104

days to Athletics Varsity

Summer Training Camp: 17th-23rd September 2006

By Owain Bristow

That's right, it's that the time of year once again! With a bright, dry dawn everyday and no work to do until at least the second weekend of October, it's not surprising that you might be getting itchy calves, quads and hamstrings. For this affliction there is only one known cure: put aside what you're doing, get out and run. In this spirit, the Cambridge University Hare and Hounds, joined by a gaggle of keen freshers and a dog, went down to Devon to experience the sun, sea, sand and hills of Ilfracombe.

The hostel was reached after only a few minor complications, brought on by nobody in the minibus actually knowing where it was, except that it was near a church. Upon the realisation that the residents of the town had embraced religious pluralism, we had to ask seven people for directions. Luckily one of them happened to be a postman.

Of course on any club training week it is impossible to train for twenty-four hours a day (or at all in my injured case). What is important is to strike a balance between business and pleasure, varying it according to individual preference. I therefore present a summary of the three predominant flavours of the week.

The interesting landmark left of the centre is the Landmark Theatre of Ilfracombe.

Rest

We had signed up to spend the week at the Ocean Backpackers Youth Hostel in the centre of Ilfracombe. The building had everything you would expect, including a spacious lounge, a not-so-spacious kitchen and a large number of bedrooms and toilets. Despite being in the thick of the town, the only noise that could be heard during the night was a strange hooting that sounded like a cross between a ship and a slowly draining toilet.

The lounge had been converted from a restaurant, which might go some way to explain the bizarre nautical decorations and pictures that adorned the walls. A particularly hot topic of conversation was what the function of the stained glass holes in the ceiling was. An accident made good? Distorted global landmasses? Rising damp? Who knows!

But we were not the only guests living in the hostel and searching for its non-existent spa and sauna facilities. Oh no! A quartet or so of young foreign men, and a girlfriend, were staying there too. They could be spotted around the place between the hours of 11pm and 2am, enjoying a quiet game of pool with the occasional random English girl, not the girlfriend, (who may or may not have understood what they were saying). If they were annoyed by our general taking-over of the ground floor they didn't show it. Except of course when Ben Hope told them not to smoke: they told him they only smelt of smoke and Diarmuid O'Seaghdha got a pair of underpants in the face for his trouble. Thankfully the tension was released by one of them dropping a large Argos catalogue onto the floor and Ben apologising and retiring to bed. I hate having my extreme zombie movies interrupted...

When we weren't out spending calories we were in the kitchen taking them back in again. A troop of keen amateur cooks delighted in cooking for the army of hungry runners, whipping up classic camp meals such as spag-bol, curry and rice, fill-it-yourself jacket potatoes and a whole host of sumptuous desserts. Pete Leek's chocolate brownies, possessing a notable fan base, made a welcome and momentary return. The vegetarian faction was also well catered for too except perhaps at Ilfracombe's Fish and Chip establishment. This purveyor of fine fish and chips, but not burgers, unexpectedly ran out of the meat-free stuff after just one order had been made. Still, we did get a twenty percent discount on the meal thanks to Will George's fierce demeanour. After dinner we were treated to a dazzling display on the nearby harbour side from a youth brass band and dancing children. This appeared to be a kind of celebration or a tradition, or something. Taking no chances, we left before they could bring the wicker man out, thus losing them a good thirty percent of the appreciative crowd.

And finally, just to show that in today's fast paced world you can never truly get away from it all, the local library and its free Internet connection were quickly discovered and utilised. In fact it's probably more restful and relaxing just to find some remote countryside and go for a run!

Work

Ah...the stuff that training camp myth and legend is made of, and, as always, there was a general keenness to get the miles in early. We hadn't been at the hostel for more than fifteen minutes when a run was mooted. In spite of being fairly urban, the area still had plenty of running routes. Unfortunately, nearly all of these routes involved dramatically increasing one's gravitational potential energy. This quickly put an end to many people's dreams of a high mileage week.

Traumatic memories of the Lake District's hills were refreshed in some of those who did the Woolacombe to Ilfracombe run, but for me the only nightmare was that I didn't get to do it. Lauren Barklie, a fresher lead up the beaten path by her elders, takes up the story:

The people who had elected to stay at the beach and get a bus back had the opportunity to have a sandy saunter along the surf, while Richard Ward, preparing diligently for the Southern Six Stage Road Relays the following Saturday, did numerous laps of the village car park.

A third alternative for running involving more familiar terrain was given on Wednesday. The Harey bus of fun went to a lay-by in Exmoor National Park to give runners the opportunity to twist their ankles in the grass tufts of another exotic location. By all accounts Lee Harper's scream was loud enough to be heard in Pembrokeshire and suggested an open fracture, but he was up and running again within a matter of seconds. For an out-and-back run it was always going to be a challenge to get lost, but Catharine Wood managed it. She was on the point of pawning her MP3 player to get a bus back to civilisation when a helpful farmer directed her to a road that lead to our bus.

