Essar Four Villages Half Marathon

2018 Essar Four Villages Half Marathon

Race HQ

With apologies in advance for what is a somewhat self-indulgent review of the 2018 Essar Four Villages Half Marathon. The route is a nostalgic one for me as these are roads that I have traveled by pram, foot, go-kart, skateboard, sled, bike, school bus, moped, motorbike and car as both man and boy.

The event is popular, more often than not sold-out and organised by those lovely people at Helsby Running club. I have no affiliation with the club but have attended north of 10 races organised by the “Green Army” all of which are friendly, exceptionally well organised, good value and my favourite of which incorporate pie and mushy peas washed down with lashings of hot tea and home-made cakes.

The short review is;

 “A closed to cars undulating circular rural route on tarmac with P.B. potential thanks in part to the final couple of miles being mostly downhill. Support at the start and finish is excellent with pockets of cow bell ringing, hand clapping, and high-five demanding supporters at various vantage points along the route. Facilities are predictable, with the opportunity for a shower in the social club (the flow of which may be likened to a middle aged man with prostate complications, although not necessarily as warm) and some decent food and accessory stalls. The excellent organisation skills have been honed since the inaugural event some 30 years ago and the friendly atmosphere is embodied by the army of enthusiastic volunteers offering motivational encouragement throughout the course."    

The long review is;    

“Up early to digest a bowl of porridge and start sipping a bottle of Lucozade Sport whilst downing a huge mug of coffee with the hope that it will awaken my nether regions and enable me to lighten my load in the comfort of my own home as opposed to a well-used portaloo.

Running on a full stomach is uncomfortable and if your belly is contemplating a mid-race evacuation, however challenging the circumstances, do not ignore the signs. Although its fortunately never happened to me during an official event, once during a training run with just a mile from the safe porcelain of home, my stomach decided to jettison its contents whilst I was in the midst of 500 yard high banked stretch of single road with literally nowhere to go. I averted total disaster by pulling my pants down and projectile pooing on the verge, the relief was palpable, the postwoman’s face a picture.   

We are arrive in Helsby with plenty of time to spare however, it’s cold, it’s wet and it’s windy, and there is not a great deal I can do about that apart from hide in the car until 5 minutes before the gun goes.

The race has been cancelled a few times recently on account of the inclement weather.

It’s traditionally run on the 3^rd week of January, so ideal for those seeking to remind themselves of an impending event when participating in the excesses of the festive season.

Just before I step out of the vehicle the wind whips up a bit and the rain turns to sleet. The upside to this is that I will not overheat. I’m a sweater, not to the point of hyperhidrosis, but I sweat soon and copiously when running and the hotter it gets the more I leak, often to the detriment of my hydration and electrolytes. So on the basis that the car is registering a temperature of 2 c that feels like -4 °c, is a good thing.

The half-marathon starts from Helsby Sports and Social Club, which used to be the hub of BICC, a huge cable manufacturing plant where my father spent a significant proportion of his working life, along with, in its pomp, up to 5,000 colleagues.

BICC has long gone and been replaced by housing and the obligatory super store, however thankfully the sports and social club has remained pretty much untouched and none more so than the changing room and shower block which is an impressive replica of how the facilities must have been in the 1970’s.

The start -I'm stood around 1h:50m finish

At 10.28 am, we are a shivering mass of weather bemused participants segmented by target finish time markers which are staggered at 15 minute intervals. I’m in a huddle a few yards behind 1hr: 45min marker and discreetly appraise the form of those in close proximity. With the conclusion that the structure of calf and flatness of stomach is a league above mine, I discreetly shuffle back another 5 minutes. 

The aptly named 4 Villages half-marathon passes through Helsby, Dunham on the Hill, Mouldsworth & Manley, the roads of which are all closed to traffic, which is nice.  I’ve had a number of memorable encounters with vehicles in training runs. Most of my runs are on isolated rural roads and where the traffic volume is light; the roads are invariably both narrow and twisty.

I’ll always run on the right hand side of the road as if I’m going to be mowed down, I’d rather it be face on than the risk of being taken unexpectedly from behind. Corners can be a little tricky, although invariably you will hear a car coming beforehand and have the opportunity to take evasive action. I think it is unreasonable to expect drivers to negotiate every corner on the assumption there is a runner mid-apex and on that basis I feel responsible for ensuring the apex coast is clear.

If a car can see you from a reasonable distance away, then the most reassuring driver will acknowledge your presence by indicating, pulling out to middle of the road whilst ideally slowing down. About 10% of drivers will perform all of the above, with 2 out of 3 for 87%, which are acceptable statistics, but leaves us with around 3% of potential homicidal maniacs who will do none of the above, so continue on their current trajectory at the same pace.

The fear with these individual is that they simply have not seen you and there is consequently a possibility that you will be struck. As a runner you have a couple of options, do nothing, jump in the hedge, or step out in the road and hope the car swerves. 

