The first thing you encounter as you emerge from the trees is a large quarry pit, now known as ‘B’ Pit (A Pit is located further up river) which is preserved by the local angling association. I have never seen a fish pulled from this lake, but you will often see a couple of men dressed head to toe in camouflage, smoking, reading or sleeping and most likely wondering “who is that weirdo running round in circles?!”

 To my delight, the lake measures a fraction over 2 kilometres in circumference, making it the perfect location to perform kilometre interval reps, albeit with one kilometre being slightly longer than the other. The path around the lake is very quiet but for the occasional dog walker, meaning less obstructions whilst running at pace. It is also entirely made of grass or dirt and this is kinder on the body than pounding tarmac. I also find it makes beneficial the transition to the sure footedness of road/track running.

 If you continue to follow the original path beside the gipping, you will pass beneath a railway bridge, accommodating the main line between Norwich and London, leading onto another two sets of kissing gates. Following these gates, you cross an old stone bridge, deafened by a small lock running below, before being channelled between two houses and a rustic red brick wall, being deposited back on the riverside where the path continues largely unobstructed through to yet more lakes at the small Suffolk town of Needham Market. All that stands in your way is more of those pesky gates, and the occasional style as you pass through fields of various ownership.

 After running alongside the noisy “Shamford Lock”, and below an iron bridge housing access to a quarry, you find yourself in the corner of a field home to thirty or so rather curious cows. The grassy pasture stretches into the distance on your left, as you find the river continuing its course to your right. Only an electric fence and a steep bank separating you from the gently flowing water making its tentative voyage to Ipswich, Felixstowe and ultimately, the North Sea.

 It was whilst running through this field, on separate occasions that I witnessed the most romantic thing I have seen whilst exercising, and experienced the comical misfortune that gives inspiration to the title of this blog.

 The first occurrence sums up the beauty of the Suffolk countryside, and why I feel so lucky to live in the East Anglian flatlands.

 One weekday afternoon, whilst enjoying an easy jaunt along the edge of said field, I noticed movement amongst the herd of cows gathered over to my left. Out of the crowd of black and white cattle, emerged two fluttering magpies, pursued by a crafty fox looking for lunch. I had to stop and observe, appreciating fully that I was the only person in the whole wide world witnessing this terrific sight.

I am pleased to report that the magpies escaped unscathed and lived on to steal a lifetimes worth of shiny stuff and be greeted by superstitious onlookers. The whereabouts of Mr Fox remains unknown.

 The second occasion to which I have eluded had happened earlier in the same year, fortunately on a summer evening. You will understand why I say fortunately shortly…

After entering the field, as I had numerous times before by way of the usual gate, the path was followed hand railing the field’s edge. I had noticed that the cows were grazing a little further down the field in this instance, but opted to plough on regardless towards the exit gate in the opposite corner of the field.

 Upon approaching the herd, instead of adopting the common cattle behaviour of “legging it”, they stood firm, and a couple of brave bovine stepped out and began approaching the corner to which I was heading. I HAD BEEN CUT OFF!! I still attribute the fact that they started moving en mass towards me to the fact that I was dressed in black shorts and white shirt, a look I no longer sport.

There was no way I could continue on my way, nor could I outrun the cows to whence I came. They move remarkably well for something weighing between one and two tonnes. I was forced to hurdle the electric fence which halted the advance, but allowed for a close up look of what a cows face really looks like.

The division of the fence gave me some confidence and with a stick, found on the river bank, was able to strike the fence in the hope of intimidating the now complete herd, allowing my escape. I was met with a grunt, which according to Google Translate, is cow for “is that all you got, skinny?!”

Moving along the river bank with the hope of re-entering the field and reaching the entry gate proved hopeless as every human movement was met with a mirrored manoeuvre by the tormentors. There were two ways to get off this river bank, and the dry option was now out of bounds. Shoes off and in I went to the surprisingly frigid water and onto the slimy, stony river bed.

