Canine challenges

I'm occasionally bailed up by dogs when running from Copa
to McMasters across the green-marked sand bar.

After walking for 4km this morning, I finished off with a kilometre of slow jogging.  There remains some weakness and tenderness in the arch but the new insoles seem to provide sufficient support to avoid aggravating the injury.  I was not confident about trying to run, but it seemed to go OK and I might try a similar work-out tomorrow.

As often happens on my walks and runs on the Central Coast, I encountered people out walking their dogs.  We never had pets when I was a child, apart from the odd canary and hamster, and I never developed an affection for dogs.  At best, I tolerate them, and when running, I don't like them.

Until recently, I had never been bitten by a dog while out running, but have had numerous unpleasant encounters over the years.  The first instance I can recall of actual physical harm was when out running in the late 1970s with a small group of friends from my home in the inner Melbourne suburbs.  We were running across a park at twilight when I was brought down by a dog careering into my legs from behind without warning of any kind.  I remember hitting the ground hard, sustaining some minor cuts, abrasions and bruises, and banging one knee quite hard.  The owner was very apologetic, but this has not always been the case.

Occasionally, when running across the sandbar between Copa and nearby McMasters Beach, I have been bailed up, pawed and slobbered on by dogs.  It is an "Off Leash Area", but dogs are still supposed to be under their owner's control.  I find it very annoying to be told that it wouldn't happen if I hadn't been running, and have had a few short arguments on the subject with the offending dog's owner.  My usual response is that, if it happens again, I'll be reporting them to the Council, but without the means of identifying accurately the dog or the owner, that's unlikely to happen (and they know it).  In these cases, which have happened in plenty of other places during my running career, I know the dog is usually just being over-exuberant, but that doesn't excuse the dog's owner's lack of control, which is interfering with my activity.

I stayed away from the Beatties Road access to Kincumber
Mountain for five years after being challenged by savage dogs.

Encounters with malicious and/or territorial dogs obviously carry more risk.  One of my good running friends, Keith, and his wife, accepted assignments as teachers in the newly independent Zimbabwe in 1983.  Keith was a very handy runner and tells the story of being the only white runner in the leading bunch of a 10-mile road race through the streets of Harare.  White residents tended to keep guard dogs on their properties that were very antagonistic towards black Africans, and when a couple of these managed to escape their compound as the runners passed by, Keith suddenly found himself in the lead on his own as his fellow competitors scattered.  A couple of them rejoined him in the lead a kilometre or two later, but the others were not seen again.  The corollary of this story is that when we visited Keith and his wife in Zimbabwe in 1985, I joined Keith for a run with some of the students from the poor black school where he taught.  He often paid them a small sum as encouragement to run with him after school, and some of them even ran in their school uniforms ("At least take your tie off!").  Our route took us through the poor African village where most of them lived and the sight of us running generated shouts of delight ("white man running" in the local language) from the village kids as well as unwanted attention from the village dogs who left the black kids alone while defending their turf against the white intruders.

Both towns I lived in while working in the US did not allow fences around houses but required dogs to be restrained or invisible fences (buried boundary wires that generate a radio signal that triggers deterrent unpleasant electric shocks in the receivers on the dogs' collars) installed.  I could never quite get over the expectation that one day, one of the dogs I often saw hurtling towards me across the lawns of a house I was running past was going to burst through the invisible fence and get me.  Apparently it can happen, but it never did to me.

If I am bailed up by dog with malicious intent while out running, I usually do a fair bit of yelling, pick up a stick or stone and act in a threatening manner while slowly moving away.  So far I haven't been bitten in such a situation, but have had some very scary encounters.  Some were so worrying that I have avoided those roads in future.  Locally, there is a nice run up onto the scenic trails of Kincumber Mountain that I didn't use for more than five years after being confronted by two large savage dogs on one occasion.  An old running friend, JB, had mastered the art of letting savage dogs get close to him and then giving them a swift kick under the chin.  I have never been quite brave or confident enough to employ this method.



Blue Heelers are also good at rounding up runners.

