Linda's write track

After Newton

2010-10-18T02:28:00.000-07:00

I just write a sentence while a whole dictionary of words and myriad of ideas stretches out ahead of me.

Cold and damp

2009-12-20T08:13:00.001-08:00

Viking, Forties, Cromarty

SW 6 to gale 8, light showers

Cold and damp – like the socks found in trainers after cross-country run

Forth, Tyne, Dogger, Fisher

W Gale 8, rain at first

Cold and damp, like Sunday’s muddy football boots left by the door

German Bight, Humber, Thames

NW Severe gale 9, squally showers

Cold and damp – like Tuesday’s rugby kit dropped in the hall

Dover, Wight

NW Storm 10 later, rain

Cold and damp – like Monday’ swimming trunks forgotten in the car

Portland, Plymouth, Biscay

N 6, drizzle

Cold and damp – like the stack of waterproofs hanging by their hoods

Sole, Lundy, Fastnet

W 5, light showers

Cold and damp - like the grubby golf towel clipped to the bag

SE Iceland

W 2, sunshine, clear

Warm and dry – like all the clean kit ready for next week

BBC My Story

2009-12-20T08:00:00.000-08:00

I have entered the BBC's My Story competition with "Running High"

Laptop cat

2009-10-03T09:21:00.000-07:00

I’m sad and lapless. There’s twittering not purring, and friends are on facebook. Please tell them laps are for cats not laptops.

Sounds, smells, subways and statues - the 2nd City of London Race

2009-10-03T09:17:00.000-07:00

Looking down from St Paul’s they could see matchstick men in purple and green in Paternoster Square. Looking up we could see the sun glinting gold on the top of the Portland stone column in the square. There was a shepherd and his sheep by the start.

It was surreal to be running around a city closed for the weekend but bustling with festival atmosphere and surprised tourists. We went south towards the river, avoiding an unexpected crane and the out of bounds “survivors will be disqualified” dual carriageway. Down towards the wibbly-wobbly bridge past clattering skateboarders. Along the river bank and a chance to take in quick glimpses of boats dressed overall for the Thames festival. Then slightly puzzled by going up steps to a control at an underpass junction. But this was barely a warm up for the level challenges to come.

Out onto a street to be buffeted by clown-clad revellers with party blowers and jangled by pneumatic drills. Through metal gates into another world - and the tranquillity of the Inner Temple. Dodging slow drifts of students doing a treasure hunt. Back out to labyrinth-like passageways with geometrical courtyards. This is how I remember last year and this is fun!

But here comes the Barbican. A total of five different levels apparently. Going up to get down via disinfectant-smelling stairways. Footsteps pounding out loud as we ran over a metal grating to reach a stretch of the London Wall - did the Romans really build that bit? Notice the planner standing here, maybe watching for transgressors. Up and up steps I’d just descended to get across a walkway, bemusing people hanging around chatting; later I found out you could get through by going under. Past some amazing architecture in this shiny, angled landscape. Was beeped at by a bike, and helped and heckled by builders: “they went that way, love!” Got dizzy running around the round Museum of London but escaped and found my way to the Old Bailey.

I like this sort of puzzle. Whilst I miss the smell of conifers and the texture of the forest, there are no depressing depressions or tricky pits. This is a landscape of glass and stone with elegant sweeping steps and stunning statues. I’ve learnt to spot the steps and subways, now I must judge when to go up and when to go round!

The smell in the city has become curry and coffee and the final few short legs seemed to have more uncrossable barriers than ever to test our weary brains. At last two mirrored statues have the final control sandwiched between them. After the finish, we sit and reflect by the cool water trickling down the Paternoster Square column. The sheep and the shepherd haven’t moved – they’re made of bronze.