At six foot 3 inches tall, I have, as you can imagine, very long legs, which proved a great help as I waded down the river treading carefully, water now engulfing my waistband. The cows continued to follow, not content with forcing me into the flow, they were going to ensure this imposter stayed off their patch entirely, and duly stalked along mocking me as I continued under a small disused footbridge to safety where I was able to clamber up the bank. Shoes and feet were re united and so began the drying off procedure on the two mile return run home, much to the amusement of my dad Tim, as I bowled around the corner, still wet, very muddy and beaming a big toothy grin from ear to ear!

 To this day I run at warp speed through that field, even if it is empty. The adjoining field is now also home to an even fiercer collection of creatures.

I am sure they were just being inquisitive and were more intimidated by me than I (should have been) of them, but being approached by twenty tonnes of cattle, I became very very concerned!

 Since that fateful day, I have enjoyed several fine cuts of steak and feel no remorse at enjoying Every.Single.Bite. (Apologies to any vegetarian/vegan readers :D )

And now you see, the inspiration behind the title of this blog:

                Kissing Gates, punctuating my favourite running routes, and;

                Cow Fields, scaring the bejeesus out of me since 2011

No aminals were harmed in the making of this blog, the cows had a good laugh, although the fox did go hungry...

Cross Country Season 2013-14 Part 1: The Matt Spencer show.

As the cross country running season draws to a close, it is time to reflect on what has been a hugely enjoyable and successful winter both personally and for the club with which I run, Ipswich JAFFA.

 Cross country or XC as I will refer to it, is perhaps the back bone of British running, particularly for the development of junior runners due to the safe traffic free courses, the natural surfaces which are more forgiving on growing bodies and an introduction to competitive running, and unusually for what is considered an individual sport, teamwork. The fastest women in marathon history, Paula Radcliffe is a product of the British XC scene, and is a firm advocate of the sport, quite an endorsement  I am sure you will agree. Races are staged throughout the winter in local parks and farmland, often with leagues creating some healthy competition as road running races come less regularly than in the summer.

The beauty of it is it's simplicity and it's difficulty. Courses are mostly through or around muddy fields, and with it being a winter sport, the weather is generally cold, wet or both. Furthermore, if there is a hill of any description in the vicinity, then the race organisers will gleefully utilise it! Races are cheap to run from both the runner and organisers perspective. Race entry for local races is on the day, and operating on a “cash and dash” system. Turn up, pay your £3-£5 entry fee, run and have a great time! With regards to organisers costs, road running is generally falling foul to traffic management and policing fees, even in some unfortunate circumstances leading to the death of traditional races, no such problem for XC, as the most important factor for venues is a generous land owner and a creative course designer.

 The association with XC for most adults’ links back to school PE lessons, and are mostly very negative. So many times within my club, people chose not to take part in XC as they understandably don’t relish the idea of slogging round a muddy field with a teacher shouting and blowing a whistle at them to run faster. The coaches often offer “encouraging support” usually whilst stood at the top of a hill, where the runners are at their lowest and slowest ebb, but I have yet to see any of them brandishing a whistle.

 So often with a road race, you will hear people rejoicing or seeking commiseration for the success or failure of achieving a PB. There is none of that in XC, in fact most races aren’t even timed and finishing positions are what matters. The poison of GPS watches, mile splits and average paces fail to infiltrate the raw nature of XC, and with the varied make up of courses, it’d be hard to find any relevant analysing of times. A course could consist of the first kilometre being a wide open windy field, the second a slippery off camber river bank, and the third a series of lung busting ascents, making each kilometre a completely different challenge. For the eagle eyed amongst you, you will notice that I have just described the Suffolk XC championship course at Ickworth Park, in one sentence!

 I touched earlier, on XC being a team sport. This is due to its interesting scoring system. Positions mean points, if you finish first, you score one point, second scores two, third three and so on right down to the final runner. Runners from the same club make a team, and depending on field size, the first eight men and four women count as ‘scorers’ for their club. This means that their finishing positions (points) are totalled up, giving a sum for the team of eight or four. The team with the lowest sum of their first eight runners are simply, the winners. The team element continues beyond the scorers for each club however, as runners finishing outside of their own clubs top eight runners, can still affect the scores of other teams by finishing ahead of runners from other clubs who may well be a scorer, thus meaning a higher total to individual and team points.