On the bravado scale, I’m a lot closer to coward than courageous; however there is a certain injustice that fires something inside about the inequality of Goliath shielded by his metal machine up against David in his gym shorts….but I digress, today is traffic free so I can tuck my metaphoric sling shot into the back of my Ron Hill shorts.

Purveyor of nicotine

The gun is fired and it’s a sharp right out of the gate and past the petrol station on our left that was the official purchasing venue of my illicit cigarettes.

The outlet was about 5 miles from home so suitably distanced to ensure anonymous purchasing and also purveyors of Peter Stuyvesant, a particularly helpful brand of cigarette on account of its length. Smoking at the age of 16 was broken down into sessions, with 3 sessions equating to 1 cigarette.

For those interested in replicating my single cigarette circuit training, then;

Session 1 - Light up and take around 4 lung busting drags, extinguish and pop back into the packet. 

The first drag of Session 2 was invariably a head spinner due to the partially burnt tobacco from session 1 – a couple more drags and pop back into the box for final Session 3. 

Number of sessions a day was invariably dictated by circumstance, with school days likely restricted to 3 sessions, split by bus to school, bus on way home with final session hanging out of bedroom window at night.

I run past the garage and effortlessly replicate the sensation of first drag, session 3.

With my head reminiscently spinning, I remind myself to slow down as too much effort at this stage elevates my heart to an unsustainable beat rate and likely culminating in a tardy last few miles.

I’m planning on a consistent pace for the first 10 miles and then accelerate in the latter stages in order to cross the line with the tank completely empty.

Ironically some 500 yards into the race my progress is impeded by a line of participants who are barely jogging. My internal reaction is one of fury; these guys are clearly going to take at least 2 hours to complete the course, although they must have stood around the 90 minute zone at the start. Their blatant disregard of the signage cannot go unpunished, should I trip one of them up or simply shoulder charge my way through – tough decisions and the race has only just started. My more rational self then kicks in, maybe these are race virgins and blissfully ignorant of the starting line etiquette and let’s be honest, what negative impact is this going to have over the next 110 minutes. I conclude very little and manage to squeeze through without making contact. 

My mind wanders to other seemingly irrational runners thoughts. First off is sports drinks and a guy at the golf club who always cracks open a bottle of Lucozade Sport at the mid round 10^th tee. Please help me understand what athletic endeavor my golfing buddy has endured in order to reward himself with an isotonic sports drink.

Whereas I appreciate it may be difficult to administer and may result in an inflated price-point, consumers of sports drinks should be wholly and exclusively restricted to those athletes who have undertaken a minimum of 1 hours vigorous exercise. Just how difficult would it be for the manufacturers to insist on providing proof of exercise via some sort off app?

Whilst I’m on this theme, what about runners apparel?

Two points to be made here, the first being specialised running shoes are for that purpose only – if I read another review of the latest Asics release “my husband works in an Amazon warehouse and sometimes walks up 10 miles a day and these are the most comfortable shoes ever”,  I’m going to burst. 

And finally – event T shirts can only be worn travelling to, from or during a race. This should form part of the terms of conditions on entering.

Used to be the Brown Cow

A few hundred yards later it’s a left and gentle incline up toward Dunham-on-the Hill. On the right there is a pub that used to be called the Brown Cow – a venue that we used to frequent on a Saturday night after finishing a shift at the Wheatsheaf. 

The atmosphere inside was invariably hostile as it was the only late licence venue for miles around. The mixed demographic of town dwellers and arable workers vying for the attention of a single pool table invariably led to some form of alcohol triggered conflict. We invariably huddled in a corner and fed the fruit machine with tips we had earned from the shift at the Wheatsheaf. When the tip jar was empty, we topped the machine up with our wages, at which point we went home. If we were lucky and the reels span in our favour the whole process could last as long as 30 minutes.

Up the straight and we go passed an access only sign, which was the scene of my fathers only ever driving offence. It was a short cut to the motorway and occasionally a patrol car would hide in the lane and interrogate drivers as they drove passed. I can distinctly remember a raging parent frustrated that access to the M56 was not deemed to be a suitable reason for taking the route.

Clearly "No Access"

The watch bleeps to signify 1 mile covered. I’ve a runners superstition about the first mile, if I’ve gone out too quick than I’m in fear of running out of steam, too slow and I’ll panic about not making the time up. 

My target of 1h:50 mins is an average of 8.23 minute miles (mm) so I’m planning for an average 8:20 mm and a total time of 1h:49 mins.

The first mile should be slightly quicker than average, but nothing too giddy. I look at the watch 8.10, perfect.

The road at this point is arrow straight for a good 500 yards and was the scene of one of those hearts in the mouth incidents that stays with you.

At this time there was a revival of biker v mod rivalry, no doubt fueled by the release of Quadrophenia a few years earlier. Yamaha had recently launched the RD (Race Developed no less) range, with no bike more desirable than the 350LC Kenny Roberts replica, instantly recognisable on account of its bright yellow paint job. These machines were readily available, affordable, irresponsibly quick and the mascot of a biker generation.