Cathedrals and Galleons

2009-09-08T09:17:00.001-07:00

Suzie and 6-year old Will are pedalling around N America by now. This piece is about Suzie's momentous decision to sell everything and travel.
http://lindastories.wordpress.com/2009/09/08/cathedrals-and-galleons/

Fib poems

2009-09-04T14:47:00.000-07:00

High
Dry
mountains
but monsoon
in India as
air climbs over Himalayas

Dull
Green
Hairy
Ovoid shaped
Cut in half its art
What is it? It’s a Kiwi fruit

Too
Short.
Can’t see
Performance,
so watch instead tall
lady’s phone as she records it

The salt marsh feast

2009-08-16T08:54:00.000-07:00

Across the salt-marsh, waves of golden reeds rise and dip in the breeze.
Packed densely as a farmer’s field of wheat, the reeds bear bountiful seeds.
Insects come in abundance and feast upon these reed seeds.
Rare and beautiful birds fly in to feed upon the insect feast.
And preying on these birds, long-lensed cameras ready to shoot,
Green-booted, flat-capped, tweedy, twitchers feast only their eyes.

Vicious Sid's Revenge

2009-07-11T03:04:00.000-07:00

See my stories blog for a new fairy story http://lindastories.wordpress.com/2009/07/11/the-cat-had-it-coming/

Do you remember?

2009-07-11T02:40:00.000-07:00

Mum, do you remember that pink alpine?
The one you gave me years ago
What alpine dear?

It’s OK Mum, it’s still alive
I found a root clinging on to life
The one with tiny pink flowers
Do you remember?
It made a healthy clump in our last garden
I dug it up and moved it with us
Whenever I saw it I thought of you

It’s OK mum, you’ll be fine
Parkinson’s, he said, remember?
You shuffle with uneasy steps
You hold your own hand to stop it trembling
The hands on the clock no longer tell you the time

I’d forgotten about that pink alpine
I planted it amidst the shrubs and neglected it
The shrubs grew strong and smothered it
But just the other day, while pruning back, I spotted it
A bare little root and a few leaves
I moved it to a sunny spot and now it’s grown some flowers again
Whenever I see it I think of you

Is it OK mum?
Are you settled where you want to be, so far away?
Your sheltered flat, nice ladies,
daily lunches, shared jig saw puzzles
No need to walk far

Its thriving now
I’ll keep an eye on it and keep it safe
Whenever I see it I think of you

Runners in the sun

2009-07-03T13:09:00.000-07:00

My 100 word "nano fiction" is to be published by Leaf books!
See story here: http://lindastories.wordpress.com/2009/01/20/runners-in-the-sun/

Bluebells

2009-06-04T13:43:00.000-07:00

I meandered happily on my way
to Grasmere via Loughrigg Fell
When all at once I spied a haze,
a purple peal of spring bluebells,
ringing in peace in the morning breeze
near the rocky path along the fell

Blue heads bobbing, clappers mute,
en masse an iridescent violet hue,
amidst the brown unfurling whorls
of knee-high bracken’s baby fronds
A purple peal of spring bluebells
Seen from the path on Loughrigg fell

Laid out below is Grasmere Water -
a jig-saw vista in green and blue
Beyond the bluebells’ violet hue
A swimmer stroked from shore to shore
a doggie paddled paw by paw
The terrace view half down the fell

The route zig-zagged down through the woods
It was cooler, darker, but the silver shine
of mirrored waves danced through the trees
as Grasmere water’s kissed by the breeze
which wafted wild garlic - repulsive smell
as I followed the path at the foot of the fell

Beside the lake, I saw the road
bringing tourists in by the coach load,
to visit William Wordsworth’s home
My purple peal of spring bluebells
tolled out in silence from the fell
and asked “Where are all the daffodils?”

Would like to meet...

2009-03-25T16:12:00.000-07:00

A cut-up from real postings:
Petite charming blonde likes food, with cute self baggage, into country age, blue swimming and spiritual shopping seeks tall, classical latin partner for earth fire, dark films and ends away!

Guildford Castle

2009-03-25T16:05:00.000-07:00

Where moss grows memory lingers
We used to come here and play hide and seek
But now the keep fence, like gappy teeth
Seems quite insubstantial given the drop

Crisp-edged beds with floppy pansies
Perfect primulas with kale-like leaves
Cat-kin droopy blooms sway on the breeze
Like tassels on a dancer’s dress

The old castle walls tell a geological story
A school photo of flints all lined in rows
These tough stones standing up to a world
That has worn away the soft white chalk

Quotes by Isaac Newton

2009-03-01T11:49:00.000-08:00

"I am only a child playing on the beach, while vast oceans of truth lie undiscovered before me."

