To the Point and Back.

 

Last Monday was a muggy day. Not that bright but warm and humid. Too hot for my usual running haunts. T'was a day for the coast so that I could benefit from the on shore breeze. After having consumed my lunch I jumped into the horseless carriage and headed to Benone. I parked at the tourist complex and then headed for the beach. It was busy but only for a few hundred yards on either side of the roadway which runs onto it. After picking my way through the lazy throng and the attendant ice cream vans I headed towards Magilligan Point. Only a few dog walkers who had been dragged from their cars by their canine friends disturbed the peacefulness of the day. Out on the Lough I could see the small ferry heading towards Greencastle. The rush of the waves silenced its engine. Arriving at the Point I had to decide whether to retrace my steps or take to the roads. I choose the latter and longer option. Maybe not such a good idea. By the time I was unlocking my car my garmin informed me that I had ran almost twelve and a half miles at a tad under seven minutes thirty seconds per mile. In pre Brexit measurement that is about four minutes forty seconds per kilometre.

 

 

A Beach and a Moment.

I ventured a few miles up the east coast of the Innishowen peninsula yesterday. There was no real reason for this excursion save the perennial ache for solitude and a desire to be outside, free from the stultifying gloop of people and the nagging worry of reality.

I walked along the shingle beach picking my way through the seaweed thrown up by the last high tide. The day was sunny. You could feel the spring warmth on your skin but there was also a freshness in the air. The light breeze was blowing on shore pushing away any noise from the coastal road and easing back that close fitting skull casing of tension. A solitary oyster catcher paddled vigorously across the mud and silt uncovered by the receding tide. At the junction of mud and water rows of gaunt fence like structures stretched into the Lough. The features of the coastline opposite to me were indistinct, slightly blurred by haze, the view that greets the myope every day.

I see someone else lurch down onto the shingle. Solitude is shattered. The moment is gone. The tension returns.

 

A Swilly Visit.

 

 

I spent today visiting a haunt that was a place of regular visitation in my childhood. My maternal grandparents took me there many times in the early 1960's. The locus for these halcyon days out was Fahan beach on the shores of Lough Swilly.

 

It is nearly fifty years since my grandfather drove me down the side road from the main arterial route to Buncrana in his spanking new Hillman Minx. Time has not been kind to the old wooden pier. It is now a decaying wooden skeleton. I remember the smell of freshly caught fish and consuming them back at my grandparents' home. There was a large rowing boat which ferried passengers across to Rathmullan. Long gone.

 

The sands that I remember have been much altered by the creation of what is called the Lough Swilly Marina. It is operational but money must have run out during the construction. There is a skeletal building which echoes the state of the old wooden pier and the surrounding lands are an unkempt building site. Not a pretty sight.

 

 

 

 

Red Arrows at Three O'Clock

 

The skies over Lough Foyle were a trifle noisy this pm. Nine bally Hawk aircraft were flying up and down and up and over for the delectation of the assembled masses on Benone beach. Nothing like a bit of free entertainment to get the crowds out.

 

These Red Arrow chappies, (I don't think that there is currently a chapess among their number), must have steady hands and nerves of steel. Definitely not a job for someone suffering a bout of delerium tremens. I suspect that as with motor sports there are some devotees of air displays who are drawn by the very real danger and the macabre excitement of the possibility of a crash. Thankfully they were to be disappointed.

 

The Power of the Sea.

Today's pergrenations saw me in Portrush. The recent high winds had subsided, but there was enough wind for a few kite flyers to launch their kites over the beach. They were fairly basic kites, but still more colourful and lighter than those of my youth. My maternal grandfather made two or three kites for me. He used bamboo for the skeleton and the actual kite and its sail were constructed with brown paper. Not very hi tech but they did fly and I enjoyed the time with my grandfather. Unfortunately he died when I was eight years of age. He was only sixty six when he died. At the time I Ithought he was an old man. Now he would have been almost a contemporary. If he had had better health and managed to stagger on eight or ten years I know that my life and career path would have been very different. Whether that would have been better or more enjoyable is debatable, but I suspect that it would have been.

