MIUT

A week has passed and I can almost feel my sausage toes again which prompts me to try to jot down some thoughts on the Madeira Island Ultra Trail, so here goes…..

MIUT was one of those races which you don’t remember in order. Random moments jump into your consciousness and these little vignettes invariably cause the edges of your mouth to curl in conspiratorial smile. Lizards, rats, green pipes, broken poles, scary mountains, darkness, scary drops and Glenfiddich. You see, MIUT was one of those races where you had to be there. There is no recounting of events which can adequately describe just how  mind-blowingly awful and wonderful it was. In the same way as the sober observer might recognise a good going party, they can never feel the conspiratorial camaraderie and exhilaration of the intoxicated participants.

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We got this. How hard can it be?

But back to the beginning and MIUT set off at midnight in darkness from the little fishing village of Port Moniz, perched on a rocky outcrop on the north west coast of the lump of volcanic rock which is Madeira. The destination was Machico some 115Km away on the opposite edge of the island. The route would take us over the mountains which run down the spine of Madeira and would involve climbing and descending 7200 metres.

“its like UTMB – just make it to morning and then everything changes”.  Craig Hamilton had offered these words of wisdom as we waited for the start of the race. Craig is a hell of a runner and I have enormous respect for his running achievements, so listened carefully.

It is funny the little things you notice. We were sat on granite steps watching traditional Madeiran dancers entertain the assembling runners. It was 11pm at night yet the stone wasn’t cold. If you are Scottish you will understand just how weird that is.

Then there were the lizards. The first climb out of Port Moniz was on narrow concrete roads which headed upwards at angles so steep you can’t imagine cars going up them until you have to bypass the cars parked outside the houses. Houses built in places where houses shouldn’t be, served by roads so steep they shouldn’t be roads because cars shouldn’t be able to get to them. Yet all these things exist and 800 runners lit by head torches are running and walking up these roads and when not on the roads they are climbing thousands of stone steps  which link the different vertiginous road networks reaching into the sky. So to the Lizards which scuttle across the concrete by day as they bask in the sun. Quite a number of them were obviously taken by surprise by the stampeding hordes and met an untimely end leaving a flat gelatinous lizard shaped gloop on the concrete.

What goes up must come down and the road hurtled down to a river crossing and a small village of Ribeira de Janela. A noisy, excited and unexpectedly numerous group of supporters cheered us across the river and on to the hill. A look behind and a stunning snake of head torches zig zagged from the sky to the sea set against the black outline of the hill. A glance at the route profile helpfully printed upside down on the bottom edge of the race number provided the metaphorical poke with a sharp stick when I realised that the first climb hadn’t in fact been the first climb. That cheeky little 1000ft climb followed by 1000ft descent in the first 5K was just the warm up.  Now was time for the proper hills.

Darkness brings with it the fear. Fear of what you can see and fear of what you can’t see. Fear of the loneliness of the challenge. Fear of failure. Fear of sleep. Fear of time slipping away. Fear of time cutoffs. Fear of a mis-step and the drops you know are off the path.  Last year had not been particularly kind to me on a racing front. I had failed to finish in two big races and while I had the physical excuse of excruciatingly sore heels on both occasions, I suspect that the real reasons  for the DNFs were mental failures rather than physical failure and the fear haunted me as I climbed relentlessly upwards into the night. That fear that my sore heels might return  or even worse, the fear that the voice in your head saying stop would grow too loud to ignore.

I had prepared for the distance and I had prepared for the climbs. After all, as Craig and I had discussed, we have both run further and climbed higher. How hard could it be? As my watch had stopped telling me anything meaningful, ticking over with yet another Personal Worst for 5K and 10K, just how hard it could be was becoming self evident. This wasn’t Chamonix and these weren’t the hard metalled paths switch backing elegantly up hill. These paths were going straight up in an ever changing mix of dirt, tree roots, stone steps and unevenly spaced log steps.

MIUT elevation
modestly undulating

After what seemed like an eternity the checkpoint of Faval was reached.  More than 1100 metres climbed, the equivalent of one of the bigger Scottish Munros. Time to take stock and head off down hill once more.  Only 800 metres to the bottom of the hill. If I thought it was steep on the way up it was even more steep on the way down. Step followed cautious lumbering step. Rocks followed logs which followed grassy banks which followed treacherous dirt slopes, all shrouded in darkness. “Make it to morning” became my crutch as I picked my way downhill while the younger lycra clad European mountain goats  flew recklessly past me taking advantage of lightness and elasticity that my knees and hip flexors can only dream.