"Tact is the knack of making a point without making an enemy."

"Men build too many walls and not enough bridges. "

"If I have been able to see further, it was only because I stood on the shoulders of giants."

Sad Rock Villanelle

2009-03-01T11:24:00.000-08:00

I look at you but in your eyes I see my dad
As you play your guitar in front of this crowd
I watch you play and I feel pleased but sad

I look at you but in your face I see your granddad
As your fingers pick the lead fast and loud
I look at you but in your eyes I see my dad

The bass player’s dull, the drummer’s mad
Your fast-fingered solo captivates the crowd
I watch you play and I feel pleased but sad

He played and wrote songs too, did dad
If he could see you he’d be so proud
I look at you but in your eyes I see my dad

You are so confident, any mum would feel glad
Even if my insides vibrate as it’s so loud!
I watch you play and I feel pleased but sad

My tears are not for you - don’t feel bad
Its dark, I’ll lose myself here in the crowd
I look at you but in your eyes I see my dad
I watch you play and I feel pleased but sad

Snow Sestina

2009-02-24T13:35:00.000-08:00

Introduction: This is a form in which the end words in each line form a sytematic pattern for each verse - see Wikipedia.

Overnight the north wind changed our world to white
No buses, no bin men, no cars on the road
Its 12 inches thick this beautiful snow
It covers roofs, roads and trees it’s a tranquil scene
Life has ground to a halt – there is even no school
Let’s go for a walk and take some photos

The BBC received a record numbers of photos
As we show off our beautiful world in white
Kids go sledging, more fun than school
Feet make a channel as they trudge down the road
The downs are transformed into an alpine scene
They are even skiing and snowboarding in the freak fall of snow

Its 18 years since we’ve had this much snow
The snow on the Acer makes a stunning photo
Wherever you look it’s a Christmas card scene
With buildings and landscape all iced in white
A snow plough made waves of snow by our road
Day two, minus six and there’s still no school

Free from homework, routine and school
They spend all day sledging in the snow
Then trudge wearily back down the road
A press photographer was on the slopes taking photos
To be a centrefold in black and white
Hats, scarves and sledges in a Dickensian Scene

Stoke Park is a weird Arctic scene
Kids have been building instead of going to school
They've made igloos and candle-lit towers of white
Fantastic constructions just made out of snow
My desktop is now my best snow photo
Traffic is starting to creep along the road

Wet boots, soggy clothes as they return down our road
The laundry room is a depressing scene
Piles of washing - not a pretty photo
I think they’re ready to return to school
They’re beginning to tire of playing in the snow
Getting cold and hungry - pinched faces all white

Relief - we have reached the end of the white road
Our snow scene is washing away in the rain
School is open and sledging photos are in local paper

Poem commended

2009-02-04T13:42:00.000-08:00

Just heard today that my poem Sad Rock http://write-track.blogspot.com/2008/12/sad-rock.html has been commended by Writers' Forum Magazine and I will be named in the April issue. How exciting for my first competiton entry!

Porridge, pancakes and packed lunches

2009-02-01T14:15:00.000-08:00

It’s 7.00 o’clock in the morning
And outside it’s still very dark
It’s just a normal school day
So get up, get dressed and start

“Hello cat, you’re next I promise”
Boys’ breakfasts first then you
Put a large pan full of porridge
On the gas to start heating through

Begin to empty the dishwasher
The bottom rack of pans and plates
Stir porridge; get juice, “Meeeow”
“Oh cat, I’m sorry you’ll just have to wait”

Dish up and shout “porridge is ready”
Get out scales to weigh food for the cat
Such a pain to be measuring his rations
But the vet said “this cat’s getting fat”

Back to dishwasher, start on the cutlery
When the bread maker sounds a beep beep
Mmm the smell of fresh bread is delicious
All done automatically while we’re asleep

Take out loaf, now it’s time for the pancakes
Whisk up flour, eggs and milk in a jug
While the batter cooks on the first side
Return to dishwasher – bowls, glasses and mugs

The pancake is sizzling nicely
Toss it? I’m just not that brave!
I flip it with the aid of a spatula
And flop it out on a plate

Take a deep breath of fresh morning air
As I lob bottles and tins into crates
I’m fanatical about the recycling
I hope the neighbours are already awake!