In recent times, I have become more cautious around dogs on a lead.  A year ago, as I skirted around a lady walking a large dog in the same direction I was running, it suddenly turned around and launched itself at my throat.  I managed to get my forearm up quickly enough to protect my throat but was knocked sprawling on to the road with scratches on my chest from its front paws.  The owner reacted quickly enough to drag the dog away before it got to me while I was lying on the road, but it was a frightening experience.  Of course, the owner was apologetic and insisted that it had never done anything like that before.  The same excuse was proffered six months later by another owner when their small dog, being walked on a lead, suddenly jumped up and sank its fangs into my thigh as I walked past, drawing blood.  Nowadays, I try and stay out of leash range when passing dogs.

On a lighter dog-related note, another old running friend, Pratty, used to bring his Blue Heeler cattle dog, Bung, with us on some of our long runs.  The dog, which always got very excited when Pratty put on his running shoes, would spend the whole run rounding us up, making sure nobody got ahead, dropped off, or strayed laterally.  It constantly got under our feet and how it did not get run over by a passing car is beyond me.  It is a testament to the strength of our friendship with Pratty that we ever tolerated Bung on our runs.  Ironically, later in life, Bung used to run away whimpering and hide whenever he saw Pratty put on his running shoes.

Brushes with fame

John Walker wins Gold at the 1976 Montreal Olympics

After supervising the regular Thursday morning track session at The Haven this morning I walked a 5km loop wearing my new insoles with arch supports.  It is definitely more comfortable walking with the arch supports, and there is less pain.  It's tempting to try running, though I can tell, when I move my foot in certain ways, that the problem remains.  I don't believe the walk did me any harm, so I'll try the same again tomorrow morning if nothing changes.  Maybe I'll get the bike out on the weekend for some additional exercise.

When relating the tale of my attempt to run the Milford Track in New Zealand in a recent post, I was reminded of another humorous running anecdote from the same trip.  As mentioned, in January 1979, we were a group of four couples on a sightseeing and camping tour of New Zealand in a minibus.  The males in the group were all serious runners and we looked for opportunities to compete in local events wherever possible.  Towards the end of the trip, we managed to talk our way into participating in a high-profile evening international track meeting at Hamilton on the North Island.  It was part of a summer circuit in New Zealand and I suspect we got in more because we were Australians, than because of our talent.

Rod Dixon went on to an exciting and close win
in the 1983 New York Marathon

The Mile was the feature event and New Zealand boasted some of the best Milers in the world at that time.  Two of them, John Walker (Gold Medal 1500m, 1976 Montreal Olympics) and Rod Dixon (Bronze Medal 1500m, 1972 Munich Olympics), were running, along with several other New Zealanders and Ken Hall (Australian Champion 1500m, 1977).  Two of my friends, JB and Pratty, managed to inveigle their way into the Mile field (much to Ken Hall's amazement).

The pace was hot in the Mile and the field well spread out with a lap to go.  John Walker cruised to a win in 3:56 with Rod Dixon second and the rest of the field trailing behind.  Poor Pratty, who wasn't even into the home straight when Walker finished, found himself weaving through fans who had poured on to the track to congratulate their hero, for the last 100m to the finishing line.

Keith and I didn't have the credibility to get into the Mile, but were happy to get a run in the lower key 3000m event.  I finished in 8:37, somewhere in the middle of the field, and later walked back to the changing rooms.  As I approached the door, I was flattered to have an autograph book thrust in front of me by a young track fan until he opened his mouth and asked "Can you please get me John Walker's autograph?"

Milford Track

Milford Track

As planned, I only walked 2km again today.  For some inexplicable reason, I felt a bit more optimistic that I would be back running soon.  Maybe it's because I now have even more incentive to succeed in my dream of running another sub-3:00 marathon (see yesterday's Post), or maybe it's because my right foot is feeling more serviceable.  I have found in the past that sometimes you can just sense when a soft tissue injury has repaired, and I'm hoping that is the case this time.

I will be driving down to Melbourne (1,000km) later in the week to visit family for five days, so will plan to walk as my training up to departure, and then resume some light jogging while in Melbourne.

Given there's not much training to talk about today, I thought I would relate the story of my attempt to run the length of the famous Milford Track in New Zealand when I was younger, fitter, and arguably, more naïve.