 Men’s and women’s races run concurrently, but the scoring is kept separate. The men’s and women’s teams with the lowest aggregate score receives one point each, the second lowest aggregate receives two points each and so on. Finally, the male and female team score is combined giving a final club score. If for example the men finished third, and the women finish second, the club receives an overall score of five points. Clearly, runners are representing not only themselves, but their club also. If that seems confusing, don't worry, it is, but fortunately, those that collate the scores seem to have it nailed!

 I enjoy XC as it is HARD. It has taught me a lot with regards to how to race others and not just the clock, it is character building, running at your absolute maximum and then requesting more of your body, running without the sure footedness of the road through mud and puddles, but most of all, it is fun and rewarding. The free cup of tea offered to all runners at the finish only adds to the allure that XC holds for me!

 The club of which I am a member is Ipswich JAFFA, so named as the initials of the club’s philosophy, ‘Jogging And Fitness For All’ rather than any links to a range of Mcvities cakes (or biscuits, you decide) or the brand of tasty Satsuma’s, although the latter did contact the club recently, donating fruit for the half marathon which we host in September. Also, after an inspired decision in the club's recent history, we are now clad in delightfully bright orange running vests, which shows up very well within a group of runners, except in the Netherlands, as we found out on our visit to the Amsterdam marathon. Or in a Norfolk race involving a "Coltishall Jaguar" as my mum has been frustrated by on so many photographic opportunities!!

 We compete in a local league consisting of clubs from South Suffolk and North Essex, sponsored by the 53-12 Triathlon shop. The league is made up of the clubs, Ipswich Jaffa, Springfield Striders (Chelmsford), Gt Bentley RC, Harwich Runners, Colchester Harriers, Tiptree Road Runners, Witham RC, Hadleigh Hares, Halstead RC, Mid Essex Casuals, Colchester and Tendring and finally, a representative team from the sponsors,53-12.  There are six fixtures throughout the season at Chelmsford, Harwich, Halstead, Ipswich, Witham (Braintree) and Hadleigh.

Information for the league organisation, results and standings can be found at www.53-12xc.com

 The season started for us at Hylands Park in Chelmsford, best known as the venue of the ‘V’ music festival, but the only groupies in the park on this chilly November morning were the supporters, families and coaches of the running clubs.

As the first fixture, it would prove to be a good indication of how the league would pan out, and a good chance to familiarise yourself with whom you would be spending several hours slogging through ditches and dirt in the following months.

I had raced at this venue in the previous season, and my most vivid memory of it was a series of ditches that we would traverse several times, and a deep, leg sapping pond.

The early exchanges felt very pedestrian around grassy fields, but the field soon strung out as the race turned uphill and back into a fierce wind. The small, stocky tattooed runner from Springfield Striders, Tom Cammack, a runner with whom I would race fiercely with in the coming fixtures, was the first to show his hand as he made an attempted break from the group of front runners, only to be reeled in gradually by the eventual winner, Tom Fairbrother (IJ) and the Colchester double act of Chris Sellens and John Fryer, with myself trailing behind. This was an early indication of Tom C’s grit, as he is a tough, punchy runner who is happy to take everybody on.

 The only thought running through my head as we ploughed on around the course, having settled into fourth position with Tom C on my heels, was “when is that pond coming!?" I was expecting it around every corner, and when it eventually appeared, I was able to witness the three leaders enter at great speed, only to be slowed to a high stepping crawl as the mud below gripped at their running shoes. Once it was my turn to enter, I fared well, as being six foot three, didn’t, at first get sucked in too badly as my hips were able to stay above the water surface, the same couldn’t be said for a lot of other runners, particularly the smaller women in the race, barely hitting five feet five!

Tom F leads the Colchester pair through the chilly swamp. I follow through the trees. Photo: Kelly's Running Photos.

 With this obstacle successfully navigated, the course weaved its way through more sloppy ditches, where I was able to use my extra rangy legs to open a gap between myself and Tom C, before entering a wood line, where time seemed to speed up, a sensation that running through tress often creates. After being spat out of the treeline and back into a large open pasture in time to see Tom F take the victory, Coach Clive urged me onto the finish and to stay ahead of the runners behind me and hold onto fourth place which I was successful in doing.