“make it to morning” kept ringing in my head. I needed to finish this race as I needed the points it offered to complete my registration for my goal race of the year the Diagonale des Fous on Reunion Island. Flights and accommodation were booked and it would be an awful long way to go not to get to race because of  a DNF. Cloaked in darkness, I made sure that I reached the bottom of the hill without any slips falls or twisted ankles.

A deep breath at the checkpoint, still comfortably ahead of the cut off times, feeling a little bit pleased that the first really big climb was done. Ok it was 3:45am, dark, it had taken me nearly 4 hours to run 20K and I was about to set off up another mountain, but things were ok.

As I climbed, making good use of my poles, my internal conversation turned into a swear fest. “F*ckin hills, b@starding tree roots, oh ya b@satrd not another f*cking big step” and so it continued for the next 2 hours as I made my way up the never ending mountain. After 2 hours I was about three quarters of the way up the climb when the wheels came off. Puffing and panting I had to step off the the path and let people start passing me. Looking up a line of torches sparkled demoralisingly high above me. Several times I repeated the routine of climb, puff, step aside, look up, get depressed, repeat. After an eternity I made it into the sky, there was nothing else above me. The torches were going sideways instead of up. I had made it to the top,  1580 metres in total, higher than Ben Nevis, and there was now just a tinge of pink on the horizon. Into the next check point and a quick text to Helen “Have a good race. Mine is hard as fuck but still safe and still ahead of cut offs. marathon done 8 hours”

Despite the ridiculous nature of the climbs I was finding that I was recovering quickly and well so was reassured that my race wasn’t quite over yet.

Thinking  that the big climbs were out of the way I managed to run the first half of the descent with the daylight arriving just before the next technical section. I had made it to morning. By coincidence having made it to morning I also caught up with Craig as we crossed a narrow volcanic ridge. I was more than a bit surprised as I hadn’t expected to see him again. The night hadn’t been kind to him, Craig told me he had officially retired from all trail running 4 times during the night, but catching him gave me a lift and we ran together down the remainder of the descent through forest trails and down hundreds of steep log steps  until we arrived in Rosario. We had survived the night, and the sun was up. everything was different.

The morning was spent in a sweaty blur covering the constant ups and downs of kilometers 40 to 60. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, there was another steep up or an awkward technical down, it was so bad you just had to smile. This was the race that kept on giving.

Did I mention the rat? A moment of light relief when trundling through the forest in a multilingual train we picked up a great big rat in the head lamps. It wasn’t in the least bit concerned by us and just looked at us as if we were daft.

Then there was the water pipe. After yet another dip into a ravine, and yet another clamber up a grassy bank, the next section of path followed the line of a large green empty water pipe as it clung to the hill at some ridiculously steep angle. I know it was empty by the hollow ringing sound it made as I banged my head on it on each of the three occasions that the path ducked underneath it. I also use the word path very loosely.  There was a very narrow sheep track which followed the line of the pipe, sandwiched between the pipe and a bowel-looseningly sheer drop. Just to make it interesting there were sequences of oddly spaced steps cut into the hill, with some big steps which tested both your bravery and your concentration. With 11 hours climbing in your legs not falling off the hill became something of a priority.

Eventually though it passed and I found the trail which would finally lead to the half way checkpoint and my drop bag at Cural das Freiras. Presumably because it was getting too easy, the sun was now beating down and playing havoc with my celtic genes and my once red hair. I was surprised to catch up with Craig once more and even more surprised to learn that he was struggling. I was still doing sums in my head and was reasonably reassured to calculate that despite all the traumas of the previous 12 hours I was pretty much on schedule to achieve my 24 hour target. Oh how naive I was! I wished Craig well and headed forwards. Before long I could see the town below which was good, but then began to have that nagging doubt that something was wrong. The thing that was wrong was that I was level with the town but it was still a long, long way below me which could mean only one thing. Yep, turned the corner and the path plummeted down hill. A few comforting switch backs eased the nerves, but the rest was done on steps, ladders, rocks and tree roots. After an eternity and much swearing I crawled into the checkpoint at Cural das Freiras, retrieved my drop bag and set about repairing the damage. I changed my socks and shoes (La Sportiva Mutants off, Skechers Go Trail Ultra on), waxed my legs when I tore off the K-Tape.  Craig arrived at the checkpoint happy in the knowledge that he had organised a taxi back to the hotel and despite offering him a swig from my miniature of Glenfiddich he was having none of it and his day was done. I will confess that I gave serious contemplation to writing this race off as one adventure too far and joining him for a warm bed and a beer.