In January 1979, my then wife and I vacationed in New Zealand with four other couples associated with the Kew Camberwell athletic club.  We hired a minivan for the month and toured both islands, staying in campsites.  The males were all serious runners, as was my wife, and running became an integral part of the trip with us heading out to run trails or roads most days, as well as competing in several races.  At the time I was training hard, running well and looking for interesting long runs to do at every opportunity.

Our travels took us to the tourist town of Te Anau in the South Island, the jumping off point for the boat trip to the Milford Track trailhead at Glade House.  The 54km Milford Track was famous for its rugged beauty, and I harboured an ambition to run its length in a single day.  There were, however, two serious obstacles.  Firstly, traffic on the track was already carefully managed and I could not get on the boat unless I was equipped for the four-day hike and had hut bookings.  Secondly, the Track ended at Sandfly Point on Milford Sound from where the last boat to the village of Milford Sound (accessible by road), departed at 4:00pm (from memory).  If I failed to make the boat, I would have to rough it for the night.



Looking to Glade House, and the start of the Milford Track
from Dore Pass

My fitness was such that I was confident I could comfortably run the 54km along the iconic trail in less than 5 hours and I pored over tourist brochures and maps trying to work out a way I could make the attempt without inconveniencing my friends.  The latter were keen to drive up to Milford Sound anyway, and perhaps go on a boat cruise.  I finally concluded that my best chance lay in them dropping me off at the Dore Pass Trailhead on their way to Milford Sound and from there I would run the 10.5km to Glade House, and the start of the Milford Track, via the 1390m Dore Pass.

I was dropped off at 8:30am, giving me about 7.5 hours to get to Sandfly Point and the boat.  I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and carrying a rainjacket.  For nutrition I had a packet of jelly beans, and for other contingencies, a $50 note.  My friends were going to Milford Sound and would wait for the last boat from Sandfly Point.  If I was not on it, they were going to return to Te Anau and I was going to get a bus or hitch-hike back there from Milford Sound the next day.

I set off confidently at a good pace, but the 1000m climb in just 6km along a goat track to Dore Pass really slowed me down.  It took 2.5 hours, leaving me just 5 hours to descend 1300m to Glade House, and then complete the Milford Track.  The chances of making it in time to catch the boat were slim, at best, and I very reluctantly decided to return to the road and run towards Milford Sound, hopefully meeting my friends as they drove back to Te Anau.  It took less than 90 minutes to retrace my steps and then I began to run steadily towards Milford Sound. There was some traffic, but no settlements en route, and I just plugged away, gradually climbing through forests and past lakes to the more exposed higher altitudes.  Initially, I had thoughts of running all of the way to Milford Sound, 45km away, but as the jelly beans ran out and the morning's toil up Dore Pass caught up with me, this seemed less likely.  As it turned out, the Homer Tunnel - 1.2km long, unlit and narrow - halted my progress after about 30km around 4pm.  It seemed too dangerous to transit on foot, so I stopped and found a place where I could sit and see every vehicle exiting the tunnel.  I could not afford to miss my friends, and they later joked they found me lying across the road blocking all traffic when they emerged from the tunnel around 6pm.

I still haven't traversed the Milford Track or seen Milford Sound, but they're on my list!

Tempo runs

As I feared, this morning's easy 5km run, after two days of light running and two days off to rest my sore right arch, was inconclusive.  I didn't feel the minor burning pain after half a kilometre or so, as earlier in the week, but it didn't feel 100% either.  As I warmed up during the run, I moved more freely and felt better.  There remained some minor discomfort in the arch, although it's not as bad as earlier in the week.

Later in the day, I went for a 5km walk with the same result.  No real pain, but a sense of warmth, and maybe inflammation, in the arch.  It's hard to know what's best.  Maybe a slow build up in mileage would make most sense, but I also don't want to waste more training time if it has repaired enough to resume normal training.  Tomorrow is the annual Terrigal Trotters Handicap 10km Time Trial, which provides the chance for a fast run, something I need.

