29th Feb: Winter Fan y Bagging

Let’s face it, the weather of late has been foul, properly foul to the point that a LOT of us have been struggling in a rut of motivation and ennui to get out AGAIN in the relentless rain and hippopotami mud. How can you get out of the rut? Well we came up with an answer of sort: ROAD TRIP!

Let's go to work!

A handful of us ‘Hookers’ bundled in to a couple of cars and headed off for the 2 hours it takes for some alternate sights, a different challenge and determined that we would embrace the weather, whatever it was, rather than hide under the duvet once more.

Back in January Andy had suggested a winter version of the Brecon run he and Graham have previously organised where we would drive to the foot of Pen y Fan and run the ‘horseshoe’ or thereabouts. Looking at the diary he found a date not clashing with anything and invited all who wanted to come.

Looking back down to the car park.

Since settling on the date and now, every week seems to have brought a new named winter storm of varying degrees of severity in wind and rain and this week was no exception to this rule. We were well aware of the forecast of an incoming storm, Jorge this time, so for the last few days leading-up to the expedition we had paid particular attention to the local forecast with safety paramount and the whole trip was in the balance until lunchtime the day before when it became apparent we would have a big enough weather window in the morning till early afternoon to get around. Even then the forecast was for very strong winds with gale-force gusts and snow beyond 400m elevation: the starting height of the run!

Gathered in the cold rain of the pre-dawn morning air at 6am outside the village community centre, we drove through the beginning of the storm with its torrential rain to park in the deserted car park at the foot of Pen y Fan. As prep we wrapped-up well with the air temperature here at 2º and unlikely to warm-up, that being with us out of the wind!

Setting out onto the walkers path from the car park the climb began in earnest from these first steps. Within 10 minutes the temperature had plunged as we cleared the tree line then crossed the limit where water becomes ice. My right calf was already giving me grief from the strain I picked-up a few weeks back and I was beginning to drift off the group of the others.

The calf wasn’t the only thing concerning me. Already I couldn’t feel the last 2 fingers on both hands with the extreme cold in the wind, so as I trudged I rummaged in my pack for my second pair of gloves and put them on. Slowly the sensation of feeling began to return to them over the next 10 minutes.

As we ascended, the more the weather closed-in on us, reaching the first peak of the day at Corn Du we were being properly buffeted by gusts of wind approaching gale force. Balance was at a premium with how icy everything was underfoot. Having good grippy trail shoes for running over mud and snow are absolutely useless for traction over icy rock, so scrambling up this small section of rocky outcrop to the plateau as large flakes of snow whipped past you was tricky.

When we hit the cairn at the top we were having the snow driven towards us horizontally in near blizzard conditions and a decision on a route was made, changing an initial idea I had had of running down the ridge over Bryn Ten before turning for the path back up to Fan y Big as with the wind direction it would have meant a long 2 mile slog upwards directly into the teeth of it, which would be no fun for anyone!

 
Once across to the summit of Pen y Fan you have the runnable short sharp drops and climbs as you can move from peak to peak and by the time we had worked our way round to Fan y Big the weather broke and we had vindication in our decision to come here for the run as the views opened-up and we could see for miles around under clear blue skies.

The route we had decided to run was based on the infamous ’horseshoe ridge’ walk, but doing it as a loop starting at the base of the horseshoe, so we needed to link the bottom of the east and west sides of it by running down from the summits to the valley bottom, across the reservoir in the middle and back up to the top on the western arm.

From Fan y Big we began our descent to the valley, wending our way over Torpantau and the field of babies heads till we skirted Taf Fechan Forest. This run was energy sapping as you tried to bounce from one to the other in total guess-work as to what your foot was landing on. The gaps between them were essentially bog, freezing bog running with water. Every time you missed a head, or slipped off one you splashed your foot down in to them. Every step was a fresh full foot immersion into the freezing bath and maximum discomfort as you could not get your feet warm from the continual soakings.

 
Eventually we cleared the field of babies heads and descended into the bottom of the valley hitting the reservoir where we had a bit of an unwelcome surprise: building works. Unfortunately all the paths across the reservoir that you would normally take were closed with metal fencing around them whilst they seem to be either removing or re-building one of the smaller holding dam sections where in the past we have managed to cross.

Descending from the sub-zero chill on the top it made you appreciate the difference in temperature when you were no longer exposed to the elements, as once on the valley floor it felt positively balmy and our hats and gloves were temporarily removed. Under the clear skies you could think it was summer except for the frosted tips of the snowy ridge. Seeing this though made us realise we were about to climb back up on to the top and confront the wind head-on as the storm-front moved in.

Not wanting to detour for a couple of miles we decided to venture towards the main dam and see if we could access it to walk across to the other side. Unfortunately this was not possible as they have it well secured with anti climb fencing, so we had to think again.