The mods on the other hand would favour style over speed and invariably opted for an Italian scooter to which your status was dictated by the amount of mirrors attached. To set the scene – I was draped over the handlebars of my DT50, the restricted engine complaining at the slight incline and falling well short of the 30mph top speed. In the distance and from the opposite direction came a procession of what must have been a dozen mods – riding 2 a breast as was the generally accepted order of the day. Enter my shoulder right came the waspish Kenny Roberts replica along with pack of less recognisable flat out pockets rockets. As if riding at 100mph wasn’t impressive enough – our Kenny look alike, decided that his preferred route was down the middle of the Lamberreta procession.  

Although in terms of achievement this may come a close second to Moses parting the Red 

sea, there were miraculously no casualties.

The Wheatsheaf is on the right, I worked there on an off for a couple of years, starting off as a glass collector, with steady career path leading to the dizzy heights of bar tender.

There was a decent crowd of locals at the pub back in the day, no doubt a far cry from the ubiquitous chain that now proudly advertises food at a price for which you fear for the provenance of the ingredients.  

Running up the straight reminds me of a regular drinker who on a boozy Friday night had nearly completed the mile long walk back home into Helsby and decided to partake in a final cigarette before crossing the threshold. It was a windy night and necessitated cupped hands and a back to the wind before successful ignition. Half an hour later a confused customer found himself back at the pub, having forgotten to point himself back in the other direction.

Glass washing career started here

Biker parts sea of mods

After cresting Dunham’s hill, we then take a left and work our way along a route that has been cunningly fashioned through sandstone and with a sharp left at the bottom.

It’s a tricky corner this one and the scene of a couple of motorcycle accidents of which I’m aware. Next door neighbour dabbed the front brake on his DT125 one morning and face planted the black ice. It was this incident the ended his affiliation with bikes and culminated in the purchase of a Mini, which although offered more protection, was far from the indestructible object that we believed it to be.

Also the scene of a near neighbour breaking his collarbone – memorable as my parents came across him in the middle of the road – seemingly more concerned about his bike than himself. Mother drove him to hospital – father rode his bike the couple of miles home with the handlebars about 45 degrees of centre. I was fishing at on of the local pits when I saw this somewhat strange apparition from afar – too far away to recognise the rider, but near enough to identify a somewhat unique riding style 

Tricky bend for those on 2 wheels

A further 500 yards on the right and there is a pit which was  a popular place for coarse fishing in our youth. The pond itself was not renowned for its stock of fish; it was all about the reaction of landowner who was somewhat irked by the hordes of children traipsing through his crop in order to reach the more than likely fishless stretch of water. 

Exasperated by our general lack of respect throughout the summer holidays, he finally surrendered to the red mist one balmy September, stormed down from his hill top farm and launched my friends Raleigh Grifter into the middle of the pond. 

We were all somewhat dumbfounded by this course of action, not least because the father of the submerged bicycle owner was a renowned for both his short fuse and Goliath like stature. Although I was not witness to the next chapter of the story, it transpired that the feckless farmer was “persuaded” to retrieve the bicycle by stripping down to his grubby underpants and wading out to rescue the bike from its watery grave.

Nice straight followed by sharp right hander and the scene of a bizarre police chase on my way home from the lunchtime shift at the Wheatsheaf. In the distance I could see a police van pursuing a vehicle that ended up in a ditch about 200 yards in front of me. The culprit jumped out and hot footed it across the field – closely followed by the policeman, who shouted out to me to stay back or I’ll be hurt. This seemed like sound advice – so I waited for the cop and robber to pass before nonchalantly continuing on my journey home.

Watch bleeps, mile 2 is registered. So my expectation is that the run up the bank into Dunham Hill will have slowed me down slightly, anticipate something around average pace. Quick glance confirms a second mile of 8:14 mm. I smile internally.

Runners are talking – I find this strange, they are obviously not working hard enough. My primeval reaction is to tell them to cease this inane chatter, however running irate is a waste of energy. How we react emotionally to our environment is exclusively up to us, as I was advised at some company training day. The example used was traffic – stuck in a jam, automatic reaction was one of anger or frustration and although this was entirely natural in the circumstances we have a choice as to how we react. I think the thrust of the lesson was about trying to feel happy about being in traffic, so fundamentally channeling positive emotions in a sub-optimal environment. I decide to forgive the chatty crowd and speed up slightly so as to leave them in the wake. 

Next challenge is the wheezing idiot running alongside someone with change in their bum bag rattling away. Tested to the limit, I seek out someone in the near distance who appears to be floating or alternatively try and recreate the serene sensation of swimming.

Practice wheelies here

Through the chicane and we have a flat, smooth 200 yard straight with no residences and yet close to my childhood home  – a perfect place to practice wheelies, the art of travelling at speed on one wheel without toppling over. 

When I eventually acquired a motorbike with enough poke to deliver suitable power to the back wheel, this was my playground. I was never going to be a stunt rider, however I just about managed to be competent and stupid enough to travel the full distance on the back wheel.