I was deliberating whether or not to change my top, when I felt the familiar checkpoint sensation of my stomach rejecting the food it had just taken in. I hobbled to the toilet as fast as I could but only  made it as far as the outer door before the projectile vomit exploded through my hand, half going up over my face onto the ceiling and the rest going down over my shirt.  I made my apologies to the lady  who was just coming out of the cubicle at that point, found a mop from the cleaners cupboard, made an attempt at cleaning up my mess and headed back inside to change my shirt.

I left the checkpoint into the heat of the afternoon in reasonable spirits  thinking the worst of the climbs were behind me and knowing that I was now heading into the scenic bit. The race photographer caught me doing my best Beau Geste impression as I headed up hill trying to be patient, knowing that I probably had a 3 hour climb ahead of me. We were heading for Pico Riuva, the highest point on the island.  madeira-island-ultra-trail-2017-3043210-47148-2775madeira-island-ultra-trail-2017-3043210-47148-2774On the whole the path was of better quality than most we had been on, but it just kept going higher and higher. Up through the clouds to some jaggy pinnacles looming high above. We can’t be going up there surely? Oh shit yes we are. Relentless upwards progress and the top came closer.

A number of runners were in quite a sorry state by this point, and one Portuguese runner had completely given up and was lying prone at the side of the trail, looking grey and trying to sleep. I spent a wee bit of time with him and then as it was only a short distance to the top reported him to the firemen at the aid station who sent a rescue squad back down the track to retrieve him. Pico Riuvo was done. The aid station was slightly surreal as the power had failed so there were no lights in the hut which housed the food and drink.

It wasn’t yet 6pm and next stop was Pico do Areeiro which really was the last high peak on the course. My ambition was to get there and down the other side before dark. According to the map it was  only 5K away and 300 metres lower so it should be straightforward. Nope, it involved a drop of 800 metres down steps and ladders with sheer drops. A trip through two 100 meter long tunnels through the mountain and then a horrific scramble back up another 600 metres of stairs, , steps, rocks and ladders. The guide ropes provided some reassurance, but there was still lots of this ..

Once at the top it was freezing cold with a strong wind, but it was only 20 or so miles to go. We were on the course used by the marathon which Helen was running and which had started in the morning. I was feeling more than a bit nervous at her prospects if the rest of the course was anything like the stuff I had just come up, but fortunately the path became quite runnable and I relaxed knowing that she would have managed fine and that I would be able to make some progress towards the finish.  According to the race plan there were just two features still to navigate, one last wee bump of a hill at a place called Ribeiro Frei and a final downhill describe in the race brief as a “technical descent”.

Darkness fell, but I was ticking off the miles and was going to finish. Maybe wouldn’t be my 24 hour target but I would get there.  I had done all the hard work. In and out of the Ribeiro Freia checkpoint. The board said it was only a 500 metre climb. Let’s be having you. I made my way to where the path turned up hill and started to climb. OH MY GOD what are they trying to do to us. No real path, just a near vertical scramble up a dirt bank which was torn up from the hundreds of pairs of feet  going up it earlier in the day.  It was unrelenting and at that point, in the dark I wanted to give up. Two things kept me from giving up at that point, firstly the aid station boss had been a bit grumpy and I I didn’t think I would be treated very sympathetically and more pressingly how on earth was I going to get back down the hill without killing myself? Upwards it was. I got in tow behind a chap with green shorts whom I had seen on and off all day. I knew I climbed faster than him and he kept looking over his shoulder for me to go past. Big scaredy cat that I am, I let him beat the trail and I was happy to be rabbited up at his  pace.