 The league had for the team JAFFA gotten off to an average start, with the men gaining three points due to strong showings in depth from both Colchester and Springfield, and the women scoring two points, helped in part by the return to XC running of JAFFA’s elite marathon runner Helen Davies, taking the overall victory in the ladies race. After the first fixture, Springfield Striders sat top of the tree, having gained top league points (six) with a combined team score of three, JAFFA took four points and sat third.

Credit must go to the organisers, Springfield Striders, for providing delicious donuts at the race HQ, the cake is one of my favourite things about XC!

We would have to wait almost a whole month for our next fix of mud, as the following fixture was staged by Harwich Runners, just a short hop from Ipswich over the Stour Estuary in the village of Ramsey, at a charming if very basic barn, kindly provided by the landowner, on December 1^st. The JAFFA team had hopes of a better overall result than at Hylands Park, with the addition to the team of two of the clubs top runners, Jon Ling, and our pocket rocket Matt Spencer.

This race was a real turning point for me as a runner, and made me realise what I was capable of, giving me the belief that I could run alongside the top local runners, rather than fall in line behind them as I have been guilty of in previous meetings.

The early excitement at Harwich, L to R: Tom Cammack, Gavin Davies, Myself, Matt Spencer, Gavin Allen, Jon Ling. Photo: Kelly's running Photos.

After the initial excitement of the first few hundred metres, the race settled down, and upon turning onto a muddy field edge to follow the bank of a small stream, I found myself in an unfamiliar position, the lead of the race with just Tom C again for company. Tom was able to open a small gap as we ran uphill into a stiff breeze, showing his strength, but as the hill was crested and we began descending the other side, I soon caught back up to his heels, using my long stride to glide down.

Three out front. Running scared from Tom C and Matt S. Photo: Mark Blackburn/JAFFA

 As we continued around the farmland, it became very sparse of anything but course markings and the occasional marshal pointing us the right way. The elastic between myself and Tom C was continually stretching and whilst I was always aware of footsteps behind me, I was running scared and didn’t want to look back to check the distance, in case my stalker took it as a sign of my weakening and used it as incentive to close the gap.

 Coming back from the far reaches of the course, we began approaching the finish line and spectators, although we still had an additional mile or so to run, retracing the first half of the course. We were able to see runners streaming back towards us in the opposite direction on an adjacent track. To be leading the race and hear the encouragement of my club mates gave me a real buzz and really spurred me on to stay ahead and continue what felt like a ferocious pace. I was still very aware of the runner close behind, but refused to check behind.

 I was blissfully unaware of what was occurring behind me, and it was only with two hundred metres remaining that the footsteps that had been taunting me for so long drew level and proceeded to scamper away toward the finish line. Inside I was devastated, having led everybody around the course from the very beginning. It would have been wonderful to get my hands in the air as the winner, but as a former instructor in the Army once screamed at us during a physical training session, “It isn’t over until you’re in the shower”(that is the sanitised version of what he said). However, as it turned out, and with XC being a team sport, I was delighted to see that it was the orange vest of Matt Spencer passing me, making for a satisfying JAFFA one-two.  Matt later thanked me for setting the pace as I did, and admitted that he probably would have settled in the pack had he not had me to chase. From a runner of his calibre, that was very pleasing for me to hear.

 The race at Harwich had been a vast improvement from the previous fixture in Chelmsford. Both the JAFFA men and women took overall, with Helen again taking the victory for the ladies, we walked away with maximum points, and with a surprisingly weak outcome for both Colchester and Springfield, we found ourselves sitting top of the league, albeit after only two events.

After waiting a whole month between fixtures one and two, race three of the league was hosted just a week later by Halstead Road Runners at the impressive facilities of Gosfield School. In the fixture here in the previous season, the race director had proudly and correctly claimed it to be the muddiest XC course in the league. A mild and dry (it seems crazy to be describing dry weather now we are in March!) prevented a repeat of those conditions, and but for some boggy bits in the woods, the going was good, making for a fast paced race.