 

The storms and high seas have clearly impacted on the North coast of Northern Ireland. Huge slabs of concrete on a slipway at Portrush's East Strand have been thrown asunder. The strength of the waves that caused this damage is rather frightening. Nature definitely has the upper hand in this battle.

 

Portrush Parkrun Revisited

I paddled along to Portrush this am to participate in the Parkrun along the resort's East Strand. Bad decision! It is about a year since I ran in this event and it was silly of me to think that the experience would be any better. It wasn't. It was much, much worse.

 

I suppose that I can sort of understand why a Parkrun was established at this location. The scenery is pleasant enough, even in winter and if I had been sitting in a hostelry eighteen months ago with the mellowing affects of several snifters circulating through the bloodstream I might well have nominated this locus for a Parkrun. However on the following day I would have realised the stupidity of the notion. For a one off event fine, but this is not a suitable venue for a regular Saturday run.

You are always going to have a stretch of soft sand to wade through at the start and then again at the end, but of much more relevance are the vagaries presented by the tides. Today the high tide was scheduled for 11-20 am and there was little or no firm running. In an attempt to keep to the best of the running you just had to ignore the advancing tide and splash through it. Several horses had clearly been exercised along the beach in the early morning and the craters left by their hooves posed a definite danger most especially when the tide covered them. Picking ones way along the beach hoping that you are not going to snap an ankle can surely not have any attractions for anyone. It doesn't for me.

I don't doubt the enthusiasm of the organisers and volunteers at this event, but I do question the retention of the particular locus. Certainly keep a Parkrun in Portrush, but move it off the sand.

 

The Emptying of the Beach

 

The playground bell has emptied the beaches of children with their high pitched shrieks as they run into the waves daring each other to be the first to get fully submerged in the frothy tide. The ice cream vans have retreated to the housing estates in search of calorie junkies and the lifeguards are twiddling their thumbs willing someone to enter the water and maybe even get into a little difficulty. Anything to relieve the leaden monotony. This is the lot of the small coastal resort at the end of the summer season.

 

Soon the lifeguards will resume their alter egos, sign up for this year's student loans and order their round of drinks at the union bar. The residents are claiming back their locale. Within a few weeks the beaches will once more be the preserve of dog walkers, the local "characters," who insist on having their invigorating dip in the briny every day of the year and myself in search of a change of scene for my training. The solicitude of the empty beach is to be welcomed.

 

Exam Weather

 

I used never to enjoy the month of June. It wasn't that I remember it as a month of bad weather, quite the reverse in fact. What took the shine off the sixth month of the year for me was the prospect of exams. It wasn't just the exams themselves, it was also the hours of revision. I felt guilty if I took a few hours away from my solitary crammer to work in the garden or to go to an athletics meet.

 

if the weather was good and memory tells me it was, then this exam month became even more intolerable. I remember pulling the curtains in my bedroom so that I wouldn't see the sunlight. More than thirty years since I sat my last exam I can now enjoy exam weather free of guilt and free of anxiety, or at least free of exam anxiety.

 

Yesterday's weather was certainly vintage exam weather. Perhaps not as fine a vintage as we tasted in 1975 or 1976, but still a much needed improvement on what passed for spring.

 

Portstewart Strand in the Gloom

The greyness of the the sky was already melding into the Stygian darkness of the sea when I pulled up at Portstewart strand. At the far end of the beach the red navigation light at the mouth of the Bann flashed its regular warning. Beyond that I could just make out the pimple on the skyline that was the Earl Bishop's Mussenden Temple. The tide was out and for the moment the waves lolled idly, waiting for their lunar command to move landwards once more. Stretching along the beach like a ragged garland was the spume left by the retreating tide. A slightly melancholy scene.