It passed, I made it to Posio at the top of the hill, sent Helen a text to say really sorry I might be a bit late, threw up a couple more times and then had the panic that it was nearly midnight and the next cut off was at 2:30 nearly 9K away. Now under normal circumstances having two and a half hours to run 9K downhill would seem ridiculously easy but after everything else the race had thrown at us, I set off like a scalded cat for Portello the next checkpoint. As it was I arrived in plenty of time, refuelled once more and headed for the last technical downhill. It was a wee bit disconcerting when first I was passed by an ambulance and then by the mountain rescue, but as it was they were just out lending support. The route headed into the woods and I could hear the sea. A wee while of normal trail and then it started to drop.  Numerous bid drops down steep dirt banks or big steps down off and between rocks. All of this would have been bad enough in its own right, but the realisation that your head torch was picking out the tops of the trees on your right side and that if you fell, if you were lucky you would land in the tree branches, if you didn’t hit the tree branches then you were probably in the sea several hundred feet below. I picked up a Portuguese runner at this point who’s head torch had failed so the pair of us gingerly worked our way to the last major checkpoint.

As a minor aside the darkness brought some interesting complications. First one of my poles started collapsing of its own volition which was less than helpful when I was depending on it getting me up and down hills. Next I found a new way of staving of the sleep which washes over you on the second night: I was using soft flasks and discovered that if you fill the flask with coke the first time you try to drink it by biting the nozzle, you would get a high speed burst of CO2 fired into your mouth which shot up the back of your nose and squirted out your nostrils. A sort of coke breathing Smaug the dragon. I got quite into this and did it regularly over the course of the night. Don’t ask me why, I just did. I can also recommend 18 year old Glenfiddich as a particularly fine wee pick me up for those moments when spirits are flagging.

Coming out of the last checkpoint we also got in tow with a french runner who was happy for the company.  We swapped race tales  and he told me reassuringly that Madeira was very like Reunion except that Madeira was more technical! We shall find out in October.

5 miles more. 5 miles along a good path. 5 miles along a good path 2 metres wide and perched precariously on a sea cliff with a 500 feet drop into the Atlantic. Oh well, it was that kind of race. Probably just as well that section was in the dark. Except my Frenchman then announced that he was soon to have a problem as his torch was fading! So we have this league of nations trotting gingerly along this cliff path in the dark with one working head torch between us. Bizarrely we were all smiling.

It was slow but finally into the final checkpoint and only 4K to go. There was a hint of light in the sky and some lights from cottages provided some help so I sucked in some air and started running. For the first time in 24 hours I felt like I was running properly. I left my companions behind and picked up even more speed. Along the narrow concrete path at the side of the last Levada, I passed a good number of people and felt stronger and stronger. Cockerels were crowing down in the valley and I could see the bay of Machico  getting closer. As always there was a detour, another uphill which I ran much to the amusement of the Marshals, down a steep grassy bank, some steps and bounded out on to the road by the beach. Job done. round the corner, follow the cones over the footbridge and there is the Arch. It is 5:30 am and I am sprinting towards the finish line. Up and over the ramp and inexplicably in a mixture of exuberance and relief I jumped through the finish line.

It was without a doubt the hardest race I have ever done. It is brutal, awesome and wonderful all at the same time. I have no idea how the elites can run that course in the time they do. The daylight sections I can get, but how they do those 3000ft technical descents in the dark I have no idea.

Did I enjoy it? Absolutely! When recounting the adventure to various people these last few days I found myself grinning excitedly as I tell the tale. Would I recommend this race? Absolutely not. There are some of my friends who would love this race, but it is the sort of race you need to find yourself. The potential for misery is so great that I would not want to be responsible for recommending that misery to someone.

This is the first race I have done where I have been genuinely pleased just to finish. I didn’t even look at the results for a few days. For all that my 29.5 hours was slow, my heel injury didn’t reoccur, I climbed all those hills, battled a few demons  and I didn’t give up. I was a proper ultra runner again and that was all that mattered. “Do you dare?” is one of the race strap lines. “Too fucking right I did” was my response as I sat in the dark covered in dirt, sipping my beer and I was proud as punch about that.

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…and I’ll take the Low Road

On a rainy Saturday morning we took a wee trip to Rowardennan. The West Highland passes through Rowardennan before heading off into the relative wilderness of the East side of Loch Lomond.

