Little nuisances

Terrigal Trotters doing leech inspections after a trail run.

After yesterday's somewhat heavy blog post, I thought I would talk about something lighter today, the little creepy crawlies that I have encountered while running.

Probably the worst are leeches, which are quite common on the NSW Central Coast where I now live.  In fact, I don't recall ever encountering them while running before moving here ten years ago.  You can get leeches on any long run in the nearby forests, but they are usually worst after rain and in the moist rainforest gullies.  Runners have various home remedies for keeping them at bay, but I don't think any are fool-proof.

One of the offenders.

The leech bites themselves are not painful, but the sight of an engorged leech, or one looking for somewhere to latch on, is always a gruesome find.  Getting them off can be tough, though I have usually managed to flick or pull them off.  Alternatives are salt or flame, I hear.  Often you do not know you have one until you see blood on a shoe or sock, and I have seen some very bloody socks revealed when shoes are removed.  There are also plenty of stories about leeches being found on other parts of the anatomy that I won't go into here.  Initially, the main problem is the anticoagulant used by the leech to facilitate feeding which causes their bites to bleed continuously.  However, the worst impact comes a few days later when the bites begin to itch savagely.  I have woken up at night scratching furiously at badly bitten, red and swollen ankles.  In some cases, the bites can even lead to blood poisoning and a trip to hospital, as happened to Sharon a few years ago.

A Golden Orb spider.

Spider webs are an occupational hazard for trail runners and it often pays to run behind someone else when you are the first runners along a trail.  I'm not aware of ever having been bitten by a spider while out running, but the encounters can be scary.  Locally, we have the Golden Orb spider which is quite large and builds strong and extensive webs, often across trails.  The large spider then sits in the web waiting for something to be caught.  They generally feed on moths, beetles and insects caught in their webs, but they have been known to catch and eat small birds and bats.  I have had the experience of running into one of the webs and then, while scrambling to extricate myself, finding the huge spider almost sitting on my face.  They're not dangerous, but can give you a good scare.

The country lane in Essex near where I was stung
by the wasp.

Perhaps the biggest scare I had from a small animal happened when I was out for a long Sunday morning run through the Essex countryside one Spring Sunday morning.  A wasp flew into my mouth and bit me on the very back of my tongue near my throat before I could spit it out.  Initially, it was just painful, and I continued running, but a few kilometres later, I could feel my tongue swelling up and my breathing becoming restricted.  I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and swallowing my pride (actually I couldn't swallow anything by this time), I found a public telephone in a small village and called my wife reverse charges to come and get me.  I was a bit anxious for the next couple of hours, but the swelling gradually subsided and there were no other symptoms.

Voyageurs Provincial Park, near Montreal in Canada.

Flies and mosquitoes can also be irritating, but not particularly dangerous.  I can still remember a long run in a Voyageur Provincial Park near Montreal in Canada in the late spring when the mosquitoes were voracious and biting me incessantly through the back of my sweaty T-shirt, no matter how fast I ran.  You just have to try not to think about it or it drives you nuts.  Apparently caribou lose half a pint of blood a day to mosquitoes in the spring and early summer.

I walked about 6km today, taking care not to get my heart rate too high when walking up hills.  I learned that my Electrical Cardioversion procedure will be this coming Monday.

1:1 AV Conduction

One of my heart rate peaks, as measured by the
Holter Monitor.

Late today, I had my Cardiologist appointment to discuss my recent Echocardiogram and Holter Monitor results.  He was a fit-looking guy in his fifties and was sympathetic to my plight and my desire to resume running.

It seems that my efforts to give them something to look at while I was wearing the Holter Monitor a week ago were more successful, and risky, than I thought.  The two episodes I had of palpitating heart and lightheadedness while walking up a steep hill, matched recorded instances of my heart rate reaching around 230 beats per minute.

Diagram of the heart showing the path of the macro-reentry
circuit (wavy red line).

Normally, the upper (Atrium) and lower (Ventricle) chambers of the heart beat at the same rate.  However, with Atrial Flutter (AFl), the Atrium beats significantly faster than usual because of a sort of electrical short-circuit (macro-reentry circuit) and a proportion of these faster beats stimulate beats in the Ventricle.  The rate of conduction is determined by a physiological barrier between the chambers and is usually 2:1 for people with AFl (and sometimes 3:1 or 4:1).  When I walk too hard, or run, my ratio appears to change to 1:1 where every superfast beat in the Atrium stimulates a corresponding beat in the Ventricle.

One medical website I found says "Atrial flutter with 1:1 conduction is associated with severe haemodynamic instability and progression to ventricular fibrillation", so I need to keep my heart rate lower until I get treatment.  This diagnosis was a little more worrisome than I had anticipated.

