January was generally a write-off as far as running was concerned. Two colds and a knee niggle later, I finally completed my first full week of training leading up to the Pennine Bridleway Relay...
SUNDAY 31st JANUARY
PENNINE BRIDLEWAY RELAY
[Leg 1] 8.5m/1361ft
WATERFOOT, RAWTENSTALL

It was 7:15am prompt when I met team commander Richard Taylor and John Orrell along the frozen darkness of Long Causeway on the Rossendale moors. I should have suspected something was wrong, for not only was I actually on time, but I seemed unusually organised. I recall boasting this unlikely event whilst waiting for Richard to double-check his kit, listing item after item out loud with ''banana'' and ''map'' getting a multiple of mentions.
Scoff as i might at this seemingly militarian routine, I really ought to have taken a leaf from Richard's book of thorough preparation. As we arrived at competition HQ in the bustling sports hall of Fearns Community School, my eyes immediately worked their way down a random pair of hairy white legs and to a pair of inov8 X-talons. Oh no!!! X-talons!!! Bollocks!!!
I'd left them in the foot well of my car back at the Causeway where they had been drying out nicely under the blowers. This was a serious clanger. I was absolutely livid with myself.
Some consolation was that by chance I was wearing Walshes and not my Crocs, however I won the said Walsh fell running shoes last summer and had only run in them on two occasions after it became clear we were not compatible, including a painful DNF in the Sedburgh Hills race. Since then I just wear them for knocking about in.
I wasn't at all confident about the prospect of bringing the Walshes out of retirement over this hard and bobbly frozen terrain, but it was either that or spend sixty-odd quid that I neither had on me, or could afford, on a new pair of shoes from Pete Bland's van. It was an extra worry I could have really done without. Already pensive about how much my running partner was going to kick my ass, a lack of assurance underfoot was just one concern too many.
I have been paired up with Lee Passco in team events on a couple of occasions over the past year and one thing I have learned is that he will think nothing of getting a hundred yards or more ahead. Whether to prove a point to himself, others, me, or all three, this strategy doesn't work as I get rattled at not being able to keep a respectable distance and so having to bust my balls too early on in a race.
In train terms, Lee is a 5ft 6'' lightweight shuttle express, whilst I am a 6ft 1'' hefty locomotive, with over 13 stones of cargo on board and requiring a good few miles to hit top speed. I get on with Lee though and frankly it's up to me to push on a level and get up to speed with him rather than whinge too much.
Lee made a cautious start by his standards, under strict instructions from Richard and also nursing a calf strain, apparently, but there seemed little sign of injury about three miles into the race as he started to push on into the distance. We had just entered the second half of our route when I tried to shut out the indignity of Lee running back towards me to get on level terms again. As it happened, by this point I finally starting to get a bit of wind inside me and was feeling strong for the final few miles ahead, which concludes with an uphill drag of about a mile and a half to the changeover point. I felt strong enough to get the better of the Clayton-le-Moors and Bowland teams that I was jostling with and that would have brought us home in seventh or eighth place.
But then it all went tits up on a downhill stretch of stoney track as I touched a patch of ice and went horizontal. The underside of my right forearm took the brunt of the landing and after a burst of blood, a lump the size of a small egg appeared in an instant and to be honest, I panicked for a moment or so. Thankfully the bleeding stopped and I could move everything normally, but the pain was pretty miserable. Lee winced and conceded that just finishing was now the sole aim, but he couldn't resist just pushing me on a bit up that last hill! As my blood pumped more, so the pain throbbed more. We lost valuable time and places, finishing our leg thirteenth and over a couple of minutes down on last year's effort when the conditions were more difficult and yet we came home in third place.
As Mountain Rescue did a wonderful job patching me up, so the feelings of disappointment and guilt crept in. Was it the Walshes to blame, and so ultimately my stupity? Or was I just unlucky? Either way, brilliant performances from the rest of the Blackburn pairings shored us up to fourth spot overall. But for my clumsy actions we would most likely have taken third place and been amongst the prizes.
Matt Nuttall might well have been joking when he called me ''amateur'' for forgetting my shoes. But he was right. Would the likes of Matt do something so careless? I think not. Although the likes of Matt would have had a decent run wearing Crocs!
After the assurance of nothing more than bad bruising from A&E, luckily I was out doing a cautious few miles in Cuerden Valley Park the following afternoon, almost as if nothing had ever happened.