Our option was to drop down to the overspill at the bottom of the dam. Here the flow of the water was a bit too feisty to attempt a crossing without a large risk of being swept off our feet, so after a quick sandwich we followed the river down stream to where we could find a manageable crossing point and a thigh-deep wade across.

Fording.

Crossing the river meant we were now on the way up to the other side of the horseshoe and very soon we were beyond the trees and exposed to the blast of the wind and the snow once more as we ascended to the ridge. Running this western ridge we had the problem of the stiffening gusts of wind trying to push us off the edge which focused our attention as we had a grand-stand view of the dark grey of Jorge on the horizon looming larger.

This last couple of miles on the top were a steady ascent but runable although it required a great deal of concentration with the wind catching you off-balance and the loose rocky path interspersed with icy mud and puddles. At times when you could it made sense to be as far across to the left hand side as you could to mitigate against the force of the incoming winds until we had finished our ‘loop’.

On our run we had had the luxury of the route all to ourselves except when we joined back on to the main path to and from the summit for the descent to the car park. We now had the pleasure of running downhill like salmon against the tide of people walking to the top of Pen y Fan, staring into their pained faces as they struggled upwards whilst we bounded down, the snow beginning to be whipped-in as the sky bruised noticeably.

Back in the car park having chalked-off 13 miles including a vertical mile of cumulative climb and the same in descent, what could we do to mark our exploits? Spaniel had the answer and rummaged in his bag in the boot of the car and pulled-out some cheese, crackers and a mini bottle of wine for us all to toast our efforts in style: a grand day out and not a pair of the wrong trousers in sight - ok well maybe one as Graham was the only one to opt for leggings on the run!.. That said with my hamstrings like blocks of ice on the initial limb as I was blasted by the wind and whipped by the snow I could appreciate his logic in choosing a full leg covering.

I can now say I’ve been up and down the horse-shoe in both summer and winter seasons. Both were absolutely stunning, although there was more running to be done in the summer with the lack of ice underfoot speeding things up. I’ll definitely be back, either as a group or by myself as there’s still plenty of routes up and down and around the horseshoe for me to explore!

Oh and I properly killed-off my trainers on the run. I knew they were near the end of their life, but the battering of the babies heads well and truly finished them off!

Totally totaled!

 


Eat pies.
Drink beer.
Run far.

1st Feb: Endurancelife South Devon Marathon.

I was woken at 5 on Friday morning to the unmistakeable sound of LSS praying to the porcelain god as she tried puking-up her toenails whilst alternating with extruding liquid napalm out her other end. Out of the blue the previous night, but thinking nothing of it at the time, I’d developed the ability to shit through the eye of a needle, so I was pretty concerned that our front door should be marked with a big red cross for being a house of pestilence with a plague of a norovirus upon it… Just what you want the day before one of the harder trail marathons out there, the Endurancelife South Devon race on the coastal path down at Beesands.

Rather than sitting at home feeling sorry for myself, an inescapably busy day at work followed for me whilst trying to manage my day around urgent pit-stops when they arose: I had 3 jobs to get through: running a new circuit for a hob for one customer, rectifying a DIY job in another house that could better be classified as ‘Destroy It Yourself’ and fitting a storage heater in the final job of the day.

Returning home I had enough time to scarf a fish supper with accompanying jumbo battered sausage, clear the van and head down to Beesands. Before leaving I said my goodbyes to LSS from the bedroom door. Understandably after spending a day doing doggies between bedroom and bathroom whilst not knowing what end to point at the toilet, she was still feeling pretty sorry for herself. I didn’t dare go in for 2 reasons, first to try and maximise any chance I had of avoiding going-down with her lurgy, especially with being trapped driving for the next 3 hours and second because you could cut that air with a knife. It properly honked in there! With the window shut, the heating on and 3 dogs having spent the day in bed with LSS, the room was a bit ripe to say the least: we’re pretty-much talking on the level of a teenage boy’s bedroom but minus the crispy socks wedged between the bed and the wall.

The drive down was mercifully uneventful and so far so good with my stomach not joining LSS’s in sympathy. At least I had plenty of bog-roll in the van and I was parked close to a public toilet should disaster strike during the night.

The starting coral

Breakfasted and registered it was almost balmy in the early morning air. The sun was out, there was no real chill to be felt. This was going to be an unseasonably clement day for the 1st of February with temperatures forecast between 10-15° C! This felt very weird as I’m more used to being down here freezing my tatters off. I’ve run this race before in the arse-end of a hurricane, torrential rain, the freezing cold. One time I was shot-blasted by hail in a gale-force wind and once the course had to be shortened for our own safety as the conditions were just that little bit too gnarly! This simply wasn’t normal.

Already looking the worse for wear!