The cardiologist is scheduling me for an Electrocardioversion within the next week aimed at resetting my heart's electrical system (in layman's terms) using externally-delivered electrical stimulus (the paddles, or similar).  The cardiologist warned that this procedure may not yield a long-lasting solution, so I shouldn't get my hopes up.  I will be able to resume my running, but the AFl could return, and I will have to stop again.

If that happens, then when I'm no longer considered at risk of further Deep Vein Thrombosis or Pulmonary Embolism, they will try a Cardiac Ablation using a catheter inserted into the heart through the femoral vein to cauterise the tissue where electrical short-circuit is occurring in the Atrium.  This procedure has a high success rate and provides a longer-lasting solution, but I know everybody is different and I'm not counting my chickens yet.

I walked about 5km today, with no significant hills, and felt fine.

[Disclaimer:  I have no medical qualifications at all and there may be significant errors in this blog post.]

Staring into the abyss

Queenstown, New Zealand.

Back in January of 1979, while touring New Zealand, three running friends and I decided to circumnavigate Ben Lomond, the mountain that overlooks Queenstown.  We planned the route on a road map in our campsite, but didn't have a good idea of how far the run would be, or what we might encounter.

We set off westwards at a good clip on the road following the shore of Lake Wakatipu.  However, the easy running ended as we turned north up Moke Lake Road, climbing 300 metres in just 3km.  At this point, 10km from Queenstown, Keith decided to turn back, and the three of us continued over the saddle and down to Moke Lake.  After the Lake, what was now just a four-wheel-drive track followed a gradually narrowing valley, frequently crossing back and forth across the shallow gravelly creek.  JB and I, both handy steeple-chasers and occasional long-jumpers, were keeping our feet dry with huge leaps across the widening creek, while enjoying the sight of the less agile Pratty occasionally landing short.  Our amusement waned further downstream when it became too wide for us to clear and we all continued on with wet feet.

Moke Creek valley.

We were now in remote and barren mountainous country with few tracks and no signposts, and began to get concerned about the route back to Queenstown.  I felt confident that we would be OK if we just kept Ben Lomond to our right, but without maps and a birds-eye view, we couldn't be sure of exactly where we were, or even our direction of travel.  After two hours, we reached a point where the track we were following veered leftwards to cross the creek and head in what I thought was the wrong direction.  High up on the mountain to our right, I could see a faint goat track crossing the slope that seemed to be going in my preferred direction.

JB and Pratty weren't too keen to climb up the steep heath-like mountainside to reach the track, preferring the four-wheel-drive track we were on.  After some good-natured debate, we split up and I began climbing the steep slope.  About half-way up, while scrambling on all fours across a patch of heath and vine, I became aware of a cold draft coming from below me.  Peering down through the vegetation, I was alarmed to see nothing but a black abyss, an old gold-mine shaft!  I inched forward, holding on to the most substantial stems and branches I could find, hoping they did not give way. After a few terrifying minutes, I reached terra firma, pondering the wisdom of the route I had chosen.  Too proud to follow my mates, I continued on very slowly up the steep slope, carefully making sure of the ground beneath my feet.

Moonlight Creek and Arthurs Point.

I finally reached the track I had seen, which turned out to be reasonably well-worn and quite runnable.  I followed it round the contour of the mountain, increasingly confident I had made the right choice, and eventually reached Arthurs Point and the road back to Queenstown.  I arrived back at the campsite just under four hours after I had left and spent the next few hours wondering and worrying about JB and Pratty, who I now knew had headed off in the wrong direction.  Finally, they appeared and told their story.  After they left me they eventually reached the old gold-mining area of Moonlight, where some four-wheel-drivers confirmed they were heading in the wrong direction.  Eventually, they got a series of lifts back to Queenstown.

My exercise today was literally more pedestrian.  I walked about 9km around Copa and Whinney Bay.  There were some long hills, but my cardio-vascular system stayed in the "green zone".  I see the Cardiologist late tomorrow afternoon and am getting a little anxious about what he will say.  I'm prone to optimism, but know I need to be ready to deal with some less-rosy scenarios.

American hype

Early morning on the Vermont 100 course.

Being retired has the advantage of letting me watch the American Super Bowl which is shown live on Monday daytime television in Australia.  In fact, I have probably watched more Super Bowls since retiring than I managed to watch during the eleven years I lived in the US while working.  It always seemed that I was catching a red-eye flight from the US to London when the Sunday night Super Bowl was on, and one of my parenting regrets is that I did not get to watch it with my son more often while he was growing up.

Apart from the game itself, I enjoy the hype which surrounds the Super Bowl.  It's something the Americans generally do very well, including at some of their running races.  In July 2000, I made my one and only attempt to run a 100 Mile race in the Vermont 100.  After driving up the day before the race to rural Vermont and camping in the designated farm field, I had a sleepless night in a small tent, punctuated by the late arrival of race supporters, several thunderstorms, and the very early rising of fellow competitors preparing for the 4:00am start.