Viewing this meeting of land and sea would not help me complete my training run. Not having changed into my running kit before leaving home I how had to complete this task within the rather limited confines of my car. I have become quite adept at this over the years, so much so that I am sure that Harry H would have regarded me as a worthy successor. While completing my yoga inspired manoeuvres  I espied a very strange looking cove commencing his run up the beach.

I have to concede that runners tend not to be known for the sartorial elegance of their running gear, but there is what might be described as an accepted and acceptable code of dress. This bunioneer had however developed his own very idiosyncratic style. He had one of those rather silly looking faux fur hats with ear flaps planted on his head. The bobble on the top did not improve the look. His lower body was encased in blue shell suit bottoms the legs of which he had tucked into dark brown, knee length socks. Maybe he adopted a similar garb for cycling, eschewing the use of bicycle clips I mused. As for his footwear it could best be described as solid, - very solid. I hadn't realised that you could purchase leather running shoes modelled on the hobnail boot, but the evidence was now in front of me. His jacket  was I think constructed of canvas, perhaps purchased at the closing down sale of the last Army & Navy Store. The overall look was not good. His running action was little better. His legs only moved from the knee down. It was as if the gusset of his shell suit bottoms was wallowing between his knees. As for his arms these were held rigidly in front of his chest. His back was ramrod straight. There was no fluidity of movement. He was moving, but contrary to all of the principles of forward motion. It did not take me long to overhaul him.

About half way up the beach I came upon two fishermen. They had their fishing rods propped up on tripods and they were busily sucking on their cigarettes. They stamped their feet trying to ward off the coldness of the gloom. At the end of each of their rods was a small red light. From a distance it looked like a gathering  of glow worms. They were still engaged in their lonely vigil on my return. The other runner was however no where to be seen. Perhaps he had become embarrassed by his appearance ? I suspect not. A look like his could only have been developed after deep deliberation.  One could see that he revelled in it. Three people had seen him and his ,"get up." Thus sated he had cut short his exercise and drifted homewards.

I arrived back at the car with  just under thirty minutes on the clock so taking to the roads I headed towards the promenade and completed a lap which took me round the outskirts of the town.  That done I also drifted homewards.

Dental Death Run



Castlerock Strand - 21st November 2012

The waves were slapping idly on the beach at Castlerock as I parked  my car just behind the dunes. To my left were the remnants of the old saltwater swimming pool. Looking out to sea I viewed a cargo ship sitting off Greencastle waiting for the pilot to manoeuvre it up Lough Foyle. On the beach several people were  strolling towards the Barmouth savouring the winter sun. At quarter past three this was already low in the sky.

Pocketing my key I started off. The beach isn't that long, probably about thirteen hundred metres, so running its length and back would really only get me warmed up for the remainder of my training run. As I headed up the beach I couldn't help wondering whether my fellow beach users realised that they were walking the route taken by the convicted murderer Colin Howell after he staged what would appear to be the double suicide of his wife and his lover's husband in the garage behind one of the Twelve Apostle cottages on the edge of the village. A slightly macabre thought I know. 

One of the walkers was a man in his early twenties. He was accompanied by his dog, a young, black labrador. It would be wrong to say that the dog was being taken for a walk. He was off the lead and I didn't see him slow to a walk even for a second. He sped along the beach, back and forth, chasing a flock of sandpipers. He never caught them but his enthusiasm for the task was obvious. A happy dog. 

Castlerock Beack looking towards the Barmouth - 21st November 2012

With the beach run over I headed on to the roads and footpaths in and around the village. The pain in my left hip was beginning to ease a trifle so I was able to pick up my pace. It was a good day for a run; dry; bright; fresh. Although I was running by myself the time went in quickly. Enjoyable.

Portrush Parkrun - The Verdict



Portrush East Strand - 15th September 2012

As threatened I did indeed go along to the Portrush Parkrun this morning. Despite my qualms of yesterday the wind was not an issue.