After many years the “Low Road” has been cleared, the path upgraded and it is now open to walkers and runners once more. I was last on the low road nearly 20 years ago when I walked the West Highland Way carrying heavy rucksacks with my son Hamish who at the time was only 8 years old or so.

This time the point of the trip was to run to Inversnaid and back, carrying out a recce of the Low Road as I expect to be “racing” on it in June. I put the word racing in quotes because I always find that I am pretty wrecked by the time I get to Rowardennan about 26 miles in to the route regardless of which race I am doing. Fortunately I usually recover later on, but the prospect of actually racing at this point is unlikely!

The total distance from Rowardennan to Inversnaid is around 7.5 miles. It is described on the official WHW web site here

The first section is along a good road which works its way past the Youth Hostel until it bears right and starts to climb uphill through a gate just after Ptarmigan Lodge.

The first section can be seen in the following short video clip

About 300m after the gate the new low road drops sharply to the left at a big bend in the road. It is likely that this route will be used by the West Highland Way Race this June (2016). The Highland Fling race will continue to use the “High Road” so Fling runners will not turn on to the low road but will continue up hill for another 2.5 miles. The Fling route is easier running but not nearly as interesting as the Low Road.

The Low Road can be seen here, slightly speeded up. Apologies also for the slightly jaunty angle of the video at times. Either my camera was squint or my head was, not sure which.

 

The Low Road joins the High Road once more and descends to the lochside for a nice 2.5 mile run through some nice forested trail with the odd waterfall to skip through for good measure before finally arriving at Inversnaid Hotel and the spectacular waterfalls there.

Inversnaid is a pretty god forsaken place on race day. Most people arrive there feeling horrible, there are very few supporters because it is too far to get there by road. It is only 7ish miles by foot and more than 30 miles by road. When you arrive in Inversnaid on race day you usually find the midges have already eaten the contents of your drop bag, and you have only the slowest most technical part of the course still to come in the next 6 miles to Beinglas farm.

Despite the rain, I thoroughly enjoyed my wee jaunt on the new improved Low Road and I didn’t even mind the run back to Rowardennan up the hills of the high road. And anyway, all roads lead to Milngavie in June.

I have posted other videos of the route from Derrydarroch to Tyndrum on this page

and more videos of the Rollercoaster here

Be Humble

Be Humble

That way you won’t be distressed when that old guy comes floating off the hill on another path and hands you your ass on a plate.

Even though that old guy is probably younger than you

Even though you are 3 hours into a long run and he probably isn’t long out the door

Even though you have just done a killer hill session and your legs are trashed

Even though you are deliberately keeping your heart rate low.

Even though you a running your own pace and have no reason to be competitive

Even though you let him go because you know you couldn’t keep up without looking like a twat
Even though you just know that any other day you could take him

Learning Lessons

It has been a while since I have written something here, mainly because I didn’t really have too much to say.  This year has been a bit of a write off on the running front, which is OK I guess as we can’t keep going further, higher, faster forever and sometimes life gets in the way.

Not running much means that Helen and I have spent a lot of time this year helping out at races either marshaling, sweeping or just generally doing what needs done to make a race happen.

I am lucky enough to have some interesting races lined up for next year:  London Marathon, Miwok 100, and West Highland Way take care of the first half of the year. Hopefully another trip to Chamonix for UTMB week in August as well. This has helped restore my motivation, and touching wood, I have had a consistent few weeks slowly building a base for next year’s big efforts.

A couple of hours on the trail yesterday gave me the headspace to reflect on what I have learned this year from all the watching I have done. So what lessons have I learned about what makes successful ultra runners?

  1. Unless you are at the very sharp end success is not defined by where you finish, that is often down to age and genetics, it is how you finish that defines success.
  2. You can’t bluff it. If you haven’t done the training, it will come back and bite you on the bum.
  3. Happy runners are successful runners. Those who smile and chat and enjoy the experience do much better than those who huff and puff and toil.
  4. Successful runners plan carefully, but are flexible and roll with whatever the day throws at them. They don’t over think kit and nutrition.
  5. Stress kills performance. Doesn’t matter whether it is work stress, personal stress or race stress, but too much of it and you can’t train or race successfully. See point 3.
  6. Successful runners are lean. No getting away from it, excess weight kills performance. That doesn’t mean you have to be skinny to run, and plenty runners carry too much weight (me included), but being at your optimum weight undoubtedly helps.
  7. Successful runners race judiciously. Too many people suffer from FOMO and do too many races or races which are a step beyond their current capabilities. See point 5. and point 2.
  8. Successful runners are consistent. They train consistently and build up carefully and steadily to their races. Too many people end up in a cycle of boom and bust, playing catch up from injuries, doing too much, then getting hurt or burning out. See points 2, 3, 4 and 5.