A checkpoint on the Vermont 100.

I soon got up myself, readied for the race, and wandered down to the start line in the pitch darkness.  It began to rain steadily, and the 300 competitors, plus spectators, crammed into the large barn adjacent to the start while we waited for the start.  Just before 4:00am, we were herded outside in the heavy rain, and sent on our way down the farm road towards the country road along which the first part of the course ran.  The 300 runners splashing down the unlit track, accompanied torrential rain, bright lightning and crashing thunderclaps, was surreal enough, but it was upstaged by the sight and sound of a pianist in formal attire pounding out the theme from Chariots of Fire on a grand piano on the farm verandah as we passed.  I momentarily wondered whether I was dreaming, then grinned to myself.  What a great piece of theatre, some provided by nature, and some by the organisers.

A scene from the 2008 Vermont 100.

The race itself didn't go too well.  My inexperience at that distance showed when I treated it like a long marathon race, staying in the top 20 until the 60 mile mark, then totally losing control of my quads in the next few miles and withdrawing at 67 miles.  Injuries have prevented me tackling another 100 miler since then, but it's still on my bucket list.  I am now Race Director for a 100 Mile trail race myself, but haven't yet employed a pianist.

I just walked 5km today, and was a little troubled by heart palpitations and low blood pressure near the top of one flight of steps that I, perhaps, ascended too quickly.

Chilkoot Trail

Prospective miners ascend to the Chilkoot Pass during
the Klondike Gold Rush.

Apart from its health benefits, running has often helped me do things more quickly and efficiently.  I have talked about its use for commuting (see post titled Commuting), and running is a great way to journey through remote areas, but it's also been useful in facilitating one-way hiking trips in remote country.

Old boiler on the Chilkoot Trail.

In July of 1985, my then wife, Barb, and I were touring Canada and Alaska by campervan when we decided we would like to hike the famous Chilkoot Trail.  The Trail was the major access route from the sea at Dyea, near Skagway, to the Yukon goldfields during the 1890s Klondike Gold Rush.  The 33 miles of the Trail was only the start of the miners' journey to Dawson City.  It got them to the headwaters of the Yukon River where they then bought or built boats to float the remaining 560 miles downstream.  The Trail started in the US, but crossed into Canada at Chilkoot Pass (3075ft) where Canadian Mounties enforced a requirement that each miner have one ton of supplies with them (calculated to last a year).  This requirement meant that miners had to move their huge loads forward along the Trail in stages, and thriving camps grew up along the way, and much rubbish was discarded.

Chilkoot Trail.

These days, the Trail passes many rusting artifacts from those days and the abandoned locations of the towns and camps that sprouted during that time.  From the northern end of the Trail at Lindeman Lake, it is possible to hike a further 5 miles following a disused rail line to the nearest road access, the Klondike Highway.  We decided to take two days to hike the Trail and allocate half a day at the beginning and end to get to and from Skagway.

Near Chilkoot Pass.

The night before we started we camped at the trailhead in Dyea and in the morning unloaded our hiking gear before I drove our campervan back into Skagway where a kindly National Parks ranger had suggested we park it outside his house for safety.  I then ran the 9 miles back to Dyea along a road that followed the contours around forested hills overlooking the headwaters of Chilkoot Inlet.  On arrival at Dyea, we set out on our 48-hour hike which followed the very interesting Trail and included deep snow, occasional drizzle, thick fog and very cold weather.  We were glad we weren't carrying a ton of supplies each and had great admiration for the endurance of the miners.

Our hiking journey finished 38 miles later on the Klondike Highway, 28 miles north of Skagway, at 1:00pm on the third day.  We were both very tired and cold, and decided to try hitch-hiking back to Skagway, but gave up after an hour.  Plan B was that I run back to Skagway to retrieve the campervan.  The notes from our diary record that I donned "long thermal underwear, shorts, two extra tops, balaclava, gloves, passport, credit cards, money and car keys" before setting off southwards in the bitter cold.

White Pass.

The first miles were relatively flat, but very exposed, skirting several lakes beneath snow-covered peaks, before climbing a little to White Pass which marked the border between Canada and the US.  I stopped in at the very quiet border post to show my passport on a grey overcast afternoon to a US border guard who showed not the slightest interest in my strange garb or my lack transport, before beginning the steady descent towards Skagway.  Despite the greater protection provided by the thickening forest and deep valleys, and the slightly warmer conditions, I became very tired and was totally exhausted by the time I reached our van around 6:00pm.  I drove back to get Barb, picking her up about 7:00pm, and we continued onto the town of Whitehorse where we camped later that night.  Those three days of adventure still live large in my memory.