Before travelling I had decided I was going to play ‘trainer roulette’ on this run. I’m currently using 2 pairs that are pretty-much on their last legs. The one in worst shape, my More Mile Cheviot’s, have the uppers failing from side to side, however the integrity of the upper to the sole is perfectly fine which is far more important. They also have the best grip of the 2 pairs, so I had decided to wear them and see what happened. The roulette aspect is there was the fair sized risk they would not last the race. What I did to mitigate this risk and call the bluff of sod’s law, was to shove the other pair in my pack just in case of failure, however by having a spare pair with me I knew it meant there was a racing certainty I would not need them. As a penalty for this insurance policy I would have to lug the weight of the spares around for the whole day, unlike if I just threw caution to the wind and didn’t carry spares, where you know sod’s law is absolutely guaranteed to kick-in to effect and you would definitely need them and potentially DNF!

The weather report might have been rosy, but I wasn’t. I was still feeling the effects of whatever lurgy had been lurking at home and effortlessly emptied myself a couple of times before the start whilst dosing myself with imodium and hoping things would stay put for my day on the trails - Yes it was a risky strategy, but I didn’t have much more than hope!

 
Waiting for the hooter I was chatting to one of the Endurancelife crew who said there had been a call to them during the week from a major trainer manufacturer asking to use the event to shoot footage on the marathon course of one of their paid-for athletes using a new pair of trainers that are about to be launched… A new pair of road trainers! Endurancelife pointed-out to them that the race is not a road one and far from it, so wasn’t at all suitable for that kind of trainer as per their entrant’s guidelines for kit. The manufacturer said they were fine with that, so the view taken was ‘on their heads be it’ if the trainer company didn’t manage to achieve what they hoped for with their shoot, so at least they had been warned and expectations could be managed… I just hope that the trainers in question aren’t white as by the time they could shoot their footage on the only road section, they certainly wouldn’t be that colour!

Soon we were off into the bright low sun of the cloudless sky and from the very start I was struggling. Every muscle, every fibre of my body ached, but I was not going to admit defeat, especially not now before I was even out of sight of the marquee… I’ve run whilst ill in the past and it is not pleasant in the slightest. This however was an entirely different sensation, not of illness, but one of being sore all over, lethargic, completely drained of energy before the real work has even begun and with over a vertical mile of ascent to be covered along the 28 miles of the route, this is a punisher of a course.

I realised whilst I was starting slow, I was already getting even slower, but I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel, so it was going to be a case of ‘suck it up buttercup’ and keep on going. I knew it was going to be a tough day at the office to get round, however just after the first mile I could hear myself being caught by a couple in the middle of a full-blown domestic. He was trying to cajole her forwards and faster and she was certainly having none of it - there was still 26 miles to go and it didn’t matter how fast they were going, if that was how they started for them it would be a very loooong day and I couldn’t help but crack a wry smile.

I put my head down and just went for it as best as I could, taking plenty of pics of trail porn as I went. This first half of the race along the cliffs from Beesands round to the Kingsbridge Estuary is one of my favourite runs to be had and it was great to experience it in sun and good lighting for the first time ever! Rounding the headland for the lighthouse at Start Point we faced right in to the teeth of a wind we weren’t aware was there. The blast properly grabbed you, blowing your cheeks out so you looked like a dog with its head out a car window. Trying to run into the wind it felt you were moving backwards at times as you were buffeted by the stiffest of the gusts.

Running this section when exposed to the blast was particularly feisty, to the point it was pretty tricky to make much headway or speed, plus with the exposed rock on the path you had to cover it was pretty slippery at times under foot - I nearly went over on my arse a couple of times and rolled my ankle once, at least focusing on this pain gave me something ‘proper’ to take my mind of being painfully slow.

On this leg we went round Gammon Head. With what had happened the day before during my drive down, it seemed particularly appropriate and I couldn’t resist taking a pic. As a Big Benless 11pm rang-out the previous night, Britain had left the EU and the radio phone-ins seemed to be full of drunken ‘gammon heads’ shouting down telephone lines with a discourse playing out thus: ‘we’ve won, we’re free’, only to be consistently asked ‘What have you won? give one quantifiable example’. Silence then reigned time after time before aggressive shouts of ‘WE’VE GOT OUR SOVEREIGNTY BACK’ were beerily bellowed… The responses of ’but that’s not a win as you never lost it in the first place’ seemed to all fall on deaf shouty ears!

Whilst my trainers may have had the bonus of added ventilation with the holes in the uppers, they had been allowing stones to ingress as I had traversed beaches and through puddles. I’d tried to ignore them as much as I could, but it had got to the point that I had to stop to empty them. Setting myself down on a boulder I emptied the trainers, put them back on and tried to stand-up and found myself struggling to do so. In the end I had to do it in stages, which certainly didn’t make me feel any better in myself.

Leaving the coastal path we climbed inland for the northerly section of the course. Compared to the stunning views of the coastline this is not quite as inspiring, but offers plenty of challenge with the continual changes in elevation and we were sheltered from the wind, the sun shining down on us getting a proper sweat on as a consequence that made you wonder if we would be slightly lobstered from catching the rays.

