Last updated 02:18, Thursday, 03 April 2008

OKAY, who stole my baler twine?

Training for a marathon is straightforward enough when you’ve got one of those hi-tech GPS gizmos which measure everything from miles, time and speed to heart rate.

But if you don’t have such a gizmo, live in the middle of nowhere and have to devise a 10-mile route on which you can perfect your race pace it gets difficult. If you’re in a city, you can simply remember all the necessary landmarks at the end of each mile – be it a post box or street number. In the country it’s not so easy.

Months ago I went out in the car to measure out 10 miles. It all seemed quite straightforward as I scribbled the landmarks on the back of an envelope: second gate after Willie's farm; sharp bend before sign; dead oak tree on the right etc. But when I came out to run the route it all fell apart (was it the second or third gate? Was it the bend before or after the sign etc).

And so I resorted to green baler twine. I drove slowly round the route, my eyes glued to the speedometer as it neared the mile mark (“I’m looking at this so shout if you see a car coming,” I told B and Millie), upon which I would jump out the car and tie a bit of green baler twine to the hedge or fence.

I was so proud of my cunning plan – until I went out the following day and couldn’t find half of it.

Long runs are so much easier, and strangely relaxing. I normally get out on a Friday morning, when I’m not working and the kids are at school. But during the February half term I was stumped. The only time I could find was first thing Wednesday, before Mike or I had to go to work.

I had 13 miles to do and reckoned if I set off from Scalehill car park at Loweswater at 5.30am I could run off road, alongside Crummock, through the woods, on to Buttermere and around the lake and back, in time for breakfast at 7.30am.

Perfect forecast (clear and frosty), perfect plan, I reckoned, as I got into bed the night before. “I’ve left my head torch by the front door,” said Mike before falling asleep.

“What’s he on about,” I thought, before also nodding off.

At 5am the following morning I realised what he was on about. It was pitch black. Call me stupid (Mike did) but it had never crossed my mind I might be running in the dark, I’d had visions of me setting off as the sun slowly appeared over the fells.

But when I arrived at Crummock Water there was no sun – or moon for that matter, but an awful lot of stars, which all reflected in the ink black lake. There was a hard frost on the ground, which sparkled under the head torch, masses of owls in the woods and some deer. Ben, the dog, was a welcome companion although all I could ever see of him was his green eyes.

The sun did eventually come up – after I’d had breakfast.

Running the London Marathon should be the easy bit.