I walked 14km this morning through forests, exploring trails in the McMasters Firetrail area, in warm and sunny conditions.  I was a little breathless near the top of some of the longer climbs, but not too bad and enjoyed getting a bit hot and sweaty for a change.

Psychological effects

5:30am in Terrigal and the first Trotters begin checking
for the Saturday run or walk.

Like most Saturdays, today started with a 4:30am alarm and arrival at the Terrigal Surf Club fifty minutes later to join my Trotters club-mates for our weekly 6:00am run.  Only, I'm not running at the moment......but I'm not alone.

I have never analysed the stats, but my guess is that you could divide the Trotters population into quarters.  One quarter are fit and running well. Another quarter are running, but carrying an injury.  A third quarter are running, but coming back from injury, and the final quarter are unable to run because of illness or injury, some permanently.

Kurrawyba Avenue in Terrigal was on
my walk route this morning.

Many in that final quarter are not only dealing with pain associated with their ailment, but also dealing with the psychological impact.  Fortunately for me, there's no physical pain, but I do feel the psychological effects.

The easiest to deal with is the loss of routine.  Like most serious runners I have always relied on routine to help me fit training in with family and other commitments, and the loss of routine can be destabilising and depressing.  Replacing running with some other form of exercise, if at all possible, and using any additional spare time to work on other useful or meaningful projects has generally worked for me.

One of the most challenging impacts can be the loss of identity.  The thing that most people know about me is that I'm a reasonably good runner.  Although I like to think there are other dimensions to my character, I do also see myself as a runner.  In the last month, in my own eyes, and the eyes of those around me, I am morphing from a serious masters athlete to a senior citizen with cardiovascular problems.

Sunrise over Terrigal.

Along with the loss of identity can go a loss of self-esteem.  The podium finishes that I enjoyed in the past, and these days, just keeping up with younger runners, builds self-confidence.  Absorbing challenging training regimes and successfully planning and preparing for major races also contributes positively to self-esteem.  The longer I am unable to run, the less happy I am with myself, even when there's nothing I can do about it.  And the worse I feel about myself, the more likely I am to over-eat and put on weight and so the downward spiral goes.

I also have real fears that being unable to run for an extended period of time will lead to a deterioration in my overall health.  Of course, it seems likely that running caused my current cardio-vascular problems, and I recognise that running is not a guarantee of good health.  However, I have no doubt that the fitness gained through running has improved my quality of life and fended off other ailments that beset my demographic.  I now worry that all that good work will be undone if I can't get back to serious exercise.

Early morning stand-up paddle boarders.

Finally, I have always found that running refreshes me and helps me deal with life's stresses.  This was certainly true during my working life, where the morning run seemed reset my body clock and wipe away (or at least diminish) problems.  Maybe it's the lack of oxygen getting to the brain, but I always found it difficult to worry about things, or even do relatively simple mathematical calculations, while on the run.

While most of my club-mates ran this morning, I walked a comfotable 6km.  I'm still in a holding pattern.

JFK 50 Mile

Running the Appalachian Trail section of
the 2000 JFK 50 Mile.

I've never counted how many races I have run, but I'm sure it would be a four-figure number.  Some of those races stay in your memory for one reason or another.  One favourite, which I have only managed to run twice, is the JFK 50 Mile held each November in Maryland, USA, about an hour's drive north-west of Washington DC.

The race has an interesting history. In 1963, President John F Kennedy launched a national fitness drive that included a challenge to the nation's military officers to meet the standard set by Teddy Roosevelt in the early 20th Century of being able to cover 50 miles in 20 hours on foot.  Others were keen to test themselves against that standard and a number of 50 Mile races were organised around the US in that year.  Sadly, Kennedy was assassinated in November 1963, and the Maryland race changed its name from the JFK 50 Mile Challenge to the JFK 50 Mile Memorial in 1964 and has been run every year since.  It is the only surviving 50 Mile race from that time.

Looking over the Potomac near where the JFK 50 Mile
descends to the river.

Being so close to Washington DC and many US military bases, and with its military-related origins, the field always includes many service personnel, giving it another dimension.  For a long time it was the largest ultra race in the US, averaging around 1,000 finishers in the last decade or so.

The C&O Canal towpath.

Apart from my passion for trail ultra-running, the race appealed to me because a section was run along the famous 2,200 mile Appalachian Trail that I had hiked a decade earlier.  Being just half a day's drive from where I was living in Connecticut at the time was an added bonus.