To take my mind off the slog I hit the podcasts to help while away the solo miles. I was also in bit of a dilemma - I knew I should be eating to keep my energy levels up, but at the same time with how my guts were I daren’t eat anything for risk of it reappearing sharpish from one end or the other as I was fully expecting the puking to start. Perhaps it was the anticipation of this that made me feel sick, yet at the same time the rational part of me realised the sick sensation was probably related to hunger and the strenuous activity rather than a lurgy, but I couldn’t trust it… My guts were cramping-up as well and I was properly deep into ‘never trust a fart’ territory, as no matter how confident you are that is is just a fart and how you much you crave to release the pressure, you don’t know what if anything is about to be involuntarily unleashed so you just don’t dare! All I had trusted myself to have in the two previous aid stations had been a handful of fruit jellies plus I’d also eaten a pack of jelly from my pack.

Eventually I made it to the final checkpoint of the day with around 10k to go and a familiar marshal who is always there, so I stopped for a chat as I certainly wasn’t in a hurry! As we spoke she told me that that Endurancelife had received a call this week with some bad news. It turned-out that after their previous race in Anglesey, one of their regulars, Brian, a gent who is in his 60’s had returned home having run the half marathon and died of a massive heart attack the following day. He’d certainly been a recognisable face to me ever since I ran my first of their events in 2012. Brian was pretty-much an ever-present at and had been since almost the beginning of Endurancelife. He ran mostly the half marathon and some 10k’s and just loved being out doing them on the coastal path. You couldn’t really miss Brian as he was very distinctive looking - think Noddy Holder’s doppelgänger, complete with the hair. You also got the impression he was still exactly the same as he was back in the 70’s just greyer and a little more rotund (hey it happens to us all)! The marshal had some very fond warm words to say about him, how he was always smiling and pleasant, one of their regular characters who was always chatting with people, smiling and joking with them. You could tell from the sadness in her eyes how she missed him on a personal level, as did the rest of the crew she said. They are thinking of doing something in his honour, or naming something after him to mark what they feel is ‘the end of an era’ with his passing.

Leaving this last aid station the majority of the rest of the course was on the flat through the mud and slippery duck boards of a nature reserve and along Slapton Sands, however my legs had long since already given up on me, I just couldn’t muster much more than a shuffle. The cyclist Jens Voigt used to yell through the pain ’shut up legs’ to his to persuade himself onwards and upwards, but me trying the same today it was more a case of ‘computer says no’ than a positive outcome.

Eventually I finished in the waning sunlight, pretty much the last of the marathon runners over the line (but hey a finish is a finish) Chatting with a crew member after - he had been working the event for 4 years and he couldn’t believe how good the weather is, forget about the sun he said, this was the first time he'd seen blue sky at the event!

My trainer roulette plan had held-out and my trainers survived the day. From what I could see under the caking of mud they didn't look too bad, however I had to wait to find out if they were in fact held together by the mud and I was pleasantly surprised at the outcome!

Coated!

Not too bad after all!

I met up with running buddy Luke for a post race beer in the Cricket Inn where I told him about Brian. Both of us had initially noticed him on our first race down in Pembrokeshire a good few years back - Luke was saying on the morning of one of the races he had seen him polish-off a fried breakfast before later running the half marathon and when Luke finished the marathon he was there at the finish line with a pint and a fag! We both raised a glass to Brian and his memory… You never know when you will have run your last.

This put my day’s run into perspective. I felt like shit, I wasn’t particularly ‘up for it’ physically and consequently mentally, but it doesn’t matter how poor my run was, I was fortunate enough to be able to get out and do it; a chastening reminder of NEVER taking it for granted, count your blessings that you can. Here’s to running tomorrow.

Eat pies.
Drink beer.
Run far.

Lakeland Fails #2

I’ve got a massive monkey on my back now, not a monkey like one of them lovely cuddly marmoset mofos, I’m talking its the size of an effing gorilla; a big fuck-off hairy silver back doing a can-can on my shoulders.

This year I WILL finally nail the Lakeland 100, I’d better fucking do as this failure malarkey is getting a bit boring now… 3rd time lucky and all that!



When you fail at something, you look at it and try to figure-out where you made your mistakes and change-up on your approach as the definition of futility, of sheer foolishness, is to repeat the same process whilst expecting a different result.

Yeah, I lost my Garmin between registration and the start of the race the first time, which meant I did not know my pace and timed-out by a mere minute after 30 miles, but that is not a ‘mistake’, that was unfortunate… The fact remains that I was still too slow leading to me timing-out.

I took a hard look at the condition I was in at the start and simply put, I’d probably put too many miles in my legs… I’d attempted to beast myself into shape for the race over the previous couple of weeks, a beasting that took place in the sapping heat that I had continually struggled in.