A once fine horse chestnut tree in background

Next up is a sharp right at T junction – temporary school bus stop and scene of another moped accident, when some poor individual came round the corner one icy morning and promptly fell off to a soundtrack of 10 schoolchildren cackling  as he slid unceremoniously toward them – he got up and rode off to a cacophony of sarcastic clapping, seemingly no worse off for his impromptu crowd pleasing stunt.

As we round the corner, on the left we see one of the finest horse chestnut trees in the world on the corner –where we whiled away many a happy October hour throwing sticks at the tree until the house occupier invariably shooed us away. Somewhat embarrassingly the owner of the house was good friends of my parents and I’m sure would have given direct access to the abundance of conkers – but where would have been the fun in that?

As we crest a small incline, there is a residence on the left that used to house a family of motorcycling enthusiasts.  Dad was obviously a talented mechanic and could always be trusted to bring home an ancient rusty two wheel wreck that was invariably transformed into a throbbing monster within a couple of weeks. I remember a 250cc Ducati with drop handlebars that barked louder than a choir of irked German Shepard’s.

We then enter a gentle decline with a cutting on the left hand side of a small copse, which was a renowned spot for both illicit lovers and fly tippers. We used to recce this spot occasionally, although never stumbled across anything more exciting than a discarded pornographic magazine or soiled mattress.

Bleep, mile 3 complete and I’m feeling fine, the last section has been on a decline, so my expectations are high. Oh crikey that’s 7:58, probably a little too quick, but you never know, I’m feeling good and running smoothly, so maybe I’ve found another level. Second thoughts it’s a windy day and yet it appears to have abated which can only mean one thing, that was a mile with tailwind and what goes around, comes around, so must save a bit of energy for the imminent headwind.

At the end of the road its left at the cross roads memorable for a learner driver incident. Mother had kindly agreed to accompany me whilst I decided to test the handling capabilities of the family Citroen Visa. I was a learner driver and although not renowned for its poke, the Visa was significantly sprightlier than my restricted to 30mph, Yamaha.

A rural amble quickly turned into a heated argument as I tried my level best to get the Visa to squeal  whilst navigating the T -junction. I’ve never driven a car since that rewarded the driver with such a high pitched screech on enthusiastic cornering. The soundtrack was simply too much for my passenger who jammed on the handbrake and insisted in replacing me in the driving seat. In the circumstances it was an eminently reasonable request and I complied without further debate. 

Citroen Visa wheel screeching

Left at the crossroads toward Barrow and a sharp left hander near which my cousin had introduced me to the driving in France experience. He was staying with us whilst studying at Christleton law school and made the daily commute in an ancient Mini acquired from our entirely disreputable local car dealer.

Robert was due a trip to France and decided that it would be a good idea to practice his Gallic driving skills by driving on the wrong side of the road for as long as practically possible. We managed a good 500 yards before our progress was hindered by a vehicle driving on the correct side of the road and around a tricky right hander. Fortunately disaster was averted – but running around that corner always elicits a nervous smile.

Bleep – mile 4, still feeling good and relatively even paced – 8:03 that’s perfectly satisfactory, all going to plan.

We take a sharp left onto Long Green and towards the first water station manned by the ever enthusiastic volunteers.

We are only 4 miles in and I avoid taking on liquid at this stage due to its momentum sapping properties.

Driving in France experience [warning sign included]

The hedge of a 20 acre field

A quick left and then a pleasant haul up Barnhouse Lane and on the left we have another pit, the one where we earned our fishing badge. Cubs provided me with 2 distinct memories. The first being my only “official” win with the trophy being the 1976 1^st Manley Scouts cross country shield. Lifting the trophy ignited a fire in me that was soon distinguished when I failed to make the top 50 in the Regional heats.

I also learnt a life lesson whilst enthusiastically pulling my zipper up and over the tip of a willy that was peeking out of my Y-fronts. The pain was indescribable, but the issue lay in the fact the zipper was fully fastened and had a portion of my foreskin trapped at some point in the middle. It became abundantly clear that the only viable option was to unfasten the zipper.  The whole process was amplified by the fact that I was unable to share my misfortune with anyone else and trust me there is no cub scout badge for self-circumcision. But I digress….

Mile 5 bleeps at a steady 8:20 – nothing to see here.

As we pass onto Norton’s Lane I am reminded of my 16^th birthday and the magical journey I took alone at midnight. There was a circular route of around 6 miles from our home, part of which was formed by this road. Living rurally requires reliance upon parents, bicycles or legs, there is no bus service and the nearest train station is 5 miles away. However if you are lucky enough to have parents that buy you a moped, from the age of 16, these restrictions no longer apply. 

So on the 25^th October 1981 at precisely midnight I embarked upon my first solo journey on the public highway. As I run over the winding back road I can see my 16 year old self chugging by with a smile triggered by my new found freedom. The bike was restricted by law to 30 mph and despite many an urban myth tried to increase the power the speed never exceeded the statutory limit.