The race is actually a varied mixture of terrain and surfaces.  It starts with a run down the main street of the small town of Boonsboro before climbing 1,172ft on mostly sealed road for the first 5.5 miles.  The field spreads out quite quickly.  The next 10 miles follows the lovely Appalachian Trail, paved with autumn leaves, southwards along a timbered ridge before descending 1,000ft to the C&O Canal towpath which follows the Potomac River upstream.  If you are going well, as I was in 1999, the first year I ran the race (64th, 8:02:17), the marathon-length dead flat towpath is an opportunity to gain time and places.  The second time I ran, in 2000 (118th, 8:48:47), the towpath stretch seemed demoralisingly endless.

The Potomac River along the JFK 50 Mile course.

After the towpath, there's an undulating 8.5 mile run through rural countryside, which can also be a tough stretch if you are running badly, to the finish in Williamsport.  The community support for the race, and the size of the field, along with the military dimension, help make it a special and memorable race, and I hope to do it again one day.

For my exercise today, I played my usual Friday morning 9 holes of golf.  Later, I was pleased to get a call from the Cardiologist's rooms offering me an appointment next week, three weeks earlier than scheduled.  I think I have the Respiratory Specialist I saw on Wednesday to thank for that, and am looking forward to finding what can be done about my heart arrhythmia, and when I can start running again.

Finding the boundaries

Coast Road in North Avoca tested my limits this morning.

The Holter Monitor involves having five electrodes, connected by wires to a battery-powered recording unit a bit larger than a smartphone, stuck to various parts of my chest for 24 hours.  The device will record my heart activity and I'm supposed to note the time of any periods when I feel breathless or notice heart palpitations.  I was worried the electrodes would become detached while I slept, but the technician did a good job of taping them down, and they were still there this morning.

Wamberal Beach from my walk this morning.

The Respiratory Specialist yesterday, while not encouraging me to run, implied that it wasn't necessarily dangerous, just that it would be difficult and uncomfortable.  I didn't want to confirm his prediction, but did want to get my heart-rate high enough today to provide good evidence of the occasional problems I have experienced in the last month.

Thursday, as usual, started with supervision of the 6:00am track session at Terrigal Haven on what was a beautiful sunny, and a little humid, morning.  I watched the twenty or so runners go through their paces (seven times 800m with a minute recovery between each) in the 45 minute session before they headed off to their breakfast coffees, or work, or to get their children ready for school, or all three.  I always feel a bit lazy, being retired, that they have to rush off while my day continues at a more leisurely pace.

Terrigal Beach this morning.

I returned to my car, donned my radio and headphones, and set out on a 7km walk that would include several hills I thought steep enough to test my impaired cardio-vascular system.  Rather than my usual stroll, I walked a little more briskly to encourage the symptoms.  The first significant hill climbs up the Scenic Highway out of Terrigal and I fully expected to succumb to breathlessness as I maintained a good pace, but I was surprised to reach the top without a problem.  It was good that I was feeling better than expected, but bad that there was no discernible heart arrhythmia for the Holter Monitor to record.  A little nonplussed, I continued on down Tramway into North Avoca, circled through the beachside streets and tackled the second steep hill, Coast Road.  This hill is steep enough to always be a serious challenge when running, and I couldn't envisage walking briskly up it without testing my current limits.

Terrigal Haven this morning.

Sure enough, after about 100 metres of serious climbing, I felt my heart racing and my blood pressure dropping.  I had to stop for fear of passing out, and just stood quietly for a minute, ready to sink gracefully to the side of the road if necessary.  After a minute or so, my equilibrium was restored and I continued on.  However, a few hundred metres later, at another short sharp little pinch, the same feeling enveloped me and I had to stop and stand still for a short period, again ready to cushion my fall to the road if I fainted.

It was encouraging, though, that once equilibrium was restored, I felt fine and could continue on at a good pace so long as the grade wasn't too steep.  I walked another couple of kilometres down into Terrigal before returning along the beach promenade to The Haven and my car, where I noted the times I felt unwell for the doctor to compare to the heart monitor.  I'm sure he will have something to look at now.

Perspicacious medicos

Cockrone Lagoon, between McMasters Beach and Copa,
and near our home, is one of my favourite places to walk.

I walked 5km this morning, and although not as bad as yesterday, still felt more breathless than has generally been the case in the last few weeks.  Maybe I've just had a bad couple of days.  I have read stories on the Web of runners coming back from Pulmonary Embolism (PE) who have bad patches.  Nevertheless, I was pleased I had an appointment scheduled for later in the morning with a Respiratory Specialist to get an expert opinion on my situation and some answers to questions.

Cockrone Lagoon.

As it turned out, the Specialist's opinion was that the worst of my Deep Vein Thrombosis (DVT) and PE was past, and that as long as I was taking the anti-coagulant, Warfarin, my prognosis was good.  In fact, if my heart wasn't an issue, he would have been OK for me to resume running, which was good news.  He spent some time checking my pulse, and said he was sure that the breathlessness I had been feeling was due to my heart which was beating irregularly, averaging about 60-70 beats per minute compared to my usual resting rate of low 40s.