Climbing the first climb with the rest of the pack.

In the June I’d run 30 miles overnight on one weekend, followed by 2 marathons in 2 days the next weekend, a 50 miler 2 weeks after that and a week later for good measure in the first week of July I’d run a 35 miler in the lakes! All told I’d racked up 170 miles of running in the 6 weeks prior to the Lakeland and had only 2 weeks rest before the event… So yeah, I suspect I overdid-it leading in to the big day: when most people had been tapering or doing sweet f-a I’d been racing and racing hard like a complete eejit.

Arriving tired, slow and cream-crackered meant I was hardly in great shakes: I started slow and got slower. I kept having to stop on the large climbs as I was hanging out my own arse, chasing my own tail just to make the cut-offs whilst demoralised through my own stupidity in losing my Garmin.

I also took wrong turns - again something as an excuse I could put down to tiredness and not being mentally with-it. I could use the excuse of still lacking fitness through suffering from plantar fasciitis for nearly 18 months, something that robbed me of my mojo till March, but ultimately when you remove these excuses by my own actions I had effectively sabotaged my own chances of success in the race!

Looking out to the Irish Sea shimmering on the horizon.

So yeah, as Alanis Morissette sang: ‘you learn’… You also evolve and you change your approach. As a consequence in prep for the 100 this year, in the June I ran a 44 mile ultra - with significantly less climbing than the races the previous year, did a 20 mile night run the week after - this time at a tempo pace rather than a plod and finally a month before the Lakeland I did a 100k race in the lakes… I was feeling good, really good that I was in a proper shape to complete the 100 miles. In fact I was feeling good all the way until in the Lake District, just after the last aid station in the Ultimate Trails 100k with a mere 4 miles to go in the race, when I was up on time and pace from my previous outing there and looking forward to tucking in to the post race chilli meal, when walking along a road there was an almighty audible crack from my lower leg/ ankle. Every step was now agony, a proper involuntary shout of ‘ow’, ‘ow’, ‘ow’ each time my right foot went to the floor… I just speed hobbled my way to the finish whilst cursing my misfortune.

Next morning everything seemed fine, I was able to walk around with no pain at all, but it turned-out it wasn’t hunky-dory in the slightest. The following weekend I had to bail on a Sunday morning group run when the pain kicked-in after a mile and the intensity increased as I went to the level of agony. I realised I’d one of 2 problems: Either a stress fracture or a fucked ligament: both injuries I know require 6-8 weeks of rest before easing back in to running. However I had just shy of 4 weeks to the start of the Lakeland!

Light starting to wane.

Outside of my work, total rest was taken and a large dose of hope was consumed ready for the start of the Lakeland. In the back of my mind I knew I wouldn’t last the distance, that I would definitely break down. The question was when and where it would happen, so the plan was just to just push as hard as I could for as long as I could before the wheels fell off. I also purposely didn’t see a doctor as I knew I would get a proper diagnosis, and be told in no uncertain terms NOT to race - so I deliberately put my hands over my ears before burying my head in the sand to emerge on the start line in Coniston.

I started, it wasn’t as hot as the previous year so I did not suffer quite as badly from the get-go and I went well, really well!.. Ok I tripped and fell in exactly the same spot as the previous year on the backside of the Old Man of Coniston, but aside from that everything went swimmingly… I worked hard to hit the checkpoints, which I managed without much fuss and got through the aid station where I had timed-out with plenty of time in hand whilst in the company of other runners who had finished the race before and were confident on their pacing being bang-on for a finish.

Chasing the sunset.

Before the start of the race I had dosed myself on cocodamol - now I don’t normally do painkillers in real life, but I felt the best chance I had would be to mask anything before I started so as not to start demoralised if I began to feel pain straight away - it seemed to work, however after about 10 hours I could feel the pain in my leg… I necked another couple of cocodamol but they had no effect whatsoever, didn’t even round the edges off the continual aching pain. Leaving the site of my previous failure determined my race would not end here again, I at least knew I could get the next leg done at a hobble before bailing from the race, so at least I had the chance to in effect recce the leg.

In amongst a strung-out group of runners I shuffled my way along as best as I could, trying to persuade myself to ‘suck it up buttercup’ but I knew my day was over. I knew I was doing fine for time which was an almighty frustration, although not as frustrating as after bailing waiting for transfer back to the start after your race was over!

Midnight refreshments.

Out on the trail I had found the running an awful lot easier than on my previous failure as the weather was an awful lot cooler and with a fraction of the humidity. Knowing the route now and the terrain was also a boon as well as I knew where I was, so did not get lost… I even found the climbs not quite as bad! Up on time I made a conscious effort to push myself harder on the climbs, including the evil that is Black Sail Pass. I had made myself a promise that I would only stop the once at the waterfall around halfway. I looked at my watch as I arrived there and it said midnight, so sweating like Michael Jackson on Sesame Street I sat in the waterfall cooling off, drinking the fresh water out of it as I watched the stream of pin-pricks of light from head torches of those behind me coming up the pass towards my resting body.