 This race would be my first experience of running in long spikes. Up until now, I had always just used the spikes that were provided with my shoes, nine millimetre studs that had now been worn down to a point that they were barely protruding from the sole! They were laughed at by club mates in the sports hall beforehand, and so I set about joining a small circle of runners frantically dipping into a supply of twelve millimetre spikes, brought along by Gavin Davies, Jon Ling and Mark Furnace. This was a great demonstration of team work and the camaraderie that XC brings out as shoes, spikes and spanners were tossed around to be ready in time. the extra reassurance of improved grip certainly helped whilst careening down the steep hills.

Women get a bad reputation for being obsessed by shoes, but in my experience, male runners are far worse! Throughout the year it is always a hot topic on our club Facebook group, as members post a picture of their sparkly new daps, or discuss the pro's and con's of various models...

 After the success of my race at Harwich, I had now found the confidence to take on a race, and run as hard as I could. The Gosfield course follows the perimeter of the school playing fields for the first and last mile, so having a good position heading into the narrow wooded section that would last approximately three miles was important. I was able to lead around the fields before finally ceding to Matt S and entering the woods second, where I would remain on his shoulder for the duration.

Little and Large in perfect harmony. Always Amusing for spectators. Photo: Mark Blackburn/JAFFA

 Once in the woods, runners were faced with a series of sharp ups and downs, although with the dry conditions, the footing was good and the pace high, a few muddy sections of vehicle tracks wrong-footed us several times though as we slogged through. Following Matt S up the sharp rises, gaps opened up between us as his short stride climbed quickly, but my lopey stride allowed the gap to be closed again on the following downhill's. We were now out of the front of the race alone, as other competitors had fallen back, mostly after the fierce pace set uphill.

Matt S leading the initial charge through the woods at Gosfield School. Photo: Mark Blackburn/JAFFA

Despite Matt’s best efforts to take us the wrong way around the course (he needed occasional direction of which way to turn when the course markings got a bit vague, not for the first time according to Mrs Spencer), we emerged back for the final loop around the fields and back to start finish area. With a short section that doubled back on itself around some trees, we were able to see our competitors behind us. We were certainly still in a position where we could be caught, so the pace had to continue, and Matt was able to open up a sizeable lead over me as the pure speed he possesses on the road kicked in, giving him the extra yards to take the lead around the final few corners, and safely into the finish as the winner again. We had been within a metre of one another throughout, and I had found that as I attempted to move in front to take up the pace making, it was just seen as an invitation to run a bit faster!! I was pleased to have at least be close enough to see him finish, and delighted to again finish ahead of some notable names that usually run away from me in road races.

 Another successful race for the club, as the eight scoring men produced a combined total of just ninety three points to take first place and the ladies had amassed forty to finish the day second, meaning we once again took maximum points, and sat top of the league heading into the break over Christmas.

 After a lengthy break for Christmas, the first weekend in January is traditionally reserved for county XC Championships. The Suffolk Athletics Association is lucky enough to have the National Trust site, Ickworth Park, at its disposal. The park is home to Ickworth House, a beautiful Georgian Palace set in 1800 acres of grassy parkland, and offers a superb canvas for a challenging running course, utilising the hills, woodland and fields. The 2013 county championships produced a tough course, including a long muddy uphill drag, a bomb hole which became almost impossible to exit on the final time through as conditions worsened, and most amusingly, a field of free roaming sheep which, I’m sure, had a traumatic day being herded by the county’s runners.

 I had fully expected to arrive and be racing on the same course, but it turned out that a completely new arena had been created at the opposite on of the park. On a particularly windy day, the opening of the race involved circling a large field, completing a sweeping U turn at the end, before running back into the wind. After leaving the field, the route turned left around the boundary fence, and began the long descent around a small church, and alongside an old red brick wall before a muddy bridge crossing leading onto a lakeside. The natural lay of the land made this a technically tricky part of the course, as it was both off camber and muddy, making the choice of line critical to the ease at which it was possible to traverse the section.

Following this section, the route took runners back over a small bridge, marshalled by JAFFA XC secretary, and club mile record holder, Brian Rogers, an unflappable and calmly spoken XC legend. His gentle encouragement carried you up a series of two lung busting climbs, where it was less a case of moving quickly than not going so slow to come to a halt. This was naturally a popular place for spectators to gather, as is always the case in a running race, and there was a contingent of JAFFA coaches gathered at the crest of the second incline.  Urges to “dig in” and “get over the top” were heard but difficult to acknowledge.