Hard runs at speed form an important, and often shirked, part of a training program.  I find it difficult to do these tempo, or speed endurance, runs solo (though many do).  I have always found it easiest, and most effective, to run fast with a group.  The competitive juices flow and there's peer group pressure to hang in there when the going gets tough.  In the various clubs I have belonged to over the years, in Australia and the UK, there has usually been a weekday evening tempo run of 15 to 20 kilometres.  We all head out at a modest sociable clip, but finish at virtual race pace.  For a few years, my club's (Kew Camberwell) Tuesday 15 kilometre evening run from Olympic Park in Melbourne was a classic.  Below is an edited copy of an article I wrote for the Club's May 1980 Newsletter about the run.

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TUESDAY NIGHT TRAINING

The clicking of the turnstiles is answered by the clicking of the wristwatches as the runners file out of "the Park".  The first "hurdle" is encountered almost immediately.  The runners dash twixt rush hour commuter cars across Batman Avenue.  Ken baulks and misses a gap, losing 50 metres immediately (he "hates this ******* course!").  The main pack moves on towards Anderson Street hill with Ken almost catching us before he misses the lights at Alexandra Avenue and loses another 50 metres (he "hates this ******* course!").  The pace picks up as we ascend the hill with Andy making the running and occasionally expectorating on the pack to make sure they kept their distance.  This occasional shower for the following runners usually elicits some good-natured comment from Pratty such as "Do you want a punch in the face, Andy?".  Undeterred, Andy presses on.  Ken catches the bunch.  At the top of the hill, those who are already finding the pace a bit hot announce that they "were only going to do track training tonight, anyway" and continue around The Tan back to the Park where they do something easier like 20 X 300 metres in 45 seconds with 100 metre recoveries.




Some members of the Kew Camberwell distance squad
 at Olympic Park, Melbourne, in 1977.
(l. to r. JB, me, Kev, Dicky, Rod, Ray and Ken)

The pack heads off towards Fawkner Park at an ever-increasing rate with Greg now sitting on Andy's shoulder and Stan covering them both. JB and Pratty, at the back of the pack, chat nostalgically about the good old days when training pace never exceeded six-minute miles.  Ken gets caught again by the traffic at Toorak Road (he "hates this ******* course!").  We skirt the edge of Fawkner Park with everybody making sure everybody else runs around the correct trees.  Greg is really starting to push the pace a bit now. Andy spits on Pratty again - more good-natured banter.  Everybody is psyching themselves up for the next big obstacle: St Kilda Road - four lanes of traffic trams and traffic lights.  You can see Ken sweating in anticipation.  With much whooping and hollering, we dash across.  Brakes squeal, tram drivers curse and we all make it - except for Ken (he "hates this ******* course!") who loses 50 metres.  We cross Queens Road in similar fashion and encounter a new obstacle: Albert Park Golf Course in the pitch darkness.  Those who don't run into trees, fall into bunkers, trip over raised greens or drown in ponds, build up a good lead by the time we reach the Lake.

The Lake is a dangerous place.  Dangerous because Ken makes way for no man, as a number of cyclists on the bike path will testify.  Heading north along the western side through the hockey fields the pace is really on.  Greg and Andy are striding out.  Conversation has dropped to a minimum and the only sounds are heavy breathing (particularly Cashy) and the monotonous click of Stan's ankle.  A few fences are encountered and JB's steeple-chasing skills get him a 20 metre break, though this is quickly made up as he swerves to avoid being clobbered by the backswing of an overzealous hockey player.  We round South Melbourne Cricket Ground and run along Albert Road towards the Shrine.  Moves are coming from everywhere.  Stan makes a break up the service road with Dave in hot pursuit.  Ray, under cover of darkness and trees, moves up on the inside.  Fortunately, Ray's break is halted by a red light (traffic variety) at Queens Road and we all catch up.

A good position is vital now, as we have to negotiate several major roads before the long surge northwards along St Kilda Road.  Ken gets caught again and loses another 50 metres (he "hates this ******* course!").  The race is really on now with Dave, Pratty and Ray pushing to get to the front, and JB and Andy attempting to block.  Andy spits on Pratty again, and receives a good-natured tap on the shoulder that nearly knocks him over.  There are more pedestrians around now and quick thinking is called for.  Cashy nearly runs Dave into a traffic light and is then, in turn, steered into a post by Dave as we round Princes Gate Station.  It's on for young and old.