Directly over the T junction was a favourite fishing pit. I’m not too sure why – because we never caught anything – however it was only a couple of miles from home – far enough for a bit of smoking privacy – but not too far to cycle.

This pit was the site of my mates Doug first ever go on a motorbike – in a 20 acre field. After a brief tutorial we sent him off on his merry way – pointing away from the pit and with 1 mile of clear field in front. I’m still not sure how Doug managed to form such a perfect U-turn and drive directly into the hawthorn hedge – fortunately both bike and mate were relatively unscathed – although I’m pretty sure it was the catalyst for a lifelong abstention from motorbikes.

My first experience of riding a bike was a Malagutti 50 lovingly restored from scratch having purchased from the lad up the road for £5. It was a real project and I was fortunate enough that most of the village got involved one way or another. The bike was a non-starter and required all manner of attention from electrics to a new piston.  Our first attempt was a push start down our drive and no one was more surprised than me when it started. Maybe it was the deafening roar or the fact that I’d never ridden a motorbike before, but my immediate reaction was to jump off, unfortunately the bike stayed upright and missed next doors car by a whisker before coming to a standstill as a result of full frontal impact upon sandstone barn wall and despite numerous attempts never worked again. 

This somewhat informal introduction to motorcycling simply whetted my appetite for more and led to the purchase of a Yamaha FS1E, with many a happy hour spent careering around the fields and copses surrounding our house. 

Grifter wheelie venue [white lines since removed]

The next couple of miles to the Mouldsworth Motor Museum are key to the race – cover this ground at an even pace and you have something to hold onto up the long slog of Smithy Lane.

Wrist vibrates and I'm alerted to a mile 6 that took 8:17 - all good under the hood.

On the right we see a farm set back from the road from which we once received a call late at night to advise us that our Jack Russel had turned up on their doorstep. Daisy used to run away from home every time we returned from holiday to the kennels where she was boarded in our absence. It was a 4 mile trip and one which she had only ever taken by car, so we had absolutely no idea how she found her way, it was akin to a homing pigeon in reverse. Not surprising we were all mortified that she chose the kennels over us, and the owner rubbed more salt in the wound by using Daisy as a marketing tool. As she got older here kennelling instincts got worse and we were called to this farm to pick her up after another episode.

Mile 7 bleeps at 8.28.1, I’m slowing and that prior mile was largely flat although there was a pretty unpleasant headwind to contend with. Maybe I have just subconsciously prepared myself for mile 8 which I invariably find the most challenging of the event and a real threat to my sub 9 minute mile ambition. Somewhat ironic that this mile begins at the foot of an incline, that lasts for almost exactly a mile.

A fairly uneventful mile of  winding roads followed by a straight, where the infamous Grifter v BMX wheelie competitions used to take place. Much like your biker v mod wars – there was an underground sturdy Raleigh Grifter bike versus the lighter more  BMX. Over distance you couldn’t touch a Grifter, however the BMX was far more nimble when it came to jumps and stunts. This stretch of road was the venue for the wheelie competition, for which a ginger headed maestro sat on a Grifter and covered 14 white lines exclusively on the back wheel, a record then and to the best of my knowledge never beaten since.

A water station appears on the left and one which I ignore for reasons that will soon become obvious.

Sharp left and up the hill toward what used to be Mouldsworth Motor Museum that has since closed. We visited it once and suffice to say it was definitely one for the enthusiast, how it lasted 40 years remains a mystery. It was however a beautiful art deco building that used to be a water softening plant.

And then just above the museum is my trusty entourage set ready with sports drink. The huddle consists of Chris, Katie and Sunny the Golden Retriever. Sunny is a big article and there is always the chance that she will break free from her mooring and follow me up the road. Fortunately she appears to be in one of her less energetic moods and allows a smooth transfer of the Lucozade baton with little more than a wag of the tail.

Mouldsworth Motor Museum

This is the business end of the race, its mile 8 and a 1 mile subtle incline and invariably accompanied by a strong headwind. This is probably the greatest threat to my “every mile under 9 minute” challenge Armed with the isotonic I surge forward and past the houses that I used to knock on the door during bob a job week, that long discontinued cubbing activity. 

Back in the day there were no concerns about young boys in uniform knocking on strangers’ doors asking for cash to perform chores  and I’m glad to say that nothing especially untoward happened to me. In the unlikely event that this tradition is resurrected, can customers please be aware of the following ground rules;

• ·    It is not child labour, please do not expect your cub to undertake an hours patio weeding in return for a bob, as one nameless resident did a on the left hand side.
• ·    A bag of treacle toffee is no substitute for cash

These memories spurned me on as I fought against the clock. I have a wonderful GPS watch that will provide me with all the data I require  during the run, so if I was so inclined, I could glance down mid mile and see how I was progressing against my target. However in the circumstances I’m pushing as hard as I can – so time measurement at this point would be counter-productive. If I was well within my time than I’d likely slow down, well outside my target and I’d slow down, so its head down and let the injustice of poorly remunerated bob a jobs spur me on.

