Does anyone understand the science behind recovery runs? How far should you go? How fast? How is “recovery” measured? These questions are all too difficult for me and I suspect there are no hard and fast rules. I do like the idea of getting out and turning the legs over though, so off I popped this morning on a familiar short run that I haven’t done for some time. It’s a route that is too boggy after rain in the winter and in late summer the nettles are as high as an elephant’s eye for a crucial fifty yard stretch. What marks it out as special for me is that it’s always quiet.
Out the house and up the main road, stiff little climb up to the Fox & Hounds and then up Old Lane for two hundred yards. Then it’s all off road. The only hazards over the last two years have been the very real danger of being mown down by a Brownlee Brother and the imagined threat from the taciturn, shotgun-toting farmer.
When I get to the first corner I almost collide into a dog-walker who hasn’t heard my approach. He almost jumps out of his skin as I sidle past. His dog must be mutt and jeff too, as it scampers away in a panic. Could do without the obstructions but can’t resist a small chuckle that I managed to startle them both.
Through the boggy bit with the icy water seeping through my old trail shoes. Is it unreasonable to hang onto a pair of favourite shoes on the basis of the magical properties of the laces? I think not. Into the second field and I’m held up by a group of five geriatric ramblers (about my age). Why are they on my path? Next it’s two women walking their ponies. Could they possibly take up any more space? Could they not just ride the ponies? Good job I’m going for a slow one.
Through the sinister farmyard where they’re always watching you (whoever they are) and into the field. Three young men and a scrambling bike. They look furtive and shifty as they guard the fire they’ve got going in the corner of the field. Through the final field, but not through the stile onto Harrogate Road as it’s just a short one today.
Turn round and head back and brace myself for going past the same obstacles, but they’ve all evaporated. I have no time to savour my solitude though as I’m soon dodging flying debris as a different farmer has got a flail going on the hedgerow. Past another set of ramblers (Rats! This path must have made it into a walking guide) and back into downtown Bramhope. Four and a quarter miles in 39:11. Legs feel good and ready to take on the weekend.
Out the house and up the main road, stiff little climb up to the Fox & Hounds and then up Old Lane for two hundred yards. Then it’s all off road. The only hazards over the last two years have been the very real danger of being mown down by a Brownlee Brother and the imagined threat from the taciturn, shotgun-toting farmer.
When I get to the first corner I almost collide into a dog-walker who hasn’t heard my approach. He almost jumps out of his skin as I sidle past. His dog must be mutt and jeff too, as it scampers away in a panic. Could do without the obstructions but can’t resist a small chuckle that I managed to startle them both.
Through the boggy bit with the icy water seeping through my old trail shoes. Is it unreasonable to hang onto a pair of favourite shoes on the basis of the magical properties of the laces? I think not. Into the second field and I’m held up by a group of five geriatric ramblers (about my age). Why are they on my path? Next it’s two women walking their ponies. Could they possibly take up any more space? Could they not just ride the ponies? Good job I’m going for a slow one.
Through the sinister farmyard where they’re always watching you (whoever they are) and into the field. Three young men and a scrambling bike. They look furtive and shifty as they guard the fire they’ve got going in the corner of the field. Through the final field, but not through the stile onto Harrogate Road as it’s just a short one today.
Turn round and head back and brace myself for going past the same obstacles, but they’ve all evaporated. I have no time to savour my solitude though as I’m soon dodging flying debris as a different farmer has got a flail going on the hedgerow. Past another set of ramblers (Rats! This path must have made it into a walking guide) and back into downtown Bramhope. Four and a quarter miles in 39:11. Legs feel good and ready to take on the weekend.
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