Head torches approaching me from below.

The big test for me was always going to be at what point dawn would break. It was a relief when I became conscious that I was moving along a stretch in darkness where before it had been light. At that point I was proper gasping for a drink of cool fresh water and knowing there were plenty of streams coming up I resolved to get in and have a drink at the next one… Soon I could hear the beckoning siren-like sound of gently tumbling water. I took my cup off my pack ready for action, I rounded the corner looking for the best way to cross the stream and get to the water and at first glance saw what I thought was a stepping stone in the middle of it… All ready to jump on to it with all my considerable weight I took another look with the head torch and realised it wasn’t a stone at all, but a sheep carcass! That put the mockers on my cunning plan, so I had to get to the next stream before carefully surveying for deceased livestock and taking a cool crisp drink of the waters.

Not quite a stepping stone :(

I ran through the dawn and on into the still morning light before realising there was zero chance of getting beyond Blencathra. Yes it smarted mentally as well as paining me physically, but I knew I could not carry-on without the risk of serious damage. My body was telling me it was broken and I had no choice this time but to listen, even if the next leg of the race was teasingly flat!

Having bailed I had to wait with everyone else in the same boat for our transfers back to Coniston… This was the worst aspect, the waiting around not knowing what was going to happen or when and the distinct feeling that everything was a bit of a busked afterthought. The priority of the organisers will always be those people on the course, however when you’re no longer in the race you feel that you have been forgotten about to an extent, that you are an inconvenience to everyone and are swept to the side and largely ignored. After waiting a couple of hours we had a transfer by minibus to the halfway aid station at Dalemain where the 50 mile race starts. During this time the weather had changed to rain with its accompanying chill. It seemed the aid station was not prepared for a group of us to arrive and occupy valuable floorspace in the marquee. Eventually we were allocated a small area to congregate out of the way of the other racers where we could stretch-out and snooze whilst trying to stay warm. It was almost as if we were quarantined, that our running ‘leprosy’ would somehow contaminate those people still in the race!

Approaching Blencathra

Eventually after a few hours we were back on the same minibus to Coniston - however there was not enough space on it for all of us, our group having picked-up some more bodies to journey with us.

I was the last one to get on and realised I had nowhere to sit, however I was determined I was not going to be stranded here at the furthest point away from where I needed to be until god knows when, so I went to the very back of the minibus and sat on the step in the aisle in front of the back bench of seats and hoped the driver would not realise… Fortunately he didn’t and I managed to survive a supremely uncomfortable bum-numbing journey back to the event base wedged between both rows of seats for my safety rather than any form of comfort. At least when I got back there were no queue for a shower, and I was able to grab something to eat and crawl in to bed in the back of my van for a well-earned kip.

Morning mist still whispy.

On the Monday whilst back at LSS’s parents I went to get myself checked-out at Chorley A&E (the triage nurse and the doctor who saw me had friends who had been up there racing in the 50) and I was given a kind of diagnosis based on good news from the x-rays that there were no clear indications of a fracture, however without more specific investigation they could not rule-out a stress fracture of the talus bone, either that or ligament damage both triggered through ‘overuse’. I was pointed-out that the two have an identical recovery time and are non-invasive: 4 weeks rest from running! That was it, better listen to the quacks and do as I’m told for the next few weeks. At least they said I could do a bit of cycling from 2 weeks but nothing too strenuous.

So my second stab at the 100 miles of the Lakeland race ended in failure again. Whilst it was inevitable before I had even started, it was still really frustrating as I felt confident that I had a finish in me barring the injury. I know that my change in approach leading-in to the race worked and worked well to give me a decent chance at that finish. What I need to do now over the next few months is to Alanis Morissette the hell out of two years worth of failures to make it third time lucky this year.

Eat pies.
Drink beer.
Run far.

28th December: Winter Crossed.

Ah, what to do when you’re sitting around turning your liver into foi-gras over the week between Christmas and new year? I hear everyone ask.

Go for a 45 mile run comes the reply from precisely no-one, and to be perfectly honest I could probably have done without the last 13 miles of that myself... Yeah but that’s still 33 miles you utter masochist! Regrets? No, but yeah, but no.

Over most previous Christmas weekends I’ve entered races, including a double-header of trail races dressed as an ostrich, and last year a league XC race for my club the day after a 20k mud run, so doing something kind of like this isn’t entirely out of the ordinary.

I’d entered Second Wind Running's Winter Cross ultra for a few reasons: it’s local, I don’t have a race booked for January and it’s near as dammit in January, plus a healthy dose of FOMO as running buddy Luke had said he was entering the ‘fun run’ - they do a 50k race at the same time - along with Richard and Trevor in my running club Hook Runners... I had a blank week, what more could a boy possibly do?