Fill sink to wash up lunch boxes
No one remembers the day before
Attack fresh bread with electric carver
No mere knife, it’s my kitchen chain saw

“Where’s my tie?” “Where you left it.”
“PE kit?" "Airing cupboard - it’s clean”
Leave the boys to make their own lunches
Back outside to empty compost bin

Take off lid and chuck in the peelings
See the level's gone down quite a lot
It’s clever how those worms, bugs and beasties
Turn our waste into dark dry compost

Back in doors I sign papers and planners
Say goodbye to the boys as they go
It feels like ten but its only 8.20
And the rest of the day is my own!

Big boats in small harbours

2009-01-26T15:10:00.000-08:00

Alfred Wallis the famous painter was born in 1855
Went to sea in a Devonport schooner as a boy aged only nine

When 20 he married an older widow and moved to St Ives
They had and lost 2 children and he loved her till she died

Sad and lonely at 70, he started painting for company
Using half empty tins of boat paint he captured the mood of the sea

Big boats in small harbours the perspective is rather strange
But the sails and ropes and boat parts are accurately portrayed

Sold his pictures wrapped in newsprint for shillings while alive
It was Wallis who started a trend for artists to move to St Ives

Now his pictures are really trendy and are exhibited in the Tate
They’ve put “Alfred Wallis Artist and Mariner “in tiles on his grave

Haiku poem

2009-01-26T14:57:00.000-08:00

The storm felled trees in
Ninteen eighty seven, now
wood turners make bowls

2009-01-25T14:12:00.000-08:00

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=178023
Seamus Heaney's Glanmore Sonnets - VII about the shipping forecast is particularly good.

Haiku poems

2009-01-25T13:57:00.000-08:00

Greensand ridge, tall trees
Straight trunks, high branches, pine smell
Sun beams strike the ground

More fibs

2009-01-02T14:05:00.000-08:00

Boys
Walk
To school
But today
Big load so drove them.
Selfish drivers, bad parking, grrr!
.............................................................

Inspired by teaching sport to 9 year olds:
“Its
naff.
Don’t want
to join in.”
“Here, shall I show you?”
“Cool, can I do it again now?”

Fib poems

2009-01-01T09:17:00.000-08:00

Dull
Green
Hairy
Ovoid shaped
Cut in half its art
What is it? It’s a Kiwi fruit
..............................................

Marsh
Reeds
Reeds' seeds
Insects eat reed seeds
Rare birds eat insects: Twitchers watch
.............................................

High
Dry
Tibet
All the rain -
India’s monsoon:
The Himalayas are a pain

Runners in the sun

2009-01-01T08:55:00.001-08:00

Apart from the distant clatter of a train, the only sound is the breeze in the trees and my running footsteps. I’ve left behind the muted light and pleasant musty smell of the woodland track and, as I leap down from the stile into the open field, I’m startled by intense light as if emerging from a cinema in mid-afternoon. Out in the sun, I see a tall, lean runner keeping pace with me. She’s wearing exactly the same clothes but I’m envious of how tall and lean she looks stretched out on the ground in front of me.

Santa's Slip

2008-12-21T08:50:00.000-08:00

A huge bumpy bulging Christmas stocking awaited two year old Luke on Christmas morning. Installing himself in the middle of his parents’ bed, he ripped open the wrappings with glee while they watched with expressions of adoring satisfaction.

Later that day, at Grandma’s house, Luke excitedly told his big cousin, Matt, about his haul. “So what did your mum and dad give you?” enquired Matt amazed. “Nothing” was the matter-of-fact reply. Overhearing this, Luke's naive parents felt as dismissed as a Christmas tree on twelfth night, but consoled themselves that they were no longer Santa virgins.