Knowing that, while hills and sand were all very well, we needed a special place on which to do the long reps session on Tuesday, ex-Captain Si Rutherford put himself to work with a map. He found an ideal spot in Barnstable: the Tarka Trail. This is apparently named after one of literature's many famous otters and consists of a nice long, flat gravel track, with a convenient shelter for leaving stuff in. After a short bladder-emptying warm-up at the railway station the main session got underway, it was so popular that even Carla the dog and owner Lindsay Hamilton got involved with the action. The reps were deceptively simple: 6min, 5min, 4min, 3min, 2min, and 1min with half recoveries. The catch is that as you start running faster and faster the recoveries become shorter and shorter until you end up collapsing under the weight of reckless hydrogen ions. But by then the session is over, so it's ok.

For the Thursday's reps session Captain Claire Day chose Ilfracombe's only plot of flat land: the local rugby pitches. The emphasis here was on speed, with the session being 4(boys) or 3 (girls) x [90/60/30/30] with same recoveries between reps and two minutes between sets. With strong support and timing from the Corin Hughes and wistful stares from the author, the groups got through it all. The constant battle against a ferociously strong wind, the kind that follows your every move, made it even more .fun' for the participants.

Finally, there was work of a different and stickier kind. As you would expect, a group of thirty or so hungry and thirsty runners generates a rather large quantity of dirty plates and glasses. Now the sensible thing to do would be for each individual to clean up their own business, but as Richard Dawkins, via Ben Hope, would tell you, individuals are somewhat prone to cheat. The result was that everybody had to do a large chuck of washing up at some point: a few out of the goodness of their hearts (Emma Pooley, Laura Dixon) and some by popular demand (Will George, Owain Bristow). The layout of the kitchen with 1) the smallest space imaginable between the table and the sink, 2) A large space for dirty dishes and a small space for washed dishes and 3) the placement of the cupboards at the other end of the room, at least meant that the drier got in some extra mileage doing laps to put everything away.

John Redshaw, an enthusiastic fresher hard gets down and dirty with the dishes. Take note of the sign Catharine Wood, this is what the real world is like!

Play

From Giant Jenga to giant nightclubs, Ilfracombe had an activity for everyone's taste. Even the humble hostel was awash with things to do. There was something of a "what shall we do?" hierarchy that started at "let's have a conversation", progressed rapidly to "let's watch TV", went on to "let's play cards" and concluded at "let's play on the X-Box/let's go out ". Pool was also available for all those with a fifty pence piece, as this year's table proved impervious to tampering.

People having civilised conversation

It wasn't all bad though. After all, the TV came with both the Simpsons and Friends and a wide selection of videos, ranging from the innocuous (Football's Greatest Nightmares) to the questionable (Zombie Flesh Eaters). Groups of Haries spent two enjoyable evenings settling down to "A Knights Tale", as suggested by Ulrich von Liechtenstein Paquet and "The Shawshank Redemption".

On the card front, the evangelical Hearts players managed to get a few converts and some other games such as .War' and .Strip Jack Naked' were even learnt. Of course, to the susceptible souls, the hostel's possession of an X-box proved too much of a temptation to pass up on. Once the minor difficulty of setting it up on the big screen TV had been overcome, FIFA 2003 became established as a firm favourite with crowds. It ensnared the dopamine circuitry of all those who dared lay hands on the controllers, establishing a particularly strong grip on Will George, while giving Catharine Wood the opportunity to improve her IT skills. Will weaved some magical moves and lost only to Tabby "Girlfriend" Steel and James "Beckham" Burrows, despite playing most of his games as an obscure team from the Icelandic C league. Had there been a real field and a real football at the hostel it might well have been a different story...
To make things even more of a challenge Will attempted to score using David Seaman only. Let this incident be a warning to ambitious goalies!

Once the novelty of the hostel's contents had been exhausted; the whole of Ilfracombe became our oyster (metaphorically). The first place to be discovered was mini-golf. The course appeared to have been designed to harshly punish the inept and reward those who waited for gradients and wind to take their effect on the ball.

Second on the list of must-visit places was the local aquarium. At the price they were charging I was expecting to see at least one Great White, but sadly had to be content with a fish that camouflaged it self as a sandy surface.

Finally came the pubs and the clubs. The hostel's website had boasted that it was within a short walk of seven alehouses and this was found to be true, with the oldest one in town, established c.1381 proving to be a good choice. One thing that had certainly been noticed about the town was the large number of more senior citizens. How, we wondered, did they like to have a good time? Well, the answer was at the JAX nightclub, where entrance was free to the under-35s before 11:30pm and the presence of a group of the Hare & Hounds just about lowered the average age down to this level. Having elected to stay behind and eat Pete's delicious chocolate brownies, I did not get to experience Jax's cage, or two, yes two, poles. This is something I now seriously regret. James Burrows, another fresher led astray, has therefore agreed to guide you through the JAX experience:

As well as sampling the pleasures of town life, we also had a fun afternoon out to Woolacombe Seaside to do the kinds of things that you can only do on a beach. A Frisbee was thrown, people took to the sea (and immediately got out again, unless they were wearing full body wetsuits) and a huge sand hill was discovered. After a few nausea-inducing rolls down it, a small contest was set up to see who could make it to the top and back in the shortest length of time. Will George won this in 33+ seconds from Ulrich Paquet and Aidan Brown but is rumoured to have got a flier. Lee "mountain goat" Harper might have set the fastest time, but was foiled by a dog on the way down and instead received points for acrobatic flair and style.