Entering and talking about it persuaded neighbour Pini and Moose to come along for some shits and giggles as well, Moose for the fun run and Pini joining me in the full monty... I say shits and giggles but these two are properly focused runners very much at the top end of the field who would have a steely-eyed focus on placing at the sharp end of the races!

The course

Arising in darkness I drove the 45 minutes to get to the race base in the Meon Valley in the heart of Hampshire. Unsurprisingly from the race’s name, the course is in the shape of a cross, where you run the north leg first: 10k out and back on an old railway bed, before heading east for a 20k out and back on the South Downs, then West for another 20k leg on the Downs. At this point the 50k ‘fun runners’ get to call it a day, with those of us attempting to monster the full Monty heading south for another 20k leg on the former railway track.

Both races start at the same time: 7:30 and you are supposed to finish the 45 mile distance by 4:30, the basis of the timing is to race the daylight: you have from sun-up to sun-down to complete the course.

The event base of the village hall in Corhampton was the same place where I’d been for the Meon Valley Plod a few years back so I knew what I was in for on the course. The briefing was short and sweet and away we went into the unseasonably warm dawn air for a proper day out on your feet.

Smiles before the suffering! Hookers from LtoR in front: Pini, Moose, Trevor & Richard

This first northerly leg saw a mahoosive puddle after about half a mile, so following the principal of ‘you only get wet feet once’ I steamed straight through whilst others faffed and bottlenecked trying to pick a non-existent dry line. To this point I had been running with Luke merrily chatting away, but it seemed he left his big boy pants at home and tried to keep his feet dry... I was feeling good in my pace so I just kept on at the same rate once through the puddle, sure that Luke would catch me sooner rather than later, but unfortunately that time spent queuing put paid to any more running together.

I had walked to the start with Moose and had seen him make his way to the very front of the race, so knew he would be among the leaders from the off and sure enough, just after I’d gone through 2 miles the leaders came back towards us with him sitting in about 10th place... There was no sign of Pini though when I’d normally expect him to be coming the other way, then shortly before the turn a diminutive streak of silver fox shifted past at speed on the right: tactics. I figured that rather than getting caught in the race at the front among the 50k runners, Pini had decided to deliberately start at the back rather than go off too hot getting sucked in to racing someone else’s race rather than his own and suffer later on as a consequence.

At the turn I passed Luke, Trevor & Richard all pretty close together and not far behind me so I figured I’d be caught and passed by them some time just in to the second leg.

On the 10k return leg I spied a ‘Run 1,000 Miles’ buff - a Facebook group of which I’m a member so I had a chat with the lady wearing it who had clocked-up 1600 miles this year even with losing 8 weeks to injury and was rounding off the year in style today. Truly an awesome effort!

After the flat blast of the 10k on the railway bed, the Eastern leg was the one that promised views, including a climb up ‘Old Winchester Hill’ with its Iron Age fort and settlement on the top. Unfortunately for the chance of any panoramic vistas, the low cloud that was accompanying the balmy temperatures for the time of year obscured most of them in murk.

Down the other side of Old Winchester Hill and we were on to the second climb ready for the turning point. On here Pini came hurtling down the slick chalky mud path towards me and warned of plenty of mud on top... He was not wrong: progress was slow as grip was at a premium in the ankle deep-slop: skid marks from those who had fallen were all over the place so it was a case of ‘carefully does it’ till we topped-out and a jog to the aid station.

I’d been needing to ‘hail the prophet’ for some time so at the turn I took the chance to commune with ‘Mustapha Leak’ around the corner behind the aid station - unfortunately as I blundered around the undergrowth my right foot snagged on a root nearly felling me, but with other more pressing things on my mind I carried on about my business, grabbed a handful of Jaffa Cakes and was off once more.

On the way back I passed Luke, Trevor & Richard once more - all a similar distance behind as before and carried on trying to maintain a decent steady pace. Reaching the aid station it was difficult not to think I was halfway through the race having completed 2 legs, with the first being that much shorter than the others, although I knew that marker would come soon enough, but my focus was solely on this final out and back on the Downs.

To qualify for the last leg and complete the 45 mile race, you had to have finished this third leg by 2pm which is an average of around 12 minute miles, or 6h30m total time for the 50k (31 mile) course. This was my challenge, but I was confident of reaching it having worked-out that my average so far was between 10-11 minute miles.

Grabbing a half banana, more Jaffa cakes and the traditional seasonal fare of a Creme Egg, like the Pet Shop Boys and the Village People before them I went to ‘go west’.

Through the centre of the village with its chalk bedded trout river swollen to bursting point by the recent rains, the climbing began. We were warned the climb on the out leg would seem to go on forever and it seemed pretty accurate. Also there was far more tarmac on this leg than before!