My prescription for myself for 2016 therefore is:

Train patiently, manage work/life balance better, lose weight and the hardest of all – smile more and enjoy it!

 

Warming Up

I am a great fan of warming up. One of my great frustrations is watching runners who do Parkrun stand around with hands in pockets before setting off for a 5K run and then wonder why it feels hard and why they never quite perform as well as they would like.

Same applies to new runners. They really struggle to get through the first 10-15 minutes and think they can’t run. Too often they give up before they have even warmed up.

The answer is of course quite simple. It takes a while for your body to warm up and function efficiently and of course on a 5K run, by the time you are warmed up, not only are you are carrying a massive oxygen debt, with stiff screaming muscles and lungs, you are also at least halfway finished so don’t have much time to get the benefit of your now efficient body.

A wee run on the treadmill tonight with the HR monitor on illustrates this perfectly. I set off jogging really easily, yet my heart rate was more than 80% of maximum. It took 10 minutes before my HR dropped like a stone and I instantly felt much more comfortable. I then increased my speed and did so every 5 minutes. Each time I increased speed my HR went up a little, but even though I was working quite hard by the end of the run, my heart rate was still 20 beats per minute than it had been while jogging easily at the start.

The picture says it all

HR Graph
HR Graph

Inadvertantly Mooned

bartInadvertantly Mooned

Somehow, someone ended up on my blog today by searching the web for the phrase “inadvertantly mooned”. This is a tad surprising on two counts: first that someone would search for pages relating to inadvertant mooning and secondly that my blog contains that very phrase!

Which is a slightly different start to tonight’s post than intended, but the subject matter is related.

Tonight’s lesson is from the book of John the Hobbler and is on the subject of humility.

My run tonight consisted of 2.5 miles spread out over 45 seconds walking/45 seconds running, with the running at a feeble 15 mins/mile pace. It was probably my best run for 7 weeks.  It probably didn’t look very impressive to the burly 20 something lad who bounced towards me with that smug look of superiority on his face.  It probably didn’t look very impressive to the passengers in the steady stream of cars whizzing along the busy road I was running beside. I couldn’t quite tell whether the glances in my direction were sympathy or amusement.

One thing which is certain is that I wasn’t impressing anyone with my running prowess.

It is difficult to accept that this is my current level of performance, but even if I ran with a banner proclaiming ” I ran the West Highland Way” it wouldn’t alter the fact that at the moment I can’t run more than 45 seconds at a time.  If it is true that you are only as good as your last run, then my last run was nothing to write home about. That isn’t to diminish how I used to run, but how I used to run is sod all use to me today.

So I have to try to run with humility.  In the words of Dirty Harry “A man’s gotta know his limitations”.  The sure way to get re-injured is to run with your ego not your brain.  Try to do more than you are able to and your body will break down. Or to continue with the film quotes as they told Tom Cruise in Top Gun “Son, your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash! ”

And as for the blog, while I may think it is flowing prose, to the world it is just Inadvertant Mooning.

20 Pearls of Running Wisdom

  1. The best runners are patient

  2. There are no shortcuts

  3. Going further is easier than going faster

  4. To go further, slow down

  5. To go faster, carry less weight and try harder

  6. People get nicer the further you run

  7. To achieve a goal, follow the programme

  8. That runner over there has the same worries as you and thinks you must be faster than him

  9. to improve first train more, then train smarter, then train more

  10. there is always someone older and faster than you

  11. breakthroughs happen when you change something

  12. breakdowns happen when you change too many things

  13. the marathon gods will exact vengeance on those who disrespect the race

  14. there is nothing you can’t do if you are willing to put in the training

  15. you can’t tell how fast someone is by looking at them

  16. A big city race entry is better value than the open top bus tour

  17. Bears and ultra-runners shit in the woods – get over it

  18. running is good for your health

  19. running gets easier if you stick with it

  20. the more you put in to running, the more you get out of running