Bob-a-job lane

The device bleeps, I look down with a sense of trepidation, I know myself well enough that if the clock face stars with a 9, it will be the first in a series, if it’s an 8 then the challenge is all but achieved. 

8:46.8 it is for mile 8, I’m on track, but beginning to feel a little stiff. I’ve never been a great one for stretching, so only have myself to blame. I make a commitment to improve my flexibility, knowing only too well that a couple of yoga classes would likely enhance my performance. My singular experience of an hour of up-dogs, downward dogs and mountain poses had such a beneficial impact on my colon that on my next seated visit to the gents I delivered what could only be described as the most magnificent replica of a sausage dog draught excluder, minus the ears of course.

Past an old school friends house where I remember being dropped off one snowy post party Christmas Eve and left to walk the mile home along what was then, a used railway track. We’d been picked up from a party in Frodsham, her father carefully negotiating the Rover 2600 through the snowy Cheshire countryside aided by a rather natty pair of leather driving gloves that seemed out of place even then. 

I’d specifically requested to be dropped off to give me time to reflect on the events earlier in the evening.  We were probably around 16 at the time, so wonderfully irresponsible even without the inevitable impact of illicitly acquired alcohol.  For reasons I cannot even begin to fathom, someone’s parents had given them permission to throw a house party on Christmas Eve. These were the days before mobile phones or social media, however word spread like butter on hot toast and it appeared like the majority of the school year took the opportunity for the generous offer of hospitality on what was traditionally a night to stay in and watch TV with the parents.

We were not a particularly malicious crowd, however a combination of dry Martini and curiosity deemed that the pile of presents under the Christmas tree required further scrutiny. The contents of some wrapped packages were far more obvious than others, for example if its round, of medium weight and rattles when shook, it’s obviously a tin of Quality Street or is it? There is of course only one way to a definitive answer and once unwrapped it’s only a small step to open and share. A tin of Quality Street can only last so long when passed around 50 party-goers and so the impromptu game of pass the parcel continued. 

I left the room when the conversation went along the lines of;

Party-goer 1 “That’s definitely a kids tricycle”

Party-goer 2 “You know what, I’m not so sure”

If there is one thing that I took from that shameful episode, it was never to allow Katie to have a party on Christmas Eve.

Sharp left onto Chapel Lane and a sly glance to my right where the family dentist used to reside, a man whom is entirely culpable for my mouth resembling a cemetery plot.

500 yards on there is a small dip in the road with a converted Methodist Chapel on the left which for a number of months used to house the short-lived Manley & District Youth Club. 

Attendances rarely exceeded double figures and this included the somewhat naïve co-coordinator who tried desperately hard to respond to malicious “birds and bees” questions that simply grew in volume and awkwardness.

Opposite the Chapel was home of the most pristine lawns that I have ever had the misfortune to mow. The occupiers were friends of my parents and the lady of the house, being a fluent speaker had helped me out with my French lessons. They disappeared off to France every summer for 3 weeks and one time only I was asked to mow the lawns in their absence. 

They were not especially large, 2 terraces around the size of a tennis court, but as immaculate piece of grass you will not find this side of Augusta.

Although I received a full demonstration on how to operate the 2 Atco mowers, my attention span wavered somewhat when it came to height adjustment, blade sharpening and correct mowing pattern in to achieve optimal striping effect.

It would be unfair to say that I destroyed either the lawn or the mower, however those height adjusters are terribly sensitive and with sharp blades it surprisingly easy to remove the top layer of turf. Another tip would be not to engage the cylindrical blades while they are sunk into an inch of gravel unless you are seeking to entertain mice with a scale model trebuchet.

A field and some sky - just beyond the Chapel

We follow a slight incline up toward Manley Old Hall – I’m pretty relaxed at this point because there is a reasonable downhill stretch on the horizon, both that and the fact that I’ll soon pass within spitting distance of my childhood home.

We pass by what was once a mightily impressive abode that has long since been converted into smaller units. At some point in my childhood this was occupied by a couple of siblings roughly the same age as my brother and I. 

My mother always spotted an opportunity for upward social mobility and it was not long before we were welcomed within the social circle. Games of cricket on the lawn and tennis lessons on the immaculate court were often intermingled with lengthy bike rides and also a singular trip to the then newly opened swimming facility at Northgate Arena. 

The swim session passed without incident, however I was somewhat shocked when whilst queuing at the upstairs canteen one of the brothers’ surreptitiously placed a sandwich in the inside pocket of his Herringbone overcoat.  I’m not too sure what surprised me most, this wanton act of theft or the fact that he’d plumped for egg mayonnaise. 

Suffice to stay the story was relayed that night to anxious parents who severed any future contact.

Up and through the rhododendron trees that run both sides of a roadway fashioned out of sandstone. Rumour has it that evil twins had once in the dead of night strung barbed wire across the centre of the road, although almost certainly an urban myth, I always tensed as I crested the top of the hill on my DT50.