Meanwhile Aidan Brown filled the role of sleeping relative and got buried under a mountain of sand. Owain Bristow ignored Catharine Wood's warnings regarding the dangers of digging big holes (rake courtesy of James Burrows) and promptly got himself stuck in it. Despite the best attempts of horrified onlookers to pull him out, and amused bystanders to keep him in, escape was only possible thanks to the loose lacing of his shoes.

Some people were so inspired by the sight of the sea that they returned later in the week for a spot of surfing UK. Harriet Owles reflects on what happened:

The Grand Finale

Come Friday night it was time for the traditional prize giving ceremony to recognise the feats and follies of the week. Thankfully for the MC: CD, at least one shop in Ilfracombe sold decent merchandise.

To continue the theme of the night's geography lesson (The highest mountain in Australia is not of course Mount Bruce, which isn't even in the top ten), I give the information as a simple draw-linking-lines problem to get your brain back into the groove:

Who? What? Why?
Aidan Brown This person definitely doesn't need any more sugar! A reflective night vest
Owain Bristow Cider, Devon's finest beers and chocolate Surfing together, clubbing together and so on and so forth
Will George Matching chocolate bars Running the camp to the shipshape letter of daily schedules
A lucky pixie lolly Matt Armstrong Organising the camp and running afoul of crazy beach dogs
Carla the Dog Hair gel Will need some luck after spending the week laid up.
A bar of soap Catharine Wood Letting people stroke her, making interesting noises and running around with no clothes on
Claire Day A big juicy lettuce Food preparation, cleaning etc. The sign said that our mothers didn't work in the kitchen, but he was the next best thing
Quite possibly more chocolate Harriet Owles & Corin Hughes Negotiating Devon's most extreme hairpin bends on a regular basis and keeping the bus out of trouble on the motorway
Services to FIFA 2003 and completion of Time Crisis 3 (but I wouldn't know) anything about that) Pete Leek Another slab of chocolate, but it was very good chocolate
Lee Harper Chocolate? Guess what the good shop sold for extra credit! To stay looking mint when travelling on a train for five-hour stretches

The final, semi-serious, award was the Emma Pooley Prize for running performance. However, a quick glance at the Points Sheet shows that A) I can't take clear photographs and B) this doesn't really matter because mileages, and indeed alcohol consumption, were not excessively high. The hilly terrain and absence of a few legendary Harey animals meant that the week's training had a certain quality over quantity aura about it. But of course anyone who ran the Woolacombe to Ilfracombe run will tell you that it must be worth at least three flat steadies!

The prize ("Si"-der) was therefore given to Si Rutherford, an engineer with the heart of a Californian surfing dude. For purists, the moral victory went to Matt Armstrong who managed to rack up and write down a 60-point total.

With this done, all that remained was for us do some sleeping (a bit) do some cleaning (a bit more) and then do some travelling (a lot) back to Olde Cambridge. What better way to consolidate a week of hard training than by running a relay the day after returning? I wonder if anyone signed the hostel's comment book?

Overheard while playing on the X-Box recuperating in the lounge:

Lindsay Hamilton on the racehorse business: "You get sued at best, at worst you end up at the bottom of a river with concrete shoes on."

John Redshaw: "I think I might just take a slash and see what happens..."

Catharine Wood: "The heroin addict, I think, is a nice look."

Deborah "Kiwi" Scothern to Matt "Geordie" Armstrong: "I can't understand a word you're saying!"

Harriet Owles: "I got called Harriet because I was big as a baby." [10lb]

Diarmuid O'Seaghdha on his clubbing experience: "She asked me if she could try on my glasses. I told her she could go to the opticians and get her own."

Lindsay Hamilton: "I wish I was a dog!"

Corin Hughes: "We might get lost, but we can only get lost in three directions."

Richard Ward: "I'm deceptive in many ways..."

Tabby Steel: " Would you like telescopic eyelashes?"
Will George: "I would, they'd come in very useful."

Lindsay Hamilton: "You can do anything to cows: they don't care!"

Diarmuid O'Seaghdha: "I don't believe in other people."

Claire Day: "I do it Ciceronian style!"

Credits

As usual the camp couldn't have taken place or chugged along nearly so successfully without the hard work and efforts of a number of stalwarts, in no particular order they are:

We placed our safety and the wheel of the bus in Pete's hands.