I was surprised at the amount of activity there was at East Strand at ten to nine on a Saturday morning in September. Apart from the expected dog walkers, and some surfers, there was a large group of men playing what was clearly more than an impromptu kickabout. In addition a volleyball net was being erected and six horses were being galloped along the beach. - more of the horses later.

At the inaugural Parkrun the Portrush organisers had managed to get ninety eight people to the line. A high percentage of these were from Springwell AC which is unsurprising, most particularly since their website states that it is they who are, "bringing Parkrun to Portrush." The initial enthusiasm seems to have been particularly short lived however. Numbers today totalled only forty three. Maybe this is only a one week blip. I would hope so for the sake of the volunteer organisers.

The start point for the run was on the prom just outside Troggs Surf School. At half past nine the whistle sounded and the intrepid forty three headed along the prom for approximately two hundred yards before running on to the beach. A stretch of very soft sand followed before you got to the relatively hard sand next the water's edge. There you had to manoeuvre your way through the mini craters created by the hooves of the aforesaid horses. Thankfully there was no equine detritus to contend with and the horses had not continued along the entire strand. The tide had turned perhaps an hour before the run and none of the running could be described as firm. To continue the analogy, perhaps mainly soft to firm and very soft in places would be the best description. The sand certainly dragged at your legs. The turning point was at the White Rocks. With the numbers so low and the standard of the participants so varied the timekeeper had no difficulties at the finish line.

Prom at Portrush East Strand 15th September 2012

Will I be back? Only on a very infrequent basis if at all. Did I enjoy the course? I can't say that I did. It may be a picturesque setting for a training run but it is not a course where you are going to come anywhere close to a pb. As a general rule club runners are, I believe, going to avoid this and most other Parkruns.



Seaward to the Skerries 15th September 2012



Portrush Parkrun

Last Saturday was the first running of the Portrush Parkrun. Parkrun organise free weekly 5k runs at various venues throughout the UK and indeed the world. In the case of Portrush the name is a bit of a misnomer as the run is held on the East Strand ,so hardly a park! These runs do not purport to be high class races. The aim is to promote running as a way of exercising. A total of ninety eight individuals turned up last Saturday with the fastest time being 18.38 and the, "rouge lantern," stopping the clock at over 58 mins. As well as getting an accurate time the participants also get an age graded result so the oldies can compare their times with those of the young bucks.

I think that I might paddle along to the East Strand tomorrow and check the run out. I might even decide to participate if the tide is out and the going firm. Lack of shelter could be a major problem as it  is an out and in course. That could well be the factor determining whether I pull on the racing shoes.

Summer is a Beach

Benone Beach 10th August 2012

The last few days have finally brought us balmy summer weather and not before time. I decided to go to Benone beach yesterday to enjoy the weather and the scenery and at the same time clock up a few miles of Chariots of Fire training. The Olympics make you think like that. The problem was that most every other Tom, Dick and Harriett had the same idea. Well half the same idea anyhow. There certainly wasn't anyone else going for a run.

I don't want to appear curmudgeonly but I do like a bit of quiet. Still it wasn't too bad. Although there might have been upwards of one hundred and fifty cars on the beach when I arrived, all of them apart from three intrepid vehicles were corralled around two ice cream vans. Maybe their occupants needed the security of ice cream, crisps and sugary drinks.

I headed up towards Magilliagn Point. Once I left the cars behind I only came upon one person, a man in his late thirties walking his black lab. Both looked happy. There was no one on the beach at the Point. The softness of the sand there I think puts people off. As I turned and began to retrace my steps I could see the glint of the ferry as it began its journey across from Greencastle.

One of the ice cream vans had left by the time I had ran back to my starting point. So had half the cars. I wonder if there is a connection?

Roll on still and frosty winter mornings when I can have the beach to myself!