After the school bus had dropped us off and I invariably chewed the fat with 3 brothers as we walked the mile or so home. There was invariably horseplay and one day the middle brother grabbed my Adidas satchel and launched it into the rhododendron bushes at the top of this rise. With a choice of physical confrontation or passive aggressive behaviour, I chose the latter and turned up at home with an inability to communicate why my school bag remained in a bush 1 mile up the road. Fortunately my mother was a sole of discretion and we drove back up the road to retrieve the bag. 

I’d hoped that Geoff lay awake all night mulling over the potential consequences of his outlandish behaviour, however the fact that he did the exact same thing next morning suggests this was not the case.

Evil twins playground

Up and onward past the Post Office, a retail mecca for the confectionery enthused child, although not surprisingly now converted into a home, and down the hill taking a sharp right over the top of Manley quarry.

Who bricked over the soap box derby track?

Mile 9 – that is a fairly gentle mile so should be a decent time – uh oh that’s an 8.30 and second slowest so far – reminds self not to day dream too much.

There is a path that leads down to Quarry cottage, home of a school friend, fisherman and confidante. Back then it was a tarmac drive and venue for the one and only Manley soap box derby. Children came from all over the village to participate in what transpired to be a fairly hazardous course and in hindsight the brick wall marking the sharpest corner would have benefited from a more forgiving exterior.    

Manley Quarry, built on a base of salmon paste

Look left as you run across the top of the quarry and you will see a lovely green space and a backdrop of the Cheshire plain, however scratch the surface and you’ll be surprised at what you might find. 

Originally a sandstone quarry the site was acquired in the 1970’s by a landfill operator, much to the consternation of the Manley adult population. 20 tonne lorries rumbled through the village to dump their contents on the site. As if the vehicles were not enough, the contents were even more disturbing and an eclectic mix of hazardous waste and contaminated food stuff. 

Although the noise, smell and danger was no doubt disturbing for the adult population, once the gate man had gone for the night, it was a mecca for the bored children of Manley as we spent hours rummaging through the detritus. 

For a couple of weeks the trucks bought nothing but salmon paste in small glass jars, which initially were smashed against the sandstone walls and making a very satisfactory noise in the process.

The route traverses Quarry Lane and turn right at the triangular T junction where the milkman used to park his truck, slight incline to a couple of blind bends and the scene of the a memorable Mini incident. 

The next door neighbour had upgraded his motorbike to a mini, but still a learner driver. Being a little older, I had already passed my driving test and more than happy to occupy the passenger in my capacity of responsible qualified driver. We were returning from a lunchtime sojourn that had included at pint in the White Lion at Alvanley. We never drove drunk, but a pint and a cigarette was enough for us to relax on the journey home. 

It had snowed and Steve decided that it would be an opportunity to put his winter driving skills to the test. We negotiate the corner a little too swiftly and begin to slide, an over correction of which sends hurtling up the bank, a small correction points the vehicle parallel to the road and we merrily carry on “Italian Job in a sewer” style this for a further 50 yards prior to coming to a halt 15 yards beyond where the milkman used to park his van. 

Last ciggy before home

Crest the mild incline and on the left you will see a perfect view of Stanlow oil refinery and a gate where I used to park my moped to enjoy my last cigarette on the way home from friends’ in Frodsham.. I pass with a wry smile, as I see my former self inhaling deeply on the last hit of the day.

Slight decline around a bad bend where the lady next door met a milk tanker coming the other way, it was a nasty smash and the vehicle was a total write off and the postmistress spent a couple of days in Chester Royal Infirmary. The Austin Princess was recovered and spent the best part of 6 months in next doors driveway – a stark reminder of dangers of the highway.

We the come onto a series of bends, one of which caused the demise of my DT125 acquired from the legendary Dugdale's in Alvanley. I’d been experiencing all manner of problems and the bike had been sent back for repairs.  Its return journey was on the back of an open bed truck, and the individual responsible for ensuring it was attached properly neglected their duty and the bike flew into the hedgerow as the van was corned at excessive speed. 

The driver arrived at our house without realising the bike had flown the nest and it wasn’t until we retraced his steps that we spotted the mangled wreck in the hedgerow. 

Ian Dugdale, the son of the owner was in the year below me at school and raced the in the Isle of Man TT. It was not unusual to see a 14 year old Ian illegally thrashing around the country lanes atop a race tuned Yamaha.

Continue to meander through the lanes,a farm shop used to be on the left hand side and one where I worked for as a teen potato picker. We had to sit on the back of some highly dubious machinery and remove all stones and rotten potatoes from a conveyor belt. The noise, dirt and probability of having a rotten potato launched into your face made this a miserable task and I was soon returned to the safer environment of the fruit farm.

Mile 10 – that felt really tough –wow 8.42 another slow one – I’m definitely tiring. Time to start smiling, I read someone that this helped to actually fool your brain into thinking you were having a good time and to therefore allow your body to continue its current level of exertion. Apparently there is a bit of wiggle room between maximum exertion and death and the brain uses this buffer zone to get you to dial back the effort. I grin inanely and dig in. 