Sad Rock

2008-12-20T08:13:00.000-08:00

On stage you’re cool.
I’m proud but sad
I look at you
but see my dad

He died too young
Four times your age
Played drums, wrote songs
Enjoyed the stage

Your solo’s great
I watch you play
He would’ve loved
to see today

And see his grandson
play like a pro
You never met him
You’ll never know

A life in the year of a tree

2008-12-16T06:19:00.000-08:00

Think its hard to write a short story? Try writing one in 100 words!
http://leafbooks.co.uk/New/For%20Writers/CurrentCompetitions.html#Nano

A life in the year of a tree

The leaf buds were bursting on the knobbly old oak tree as I opened the card: “Congratulations, from proud new grandparents.”

Phew it was hot in the summer - we lived outside under the tree. Painting "my family" smudgy pictures in the dappled shade.

Friends helped sweep leaves. Bonfire and fireworks, soup and toffee; last sleepover outside: “Adults keep out”. You came inside when it got too chilly!

A ring tone jarred as snow settled silently on the branches, and smouldering logs filled the house with a sweet smoky smell. “Hi mum, b home from uni b4 xmas eve, lol.”

Fibonacci Poems

2008-12-16T05:58:00.000-08:00

What they lack in rhythm, they make up for in a mathematical pattern that has intrigued me since I found out about Fibonacci numbers occurring in sunflowers and trees and leaves and pine cones.

The search for the golden fib:

http://www.londonwordfestival.com/?page_id=283

Here's mine:

I
Love
My cat
Shiny eyes
Fight scarred frayed right ear
And tail that tells me what he wants

Hyperfiction

2008-12-16T05:47:00.000-08:00

Read about these on cybermuse and have been fascinated. Find out about them at www.short-stories.co.uk

Link to my hyperstory will follow shortly.

oxymoron

2008-12-01T11:27:00.000-08:00

I like this word; A non-running colleague said she thought "Fun run" was an oxymoron. Today I heard on the news that Barack Obama is appointing a "team of rivals" which struck me as being oxymoronic. Have you got any good examples to leave in comments?

Blood and Ice

2008-11-30T13:05:00.000-08:00

Read my story "Blood and Ice" at:
http://lindasshortstories.blogspot.com/

Extract – Life’s compost heap

2008-11-23T14:49:00.000-08:00

Looking around the garden one last time, Rosie hesitated by one specific tree that carried very poignant memories. The weeping cherry tree. Still quite a small tree even though it must be about 20 years old. “Well, Emma’s 19 and it was 2 years before she was born so it’s exactly 21 years ago that we planted it” she calculated out loud. Every spring the elegant drooping branches cascaded pink blossom. A momento of a life that might have been. The first anniversary, when the tree was a mere stick, the buds bursting in April was a painful reminder of the baby that Rosie miscarried. But over the seasons as the tree had grown and family life had become so hectic there has been little time to dwell. All the same, Rosie now felt a touch of sadness, and she hoped that the new tenants would treat this special tree with respect.

It was as if the painful feelings of losing her first baby had faded away over the years and become a part of what made Rosie the person she was now. As if all the things that happen to you in your life compost away in your head breaking down into nutrients that fuel new growth and confidence. As if the tough experiences we face become the egg shells and mango stones of our mental compost heap. These take the longest to decompose but eventually they produce a rich mulch when they’re mixed with the more mundane grass clippings and potato peelings of everyday life.

The wheels on the bus stay still

2008-11-23T03:58:00.000-08:00

The atmosphere in the car was tense. Tommy, aged 2, was screaming; his chubby cheeks flushed with overheating and over-tiredness. Anchored in his car seat, the straps on his pastel checked dungarees were twisting out of place over his grubby white t-shirt as he tried to wriggle himself into a comfortable sleeping position. Felix was enduring this ear-piercing noise but I could see he was irritable and bored and his patience would soon run out. In the front, Grandma still looking immaculate, blouse and skirt clean and uncrumpled despite the exertions of an afternoon shopping with her grandchildren, was anxiously twirling her wedding ring round her finger.

I had just negotiated 13 clockwise down ramps to exit the multi-storey car park in my husband’s large left-hand drive car, experiencing the sensation of dropping over a blind summit at each one. The relief and tranquil river view as I drove over Kingston Bridge was short-lived - now quashed as I turned left at the roundabout and hit the back of a traffic jam. A large red bus in front obscured my view but I suspected the worst.