Cockrone Lagoon.

He seemed keen that I see the Cardiologist (my appointment is four weeks away) as soon as possible and actually tried to get me an appointment today (they are in the same building).  I think the urgency was driven by his desire to help get me running again rather than any concern about my current condition, although he didn't actually say that.  He told me he was training for a triathlon, confirming to me the wisdom of getting a Specialist recommendation from my sports medicine friend, Dr Jon.  In my experience, medicos who participate in endurance sports have a much better understanding of obsessional distance runners such as myself.  They know how much it means if we cannot run, how much we test our physical limits, and how prone we are to ignore pain.

He prescribed another heart test, a Holter Monitor, and told me to call the Cardiologist when the results were available, mention his name, and I should be able to get an earlier appointment.  I called to arrange the test, and because they had a cancellation, was able to get an appointment this afternoon.  I'm now walking around with electrodes attached to various parts of my chest and connected to a battery powered recorder on a waist belt.  I have to note the time of any breathing or heart events I notice in the next 24 hours and return the device tomorrow afternoon.  Hopefully, I'll be able to get an appointment with the Cardiologist next week and make progress on the heart problem.  I sensed the Specialist I saw today thinks the heart arrhythmia will be correctable, but time will tell.

London

St Paul's Cathedral.

In total, I have lived ten years of my life in the UK and am very fond of the place.  In various blog posts (Frost Fairways,  Chappel, Isle of Dogs), I have described some of my favourite runs there.  The last time I lived in the UK was in 1992, but during the next eleven years when I lived in the US, I made many business trips there, frequently staying in hotels in central London.  Central London is a big place, and depending on where you are staying, the running options can vary.  During the latter part of my working life, when I was employed by Reuters, whose head office was in Fleet Street, my favourite place to stay was a business hotel close to St Paul's Cathedral.  It was easy walking distance from the office (passing an excellent Indian takeaway en route!), and close to the Thames River, a wonderful place to run.

HMS Belfast with Tower Bridge.

For my regular 10km run, I usually set out about 6:00am and headed east along Cannon Street past the imposing St Paul's Cathedral and then Mansion House, Cannon Street and Monument stations which were already disgorging early commuters before arcing around the northern side of the Tower of London and onto the iconic Tower Bridge.  I always enjoyed checking out the river traffic as I crossed the bridge and looking at the retired HMS Belfast anchored upstream.  On the southern side of the bridge, I descended a stairway to begin my journey westwards along the southern bank of the Thames.

Millennium Bridge and St Paul's Cathedral.

At first the route wound through some narrow back streets passing refurbished warehouses and stereotypical London pubs before joining the promenade along the river bank which I followed all the way to Westminster Bridge.  On the way it passed landmarks such as the Millennium Bridge, the Tate Modern, Southbank, and the London Eye, all the time providing superb views of the London skyline to the north across the river.  After crossing the river again beneath Big Ben, the route turned right to follow the Victoria Embankment downstream and back to the northern end of the Millennium Bridge from where it was a short run back to the hotel.

London Eye and Southbank.

It was a generally flat course along wide paved footpaths and promenades that made for a fast run if I was feeling good, which was often the case.  In summer, London had milder temperatures and lower humidity than my US abodes, and in winter, it was also milder and nice to run in shorts for a change after the winter gear required in the US.

I've been told that my recovery from the Pulmonary Embolism could be long and erratic.  Today served to emphasise the point when I struggled all of the way round what should have been an easy 5km walk in Copa.  I didn't feel my heart racing, maybe because I walked so slowly, but it was exasperating and a little alarming to feel so unfit.  My breathing was heavy and laboured and I even contemplated sitting down on a bench with a kilometre to go when I began to feel a little spaced out.  Instead, I just walked even more slowly and made it home OK.  The rest of the day was pretty sedentary and I had no problems.  On the plus side, I had a call from the office of the Respiratory Specialist I wasn't scheduled to see for another month to say they had a cancellation tomorrow, so I'm hopeful of getting a useful opinion about my situation and prognosis.

Guadalupe Peak

Guadelupe Peak, Texas.

Some races and training runs stick in your mind forever, while others seem to get assigned to the same memory space as hotel room numbers and totally disappear within a few days.  In between there are memories that can be resurrected by some external stimulus such as a conversation with an old friend or the sight of a photograph.

I have been reading through, and digitising, my old training diaries.  It is a nostalgic and self-indulgent pastime, but is a source of ideas for this blog and resurrects many memories of races and runs that I had all but forgotten.  Other runs are still quite vivid in my memory and I start anticipating them as I move through the diary towards the date on which they occurred.

The approach to Guadelupe Peak.

