North Wales... Flatter than Peterborough.

Are you keeping up? I did say quite early on that I needed to train in order to keep up with my hectic lifestyle. Well, I had a choice about whether I returned home from Bristol yesterday, or whether I came directly up to my next destination. It seemed to me that I was making a 4+hour journey for one reason only, and that was a furry one. Several people have said I shouldn't let a cat dictate my life, so I decided to entreat upon Maggie and Graham to look after the beast for a bit longer, which they very kindly agreed to do. (If I ever move house, they will probably be able to sue for joint custody, although this is largely making massive assumptions that they might want it. I'm thinking Maggie might try it just to stop me from leaving though, but it would be a big risk - she might win.). So instead of taking a train for 4.5 hours yesterday and a lift to North Wales this afternoon for what turned out to be 5.75 hours, I took a train from Bristol to North Wales this morning. It was a productive move, I worked out of another office this afternoon and had a good discussion with colleagues, which was really useful. Also, much more restful than the extra journey-age. I got a lift across to the hotel, which is close to Chirk. In case you don't know Chirk, there is a massive aqueduct (or "aquaduct" as the Welsh say) running from one side of the valley to the other. This implies that there is also a massive hill, although as we are speaking about North Wales, you probably didn't need this pointing out. As Pauline drove up the hill (her car engine only straining slightly) I debated where on earth I was going to run that wouldn't actually kill me. "The tow-path" said Pauline immediately, leading me to realise that I'd spoken outloud. Now, this was talking my language. The hotel was right on the canal edge, and I had a choice of running to Llangollen or back into Chirk, which would take me across the aqueduct, which I'd previously only seen from afar. I chose Chirk, because Llangollen is about 8 miles away, and I wasn't intending on running that long - and it's kind of satisfying to reach somewhere.

This was something of a dilemma, nonetheless - Sally told me yesterday night on Facebook that she would do a plan for me, and my next run was on Tuesday. I said Tuesday was something of an impossibility because I had a full day's meeting and then a long drive home from North Wales, and suggested switching to Monday. She said "No, cancel the meeting", which I took to be light-hearted facebook banter, so I ignored it. However, that meant I also had to take a punt on what she would ask me to do. Given the lack of proper hills on the tow path, I opted for "50 minute conversational run" which I decided to do without the medium of conversation, now I'm experienced. And had no one to talk to. Helpfully, it was the sort of balmy summers' evening that frankly, you don't expect from North Wales, and the tow path was very pretty. I set off aiming to do a nice steady 10:30 minute mile, although I marred my average speed a bit by pausing to take photos. There were quite a few joggers along the tow path, and the North Wales joggers appear to be quite a friendly bunch.

When I reached the aqueduct, however, it wasn't so much friendly joggers as friendly site-seers. The tow path (and the canal) was at its narrowest, for obvious reasons (to architects/structural engineers). Sadly, said architects didn't think to put in any handy "pass places" so the people who insisted on bunching together to take their photos were something of a problem. The pace was noticeably slower over the bridge, anyway! Anyway, I made it, and carried on along the canal, past various narrow boats going the other way, until I reached my 30 minute mark, and then (rather to the surprise of some dog walkers who I'd passed 30 seconds before) I turned around and headed back. This did afford me a good view of the aqueduct from a distance, so here it is. Although when I say "from a distance"... I don't have a zoom on the camera, even after "cropping". I've kept this picture "medium size" so you stand a better chance of actually seeing the aqueduct.

Then I saw something that made me do a double take. And stop. At a guess, only my family and childhood friends would be able to identify why. 

I stopped. "I used to have one of those!" I called out. "A schipperke?" the owner said, not quite believing me. "Yes!" I said excitedly (it's pronounced skipper-key). This is proof I used to have one. If you say the word "schipperke", especially to someone who purports to know about dogs, they will say "A what?". It's the rule. I used to say it for them. "He's a schipperke. A what? A schipperke," I'd say, facetiously. There is (or used to be) only about 100 in the country. I don't think my parents had any idea how unusual a breed they had picked (largely because of its diminutive size and character trait of not being too moulty) out of the dog book I bought from my school bookclub when I was 9. I not only had to stop my run, I had to go back and cross the bridge, to get a photo in. Well of course, as all dog owners are, I immediately got a huge amount of facts about the little Schipperke. She's 13 years old, and never had her tail docked, as the breed used to require, even before the recent law was passed that stopped this. She's not very friendly, which the owner encouraged because of fear the dog might be lifted (my dog got pinched once, but I didn't tell them). "And it's even on a canal!" they said excitedly. They were right (obviously). The relevance being that the schipperke is a Belgium barge dog, specifically a ratter. They made a non-commital noise that suggested they didn't think that their dog would have made a good barge dog, but I know where they were going. The dog almost certainly didn't like water. My dog was terrified of water. But think on - would you want a retriever on a boat? It would be in the water more times than it was out, and on a canal, you're not going to want to be fishing a dog out (because of both the steep sides and the smell of the water). So it makes perfect sense to me that the schipperke doesn't like water. Having said that, my dog also never caught a rat, although he was very proficient at catching a sock on a piece of string. Other evidence would suggest that he'd have let an actual rat go, he was a bit soft-hearted. He often barked at birds that he would have otherwise caught, had he not alerted them to his presence. But you know, dogs: they take after their owners.

Fortunately the conversation didn't take as long to have as it did for me to reminisce about. And from then on, I was able to maintain a nice steady pace, which I aimed to keep at around or just under a 10 minute mile, with the exception of across the aqueduct. As I passed the end of the aqueduct, I noticed a pathway running just below it that would take me back to my original tow path, without my having to run across a carpark and road bridge, which I thought would be a good idea. I didn't take into account that "beneath the aqueduct" would mean that I had to run down, and then back up, a hill. This, needless to say, almost killed me. When I was able to focus again, I glanced at the garmin, which said my heart rate was 180. I think this was higher than when I did my Fartlek things. In fact, I only discovered when I got home, that I maxed out at 190. I have no idea when that was. I tried, valiantly, to maintain my 9 and a half minute mile, for the rest of the run home, which was just under 2 miles from that point. It was a struggle. My heartrate settled at 176. I was also determined to finish on a fast (even though I was already going quite a bit faster than usual). So when I saw what I believed to be a familiar bridge, I increased the speed. I maintained it for two bridges, at which point I thought I was going to die. But I remembered Dave encouraging me on my fast bits, and my brain argued convincingly that if I ran faster, I would get back faster, so I tried. I think I was going at about 7 and a half minute miles. My right lung hurt. My breathing was difficult, but not actual stitches. And then I remembered a particularly random recollection, which was from (I think) my brother's "MAD magazine" books. He had "the mad book of magic" which had the following conundrum in. "Imagine you are in a room with no windows and no doors. You have no tools or other implements with you. The walls, floor and ceiling are made of an unbreakable material. How do you get out?". And I could see my bridge, where I knew I could stop, and it wasn't even very far away. But I stopped: it was the logical thing to do. I didn't feel bad. I'd run over 50 minutes, and I think I did pretty well.

In conclusion, perhaps North Wales isn't flatter than Peterborough. Especially if you leave the tow path.