 During our warm up, we had trotted over to these hills to see what all the fuss was about, and were able to see one of our junior members, Paul Wain, running powerfully up the hill to create a gap on his rivals and ultimately become under 15 Champion. Upon seeing the severity of the climbing that we would be doing, for the first time in the year that I had known him, I heard Suffolk's fastest forty something, Brad Jones, usually so well spoken, utter words not fit for print!

Over the top of the hill, and the quickest to recover could power round the gloriously flat pasture before rounding a corner to the finish straight, after splashing through an ankle deep puddle. At this corner, during the senior men's race, the JAFFA ladies had gathered to create a wall of noise, welcoming the runners to the beginning of the next lap, or the relieving sight of the finish line.

The course measured roughly four kilometres long, and would be completed twice by the ladies and three times for the men.

 The dynamic of the county championship is very different to any other XC race we take part in. Firstly, we race against members of only Suffolk clubs and other eligible individuals, as opposed to the usual opponents in the 53-12 league who are mostly from Essex. Whilst we regularly compete alongside them on the road, it would be interesting to see who is stronger or weaker in the mud.

 Secondly, each race is run with different start times. This allows us to be able to watch the other races unfold. Particularly the ladies race, which was won by a good distance by Sara Bird of Woodford Green with Essex ladies. She is a classy runner who regularly runs near the front of road races with the top men, and the lead stretched and stretched as the laps passed.

The JAFFA ladies look cold and apprehensive ahead of 8km of County XC Championships. Photo: Robin Belsom/JAFFA

There was success in the ladies race for the JAFFA team too. The trio of Jayne Williams, Val Jennings and Kate Wooldridge took third in the team race with a combined total of thirty six points, trailing St Edmunds Pacers (22) and West Suffolk AC (26).

The gun fires and the ladies are off at Ickworth park, winner Sara Bird three in from left(green and white vest). Photo: Robin Belsom/JAFFA

The senior men’s race was the final event of the day. The early pace was hot, as Aaron Scott, a 2hr22min marathoner and race favourite lead from the start, dragging along Matt Spencer, 2013 runner up Chris Rooke, and West Suffolk AC’s youngster Macaulay Delo racing his first year with the seniors, for as long as they could hold on.

 The race quickly reached the hills for the first time, and larger gaps where beginning to open as Rooke continued to claw on to Scott whilst Matt S and Delo continued to battle for third. I was currently sat in sixth, where I would remain for the duration of the race, on the heels of Chris' brother and reigning champion Andrew.

 I cannot possibly comment on what was occurring at the head of the race, such was the distance ahead of the leading two. The rest of the race snaked along behind, with Andrew R creating a small gap between us as we went uphill, which I was able to reduce again on the way down, but ultimately his strength once we reached the flat created a gap which I would spend the next thirty minutes trying to close.

 The psychological benefit of a multi lap course can be huge when you are struggling and running at your limit. Once it has been navigated once, you are aware of where you are on the course, and which sections will give you opportunity to recover or push on whilst moving at race pace. There is also the added advantage of support. A three lap course will take you past the same spectators in the same positions three times, giving you the encouraging words you need to continue moving forward.

 As we continued for laps two and three, the gap between Andrew R and myself stayed equal, I was going to have to move faster than I could muster to both catch and pass him, so I was left to settled for sixth position, followed in by Brad, Gavin and Jon to complete five Ipswich JAFFA men occupying the top ten, a testimony to the strength in depth of the club, and the hard work being undertaken by the coaches and members of the club. The result was also good enough for Matt, myself, Brad and Gavin to take first place in the men’s team race with a combined total of twenty seven points.

JAFFA's Mon Lee shows great relief at completing the course!! Photo: Robin Belsom/Ipswich JAFFA

Look forward to part two, including: "Posh Cross", XC Mecca, Being chased by horses, and a happy ending!


Many thanks to Kelly of Mid Essex Casuals for allowing the use of her wonderfully popular 53-12 photographs. Here is a Link to Kelly's Facebook collection