One such run was up Guadelupe Peak from Pine Springs Campground and return in the Guadelupe Mountains National Park near El Paso in Texas in January 1986.  We were the only campground residents on a night when temperatures dropped below 10°F after a stormy day characterised by high winds and snow.  When I went to bed I wasn't sure that the planned run to Guadelupe Peak (8740ft) the next morning was going to be feasible, but we woke to an icy cold but crystal clear morning with a three inch snow cover.

Looking south to Guadelupe Peak from the Bowl Trail.

The Campground was at 5800ft, so I knew that altitude would be one of the challenges on my run, but the distance was short, just 7km each way.  However, that 7km incorporated 3000ft of climb along an exposed and unfamiliar snow-covered trail, so even though the weather had cleared, I was a little apprehensive.  There was nobody about and I knew it would take a long time to be rescued if anything bad happened.

The trail to Guadelupe Peak.

The trail gained height rapidly as it switch-backed its way up on to the spur I would be following to the Peak, but I was feeling fit, and knowing the distance was short, maintained a good pace.  It was a little precipitous to the side of the trail early on so I paid a lot of attention to where I put my feet, but higher up the risks were fewer and I began to appreciate the beauty of the vistas and the tranquility of my environment, broken only by the padded sounds of my footfall and my steady deep breathing.  The mostly snow-covered trail was smooth and unmarked, apart from the occasional tiny animal track, and there was almost no wind.  The higher I got the better the views became.

View from Guadelupe Peak.

I reached the summit in a little over 50 minutes and took a break to admire the panoramic views in all directions.  The plains of Texas spread out below to the east, south and west, while the barren peaks of the Guadalupe Mountains dominated the view to the north.  Standing alone atop a mountain in the early morning light with views to the horizon in all directions is about as spiritual as it gets for me.  At the same time as you feel privileged and exceptional to have such an experience, it also emphasises your microscopic place in the world.  You  almost feel powerful and powerless at the same time.

The return trip was much faster and exhilarating in parts, though I still needed to take great care with my foot placement and the sharp switch-backs, and I finished in just over one and a half hours for the return journey.  It was a special and still memorable run.

I walked about 9km today, doing some more exploring around McMasters Beach and Bouddi National Park.  Although I managed the walk OK, there were occasions during it, and later in the day, when I could feel my heart racing and that wasn't pleasant.  On the plus side, my breathing remained steady and I didn't have to rest.  It did remind me, however, that I'm not the person I was six weeks ago.

Physical introspection

Quarry Track in Bouddi National Park.

Motivation was low today and I down-scaled my originally intended 15km road walk to one of 10km including bush trails and beach.  Part of my ennui stems from the feeling that I could do more exercise than is currently wise.  The 10km walks all week have been completed easily and I haven't strayed into the "Amber Zone" where I begin gasping for breath and feel my heart pounding.  Maybe this is because I'm getting better at managing my impaired cardio-vascular system, or maybe it's because it is gradually improving.

While not forcing the pace, I walked steadily at around 5km per hour, and after circling round the southern side of Cockrone Lagoon, followed roads and a fire-trail steadily upward to the highest point in McMasters Beach.  As I walked I found myself constantly reviewing how I was travelling, especially up the steeper climbs.  Was my breathing steady or was it becoming more laboured?  Was my heart racing?  Was that slight ache in the back of my left chest heart-related?  Was I at all light-headed?  All runners coming back from injury, or tapering for a race, will recognise this nervous physical introspection phase where every niggle and sign is examined to see if it is something more ominous.

View from Bombi Point in Bouddi National Park.

I continued walking towards Little Beach, then on reaching a trail junction, decided to change my planned route and followed the Quarry Trail up into Bouddi National Park.  It's a trail I have run along a few times over the past ten years, but it's not part of my regular training routes.  One advantage of walking, as opposed to running, is that you get more time to look around and appreciate your surroundings, and once up on the plateau, this trail passed through some beautiful and peaceful woodland, disturbed only by an encounter with Joe and Deirdre, some Terrigal Trotter friends out on a long bush run.

View from Bombi Point in Bouddi
National Park.

I was starting to enjoy my walk and decided to follow the Bombi Point trail, a dead-end trail that I have often passed, but never followed, when running through the Park.  After a gradual 1km descent on the sandy track it ended at the top of a precipitous cliff offering spectacular views along the wild coast and out to sea.  A heavy swell was crashing into the base of the cliffs and the spray was rising high into the air, though still many metres below my vantage-point.  It was a breath-taking location, and a little scary closer to the cliff edge.  I will be including it in future walks and runs.

My route home followed some familiar and lovely single track winding through sheltered and mossy rainforest, and then after some road walking, finished along the beach from McMasters to Copa.  It was low tide which makes the walking easy and there were lots of holiday makers out enjoying the Australia Day weekend and the end of summer vacation for many.