“Let’s listen to this CD” sooths grandma, recognising our Chansons Maternelle as a favourite, but not even attempting to pronounce the French name. Result! Within seconds of the disc gliding into the state of the art audio system and the familiar notes beginning to dance round the car, the screaming stopped and grandma’s hands relaxed and rested calmly in her lap. I glance in my rear-view mirror; Tommy looks so beautiful when his intricately detailed lips are still and his long lashes are shut. Felix, being very grown up on his booster seat, starting singing along in fluent French. His eyes - as blue as his T-shirt - were twinkling, revealing how he so enjoyed a stimulating challenge to occupy his busy brain. “Is that big red bus in front the one in the wheels on the bus, mummy?” he asked in a gap between tracks.

Visiting Kingston, with its shops full of English books and games was a real treat for us. Living in mainland Europe, our children were deprived of the Early Learning Centre. Our continental term times meant that we could come and stay with family in early July before the English schools broke up and have the opportunity to do kids things without the crowds. Hence the trip to Kingston.

After a long afternoon in the Bentall Centre with 2 excited children and their grandma to supervise, I was sticky, thirsty and very weary. But if the rest of the occupants of this car were calm and quiet I was quite prepared to sit in the queue and nudge slowly back to grandma’s house the other side of Hampton Court. I didn’t even mind that Tommy’s nap would cause him to be awake late into the evening; that was a tiny price to pay for peace now!

In a flash of a radio signal, our charming, calming chansons cease and are replaced by talking voices. An indignant yell from Felix causes his brother to open his eyes and stretch in an ominous preparation for awakening. The prospect of returning to a noisy, awake toddler, a frustrated little boy and a stressed grandma focuses my attention instantly. I stab, frantically but randomly at the flight-console of radio buttons in a futile attempt to bring back our music.

“…… and for cars on the A208 near Kingston warnings of long queues caused by visitors leaving the Hampton Court Flower Show. That’s the only traffic warning for …. ”. Then, as abruptly and automatically as it had started, the message ceased and our music returned in mid-song. Our tranquillity interrupted by technology – assaulting me with the news of the traffic jam in which we are currently trapped.

To my enormous relief Tommy stretches, sighs, turns his head revealing a clammy red patch where he has been resting, and closes his eyes again. I lean back in my seat, bracing myself for the long wait and as I look up, the sign on the bus in front reads “Private Hire; Flower Show Special”!

Gee, can I take a look at your map?

2008-11-11T11:06:00.000-08:00

Weary, struggling to find my route, and having been running for over an hour and a half, I’ll admit I was plodding so maybe she didn’t guess. But I was very taken aback when I was approached by a lady seeking to borrow my map to find her way back to the car park at Waggoner’s Wells, a very scenic open area near the Devil’s Punchbowl. On this autumnal Sunday, it was a location popular with walkers and dog walkers as well as us runners. “I’m sorry”, I puffed, “I’m in a running race, can’t stop”. “Is this the way to ….?” the plump American lady with small dog persisted. “I’ve no idea.” I shrugged. I was pretty sure her destination wasn’t on my map and I didn’t want to unfold it to look. So while dodging a big puddle so as not to splash her with mud, I suggested she ask some of the walkers ahead. In the unlikely event that this should happen to me again, I will just show the walker my map and let them realize how little sense it makes the first time you see an orienteering map!

Crossing the stile - Exercise for the mind

2008-11-11T11:02:00.000-08:00

I’m leaving behind the muted light and pleasant musty smell of decaying leaves. Stepping up from the soft woodland track, the weathered tread of the stile feels firm under my foot. Jumping down into the open field I’m startled by intense light as if emerging from a cinema in mid-afternoon. However many times I cross this stile, located at the boundary of a farming estate and the woods, I am still taken aback by the contrast in landscape.

My running route is clearly mapped out ahead of me – a well worn track across the grassy field. I glance around, as my eyes adjust to the light. Will the cows be here today? Eying me suspiciously and then backing away as I approach. No. They must be in a distant part of the farm today but watch out for the cow pats, especially the fresh ones!

