Go west, young man!

I had planned to retire this year, and had even set a date: 31st May. The end of the financial year, and the end of my working life. I was looking forward to being put out to grass and gently whiling away my time. No more Monday morning A34. All the running / cycling / swimming I wanted; when I wanted.

I've got the Peak District, the Lake District, some great running mates. I've earned this, and I'm going to enjoy it. And this is what I could be doing: a favourite bit of Cumbria. The terrain around here is brilliant - real, gritty, engaging, and always rewards you with a "proper run". The sort of run where you might think "ooh its a bit cold / wet / steep / rough" and stay at home, but when you're out there you feel so alive and when you get back that mug of tea tastes like heaven, toast and marmite like the very food of the gods. I know this area so well that I can add or take off loops and design my run to be perfect whatever the weather and however I'm feeling. A few weeks ago Rich and I went out for an hour or so in high winds, freezing cold rain and so much mud we were up to our ankles but we loved every second. That's my favourite run of the last few months. Not that I haven't enjoyed the more functional Wednesday evening training runs along the bypass in the dark! So everything was set. I announced my retirement to everyone at work, and got a lot of good wishes from my colleagues. The Board asked me to stay on! but I was adamant. I was on my way, nobody could talk me out of it. My mind was made up. But there were a couple of things bugging me. I was apprehensive about not working. I've always worked, since I was a very young kid. No, not down the mines, or up a chimney! I'm not that old! But any way I could earn money, I did it. I used to run errands for anyone who paid me, and then when I was about 8 years old I set up my first business. 1960s Blackpool was buzzing, and people all over the north of Britain used to flock there. For a couple of weeks in July we were invaded by the Scots during their "Glasgow Fair". Jocks week, we used to call it, but it was great business. I can remember Blackpool Pleasure Beach being so busy the throng was like being at a football match. You would have to queue for an hour to get on the Big Dipper, or you did if your Dad wasn't a "ride man", like mine was - me and my brother skipped on there whenever we wanted. For free, of course! I'm not sure what Mum would have thought of Dad's version of "looking after the kids"; he used to wave us off when we were about 4 years old, telling us to hold on. These were the days before "health and safety" was invented and there were no cages or shoulder harnesses, just a bar to hold onto. The show-offs used to stand up; every year one or two would be flung off and die. It was what happened, and when it did there were always stories of people finding random body parts in the nearby streets. I never found one myself, but I had a friend who did. Everyone had a friend who had definitely seen it. So, me and my brother clung on, frightened half to death. Dad was always waiting just before the cars got to the chain that carried you up to to the top of the first dip, but every time my brother and I would be convinced this was the time he wouldn't be there. One day, I don't know how old I was, he wasn't there. I have never been so petrified, and the journey to the top seemed to last for ever as we went to meet our fate. We didn't say a word. Right at the top of the climb the cars wound round a tower before plummeting dow the first dip. We knew it well. Dad was on the top, and he jumped in - we were safe! Mum would have had kittens, but we never told her. So, loads of people, and where's there's people, there's cash. I built myself a bogey - a wooden cart with pram wheels - and put big sides on it. Then I charged holidaymakers to carry their bags. Sometimes they would just want you to follow them around lugging their gear, but mostly it was to and from the station. At my busiest, I even ran a booking system! There was a whole supporting industry of bogey manufacture and sales, support and service. Their was even a sub-contract and bogey-leasing operation round our way. And, of course, you had to deal with "Fat Jack". "Fat Jack" wasn't fat, and his name wasn't Jack, but you didn't argue with this fella. Not twice, anyway. He ran a sort of mini-mafia so you had to get permission for your operation. Or you could be his brother's best mate, which I was. This was an altogether more friendly way of going about your business, and is a lesson I've applied to life: choose your friends carefully. That's my background: I have spent 50 years paying my way, earning my keep, and generally getting by OK, but now at the ripe old age of 58 I was thinking about stopping. It didn't come easy, and I felt a bit like that trip on the Big Dipper waiting for Dad to turn up and make everything OK. And then there was the challenge...... Ahh, challenges, challenges. Always a challenge to be had, and I never could turn my back on a challenge. Essentially, there is a bit of the company I work for that operates out of San Francisco, and it's a bit broken. They need a bit of Manchester common sense, that's all, and a bit less California, so I fit the bill. So I'm off to "Frisco" (if I ever actually use that term, you can shoot me) for a year. Here's my new running terrain.