Running distance can be likened in some respects to the ebb and flow of the grieving process, one minute you are on the crest of a wave and the next you come crashing down. Although you are unlikely to hit the dreaded wall whilst covering 13.1 miles, there will be times when you feel great and times when you want to stop, lie down in the middle of the road and cry. 

Logically these emotions should be relatively linear, start off all happy clappy, high fiving the kids lining the route on the first 500 yards of the race and chatting inanely to the runner next to you. It’s not like that though, I can feel dreadful on mile 2 only to experience a totally euphoric mile 7. 

The key in these circumstances is to remember this, as unlikely as you will be unable to maintain to constant endorphin rush, at the same time the lactic burn will not last for ever.

If you look to the right and squint hard, you will see Manley playing fields, the scene of many a triumphant game of headers and volleys and behind that the village hall, scene of the foreskin tearing episode. 

The magnificent Sandstone Trail

Come to the rise and turn left onto Manley Road.Look opposite and you will see a footpath emerging from the hedgerow that forms part of the Sandstone trail. Helsby running club, also organise a Sandstone Trail Challenge, which although fundamentally a long distance walking event also accommodates 100 or so runners. 

I’ve hobbled around it on a couple of occasions with this intersection being around mile 29 of 33. I’m beginning to lag a bit, however I cast my mind back to what I’m feeling like at the spot after 29 miles and lift myself as we go past Ravelstone on our right hand side.

Onward and upward, past Manley school and to the top of Symmonds hill which affords another superb view of both the Cheshire plain and Stanlow refinery. 

Home of the sponsors - from atop Symmonds Hill

It’s a fairly steep run down Symmonds hill, and if you are following the Sandstone trail you peel off at the right – the scene of another motor incident. We had been picked up by the brother of a school friend who was driving the parents bright orange Sunbeam Talbot and approaching this junction from Frodsham. Its effectively a 90 degree turn on an adverse camber, great challenge for a lunatic of a driver with a death wish. 

The majority of us have an in built danger filter and make a conscious decision not to cross it. Unfortunately the chauffeur decide this was the day when he was going to take this T junction at top speed without looking and that is exactly what he did.I can relive the terrifying moment at will, it goes beyond and adrenaline rush, it goes beyond fear and turns into fury. I demanded he stopped at the top of the road and let me walk the remaining 2 miles home.

Mile 11 – 8.20 – that’s better – 2 more to go and my internal mantra starts “empty the tank, empty the tank” as I push myself to cross the finish line on empty

It's key to carry the momentum from the downhill stretch, and before you reach Alvanley you turn left to join that wonderful downhill stretch that is Towers lane.

Pavlovian response to road sign

My body has a Pavlovian repose to this road sign as shoulders drop and stride lengthens

Towers Lane - the runners gift that keeps on giving 

Mile 12 pings in at 7.46 mm, it was downhill, but even so, not bad for this stage of the race and I’m actually feeling fine. 

I had been nursing an Achilles tweak and also a history of badly sprained calves, which generally meant a month to six weeks of rest, during which time I would invariably redirect my focus into consuming fatty food washed down with strong continental lager. If there is one thing that injuries teach you is to be grateful for the moments when you are not impeded.

Over the railway bridge – another smokers paradise, used to pull up here on my weekly commute to buy 20 Peter Stuyvesant at the garage. It’s a decent secluded spot with a nice view over the manicured landscape that is Helsby golf course.

The last mile is always a mix of emotions, according to my race plan it should be the fastest of the race and on that basis its going to hurt, the end is also in sight so that’s a blessed relief. On the basis that mile 12 was quick, then all I need to do is maintain the momentum and in order to do that I need to eradicate any thoughts of anything and just focus on emptying the tank. My technique here is pretty simple in the sense that I have to summon up the image of a piece of blank, white paper.

Although my eyes are open, my focus is entirely upon conjuring up that image and keeping it in focus. The watch beeps to signify mile 13, but I don’t bother looking as the result is irrelevant. By the time I achieved this stage I can see the finishing line at the entrance to Horn’s Mill Primary school.

I spy a runner 20 yards ahead and launch myself like a tardy heat seeking Exocet missile with a view of running straight through them, fortunately they appear to have had a similar idea and I fail to hit that particular target, however as I cross the Asics branded finish line stop my watch – look down and see 1h:48m:21s – job done.

They think its all over

The race has always been internal for me, invariably more people finish before than behind me, however I’m always delighted when time goals have been achieved and today is one of those days. 

We are channeled through the muddy finish area and presented with a medal and goody bag.

I make my way back to the social cub to meet up with the bedraggled support team and reflect upon how fortunate I am that the lovely people of Helsby Running club and the multiple volunteers donate their time to raise money for local charities whilst enabling me to indulge in 13.1m miles of physically induced nostalgia.

The route - resembling a badly drawn crow

The stats - resembling a badly drawn athlete