Out in the open sun, I see a tall lean runner keeping in pace with me. She’s wearing exactly the same clothes but I’m envious of how tall and lean she looks stretched out on the ground in front of me.

Ahead of me now the mature trees stand majestically guarding the field boundary. “Global warming is causing UK trees to produce autumnal colours rivalling those of New England”, says the Tree Council Charity, causing “the most spectacular leaf displays ever here in the South”. Seeing the paint-chart array of greens interspersed with vibrant cranberry and mango shades around me, I am inclined to agree.

Apart from a distant clatter of a train, the only sound is the breeze in the trees. My mind wanders. I hear a stampede of footsteps. Hundreds of runners, their trainers trampling the long grass into a channel, churning the muddy puddles into thick brown custard. I can hear their laboured breaths as they push up the hill. I recall the one day of the year when the estate is open for our local charity run. I’ve seen the photos of competitors five abreast, just where I am now.

The sunshine and shadows today are so different to last week. The trees loomed, monochrome, and the grass was soggy underfoot. Returning from my run, my shoes were muddy and the stile was shiny with damp moss. I climbed cautiously, wary of slipping – imagining the local paper headline “runner found dead by stile”: SOCO found hair fragments on post… head injury….coroner concluded....accidental death….found several hours later by shocked lady dog-walker.

Sometimes when I go for a run, I think my imagination gets a better workout than my legs!

Running in pyjamas

2008-11-09T14:46:00.000-08:00

We watched, puzzled, as our friends produced a roll of sticky-backed plastic and covered our control descriptions to stop them disintegrating in the pouring rain. It was February 2007, the LOK regional event at Holmbury Hill but we didn’t know any of this at the time as it was our first try at orienteering. Our friends from SLOW had great faith in us: they lent us compasses and gave us a quick initiation around a white course where they showed us how to hold the strangely-coloured map. Empowered with the information that a rhododendron was called a thicket, we then set off on the orange course. After my first few controls, and a couple of 1800 errors, I was relieved to bump into my 13 (at the time) year old son, who was also finding it quite a challenge. Between us we worked out where we were and decided to stick together.

We ran, we scrambled, we puzzled and we searched and I experienced unbelievable triumphs at finding the orange and white markers! The words on our control descriptions – washing away despite the plastic – were not a lot of help:
“What on earth is a ride?”
“I’ve no idea – do you know what a re-entrant is?”
We ambitiously headed directly from one control to the next not realising that a more cautious route via paths was the normal way for beginners on an orange. Totally focused on the route to the next control I was unaware of the time I had been running or the torrential conditions and so it was a bit alarming to meet someone collecting in controls. He helped us locate our earthwall and reassured us that our course was still set and that we wouldn’t be left here all on our own.

After our taster in such appalling conditions you might be surprised that we ever went orienteering again! I wasn’t free for a while as I was race director for a local running race. But, a couple of months later, the same friends took us to a SLOW event in the sunshine on Wimbledon common. This time, my son and I worked as a team from the start, and we finished in 3rd place and were hooked. The next event we stumbled upon thanks to my husband spotting a poster while playing pitch and putt at Frimley Lodge Park. It was the SN “come and try it”. We came, we tried it and we decided this was the sport for us – only to discover that it all seemed to stop for the summer. But we left clutching details of the Saturday league starting in September.

In the last year we have been to locals, regionals, the Compass Sport Cup and the JK. I now know how to find out about events – although actually locating them in a field is sometimes another matter! As a late starter to your sport I have to say that I have found it hard on the TD5 courses competing in my age group class – I prefer to choose a light green if I can. The progression for youngsters through longer and more technical courses is ideal but if you start at my age you are in at the deep end!

My next step, as a relative newcomer to orienteering is an unlikely one. This summer I took a level 1 and 2 coaching course and I am organising introductory primary school orienteering sessions – gym and school field activities. The reason: because I think that the sport makes running interesting for young children. Having helped organise all sorts of running-sports events, cross-country races, triathlons, the Surrey Youth Games and set up a local charity run, I want to do things that inspire young children to run. I am really glad I discovered orienteering and I think the sport has huge potential – although I don’t yet understand why everyone wears such odd clothes!