Dave puts on the pressure along Flinders Street, but is nearly fouled out by a rather stout Italian lady who steps sideways at a critical moment.  Ken is getting scared - a missed traffic light now and he knows he won't recover.  Pratty's crossed the road and piles it on.  Cashy, JB, Ray, Stan and Andy settle back to a leisurely 5:30 pace whilst Dave and Ken chase Pratty.  Ken misses the light (he "hates this ******* course!").  Has Pratty made his move too soon?  Self doubt takes over as Dave comes up to his shoulder and they race up the Lansdowne Street hill.  At the top, Dave eases off, but Pratty doesn't and surges past - the race isn't over yet.....

Unexpected hazards

I stuck to my decision of yesterday and did not go for a run, or even a walk, today.  The pain in my arch is minimal walking around the house, so I'm hopeful that after another day off tomorrow, the pain will no longer be an issue.

With no training to report on today, I thought I would include a copy of an article I wrote for my Kew Camberwell District AAC's July 1981 newsletter about an incident in a race earlier that year.

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IT'S NOT ALL BEER AND SKITTLES UP THE FRONT

The gun fired (Fred's whistle blew) for the start of the annual Victorian Marathon Club Tullamarine Half Marathon on 2 May 1981 and the field settled into the traditional bunch to fight the gale-force headwind. The pace was extremely slow, but like half a dozen others, I was more than happy to let a "bigger bloke" bear the brunt of the conditions. The course consists of two equal laps with three-quarters of each lap passing through windswept rural land and the remainder through suburban Tullamarine. Initially you head north into the country and I waited until we turned south out of the wind before making my move to the front. By the time I had covered five miles, I was into the suburbs again with a lead of some two minutes.



On my way to 2nd Place (2:31) in the 1976 Victorian
Marathon Club Marathon Championship.

As I ran along the left-hand side of the broad suburban road (as instructed by Fred) I was contemplating the hazards of starting too fast when another hazard drew itself to my attention. The extremely loud screech of brakes and tyres immediately behind caused me to simultaneously break the Club high and long jump records (not to mention heart rate). I landed in a quivering heap on the grass verge and looked back to see that a bright red panel van complete with wide wheels and chrome trim had stopped about two metres behind where I had been at "lift off". Inside were two lads having a good laugh at a joke I failed to see. We exchanged a few pleasantries, which did little to dissipate my fear-turned-to-fury, and I looked for a more tangible means of expressing my disapproval. My gaze fell on a small stone in the grass and picking it up I took hurried aim (I was now running again) at the open passenger window. Alas! I missed and hit the bright red duco on the door. This was a joke the lads failed to see. The van was quickly in pursuit and pulled into the curb a few metres in front of me. The driver and passenger started to get out but were too late and I was past. The driver's IQ was not as bright as his duco and he tried the same thing again only to miss me by a wide margin. At this point he must have been hit by a flash of inspiration because he drove to a point one hundred metres in front of me this time before stopping.

I unleashed my finishing burst eleven kilometres early and rapidly closed on the rear of the van as the driver struggled for traction on the road attempting to round the front of his vehicle. He was wearing football boots and they were slipping on the bitumen! The passenger was also getting out and I really put my head down. The driver reached the grass verge and accelerated rapidly but not quite quickly enough and I just managed to evade his outstretched hands. My nascent sense of victory was aborted by the sight of another van stopping further up the road. Two large fellows got out, and with arms spread-eagled, blocked the path in front of me. The footballer was still hot on my heels and I had visions of the rest of the field seizing their opportunity to overtake while I was pummelled to a pulp on the footpath. On my left was a metre high school fence. Just as I was about to vault it and head for Mildura, the fellows in front yelled to my pursuers to leave me alone and moved apart to let me through. They then jumped on the footballer and I never looked back. However, I did run on the right-hand side of the road for the remainder of the race (despite Fred's remonstrations) figuring that if the lads wanted to run over me from behind they would at least have to drive on the wrong side of the road to do it.

[Footnote:  I finished 1st in 68:16]