I have discussed in previous posts ("Getting out the door" and "Small explorations") the value to me of training somewhere more interesting when you have one of those days when you just can't be bothered, and today proved the point.  It wasn't quick, and there was a bit of dallying here and there, but I covered 13km without trouble.

Relays

Fellow Kew Camberwell team members for the
1980 New Zealand Road Relay Championships.

There is plenty of camaraderie in distance running, but it is not usually thought of as a team sport.  There are club competitions run by various State and National running organisations for road and cross-country running, but my observation is that it still ends to be an individual competition with the performances just aggregated to determine team positions after the event.

The exception is relay racing where each individual runner is very conscious of their team membership and expectations.  I have known runners who almost always perform better in a relay race than when they are running for themselves, and others who find the pressure too much and choke.

Start of the 1980 New Zealand Road Relay Chempionships.

Most of my relay running was done in the 1970s and 1980s when I was a member of Kew Camberwell District AAC and its antecedents.  In our heyday we were one of the strongest distance running clubs in Victoria and derived some perverse pleasure from our lack of national and international stars of the kind that characterised the ranks of the two best Victorian clubs, Glenhuntly and Box Hill.  We were a club of journeyman runners who enjoyed fierce, but good-natured, competition amongst ourselves then took great pride in our ability to be competitive with the best clubs in team competition.

Running my leg in the 1981 New
Zealand Road Relay Championships
(9.6km, 29:34).

Although there were some relay competitions in Australia, it was the annual New Zealand Road Relay Championships that really caught our attention after Glenhuntly returned from competing there in 1979.  The competition in New Zealand was of exceptionally high standard and the event, which called for a team of ten to run an average of 10km each, was very competitive and continues to this day.  As I recall, the super Glenhuntly team had only just got onto the podium.

We managed to muster sufficient members to run in the competition in three different years in the early 1980s, but it was the first trip that sticks most in my mind.  We travelled over as a group starting in Auckland where we competed in a local road race before driving south in a hired van to Wellington where the Relay was to take place the following weekend.  There were 23 teams in A Grade and our goal was a top ten finish.  Glenhuntly were there again.  Our early runners excelled themselves, and the rest of us lifted to match their efforts.  I was only a few months past major knee surgery and couldn't run very well downhills so was given a 6.2km all uphill leg.  I wasn't at my best, but can still remember the pressure I felt to maintain our good position on that long climb.  The junior runner in our team who ran the downhill leg after me, wore the soles off both his feet blasting down the hill and had trouble even walking in the days that followed.  I can still remember Chris Wardlaw, a two-time Olympian and Glenhuntly team member, complaining to us "that seven legs have passed and we still haven't caught you bastards", or words to that effect.  That made our day.  Their class ultimately told and they finished seventh overall, but we were just two places and two and a half minutes behind.

The Kew Camberwell team for the 1983 New Zealand
Road Relay Championships.

We never did quite as well in the subsequent years, but I'm sure all of us who ran in the Kew Camberwell teams still remember them fondly.

Being Saturday, it was the usual Terrigal Trotters run at 6:00am, and I went down to meet my friends who were running and went for a 6km walk while they were out.  I feel like I'm treading water, waiting for the specialist appointments and my body to repair itself.  Not much else I can do at present, but it's very frustrating.

T-shirts

T-shirt Quilt - Side 1.

I am a bit of a hoarder and in 45 years of running have collected quite a lot of trophies, finisher's medals and T-shirts.  The trophies and medals are mostly stored away in a cupboard and just don't evoke the same sentimentality as the T-shirts.

Some are treasured because they were from a memorable race, such as the London to Brighton in the early 1990s, my first serious ultra.  Others date from early career, such as the All Weather Running Club from my school in London.  Still others are valued because they are reminiscent of a particular era in my running life, such as the Bacchus 12000 shirts earned on the trips with club-mates to Griffith in the early 1980s.  Many just have a great eye-catching design, such as the Quivering Quads and Pere Marquette trail races from St Louis in the mid-1990s and several were given to me by people returning from events such as the 1981 World Cross-Country Champs.  A number don't relate to running events at all, but are still meaningful, such as the souvenir US T-shirts that were all I could find to buy and run in (along with some fleecy shorts!) when my baggage got lost on a business trip to Washington DC.

T-shirt Quilt - Side 2.

The common denominator with all of these T-shirts is that they have covered many kilometres, visited many places, and been laundered to within an inch of their lives.  Even as they shrank and lost their shape, I still loved them and couldn't bring myself to throw them out even though they were no longer wearable.  So, a couple of years ago, I asked a friend whether she would be willing to cut them up and sew them into a quilt.  The result is a superb piece of art and artisanship that fills me with pride and memories whenever I look at it.

No specific walking for exercise today, but I did play nine holes of golf which equates to about 5km (probably longer, the way I play).