Early on into the climb the leaders of the 50k came hurtling towards me and Moose was sat in a comfortable 3rd place. Congratulating him he yelled back as he passed that he’d trashed his legs though and they were killing him!

20 miles in and a familiar red-clad sight began to appear in the corner of my eye as I was finally caught by Trevor. We ran together for a few miles chatting merrily away and wary of the pace discrepancy with Trevor now having caught up, I put it on front street to him not to compromise his race by hanging around with me if I was dragging him back! He replied that he’d been slowly reeling me in for the last 6 or 7 miles - in effect using me as his ‘rabbit’ and he was now just content to make it to the finish as he’d knackered himself-out bridging the gap!

Both Trevor and Richard had entered the race last year and both had had to pull-out with injury shortly before. In their training they had recced the route last year in prep before their deferrals and this year they had trained much the same... As a consequence it seemed Trevor knew half the field from people he had gone on group recces of the different legs organised from on the race’s Facebook page!

Something else Trevor has done that has made a positive impact has been to have some personal coaching. The power of a good coach and also being a willing coachee has been evident to those of us around him as Trevor has increased his speed all round in distances over the latter half of the year and went and ran his first marathon in prep for today, not to mention that following a training plan has made him lighter and stronger physically. I asked him what the main difference has been in doing this and he said it was the focus and accountability that the coaching had given him: you had to go out and do things in a structured plan, when otherwise you would not bother and if you are paying for something you are less like to waste it!

This out leg seemed to drag on interminably but eventually after a steady descent we were at the turn in a farm yard, where some, crisps, a creme egg and more Jaffa cakes was consumed before the last 10k of the 50.

In a bizarre twist, the return leg seemed to pass far quicker than the out. We picked-up another runner, Darren from Lansing along the way and the 3 of us chatted like fish-wives all the way to the finish (for them) and the last leg for me!

Making through the aid station marking the end of the leg for me (and the race for Trevor and Darren), I grabbed another creme egg, Jaffa cakes and half a banana and off I went again on to the old railway bed for the 20k of out and back along it.

I had eaten whilst in the aid station and had a chat with the Marshalls for about 5 minutes, rather than on the move, which meant my body had had a chance to cool-down whilst doing so before getting started again. Whilst feeling relatively fresh on a physical performance perspective, I just could not get going as I was aware that my right ankle was giving me a lot of gip to the point of preventing me to run properly or with any rhythm.

When I snagged my right foot on the root earlier in the race I suspect I had jarred my ankle and strained the ligaments as the pain was not a skeletal ache or anything internal, it was tied-up with the flexing of the ankle itself. This reduced me to essentially a speed hobble for the next 20k!

Come the turn I could not wait to get to the finish. This leg was absolute tedium, absolutely soul destroying as there was literally nothing to see besides dodging other trail users as you were in a railway cutting the entire time. All there seemed to be were the two banks either side, the trees growing on them and the occasional bridge to travel under… It was a chore trying to remain awake and not doze-off from the boredom!.. Thank heavens for podcasts is all I can say; something to distract the mind on this soul destroying section and give a focus on this last leg.

After what seemed like forever and a day I crossed the finish line - not being aware of the exact time as my Garmin had died on the final leg (stupidly I’d forgotten to charge it the night before), so I went over the mat in the frustrating time of 9:00:34… Needless to say if I had been aware I would no-doubt have been able to find 35 seconds over the previous 10k back section to cross the line squeaking UNDER the 9 hour marker!

Fading light!

When the results were published it was interesting to see how things shook-out… Whilst Moose finished an awesome 3rd in the 50k and Pini finished in an amazing 9th in the 45 miler, I finished in  55th place… But this is where the stats get interesting.

I placed 55th out of 59 in the race, however this doesn’t quite paint a full picture: 98 people started the 45 mile race. Of those 98 however, only 59 of us made the cut-off for the final leg, with all of those 39 other runners being credited instead as finishers in the 50k race! This meant in reality I finished 55 out of 98: such a lofty position is unheard of for me!

Back print on the Tee.

Having crossed the line with Darren at the end of the 50k race, it meant that I was fast enough to place at 61/164 in the 50k race, which again for me is immense: top 38% in a race! It also means that I managed a bizarre feat that when you just look at numbers without a context, I managed to place very well in one race and incredibly badly in another! Although at least I can say that there was the caveat of those in the 45 mile race had to be able to hit a tight cut-off to finish it… Incidentally the last person to finish the 45 miler would have placed 91st in the 50k, so not far below the 50th percentile, so I can at least kid myself that what I did was a little ‘elitest’ when compared to those on the ‘fun run’!

Medal on the hanger!

If anyone was to consider doing this race I would say it is a great run-out at this time of year. The event is well organised, marshalled, the course offers a challenge without being stupidly fiendish and the aid stations are well stocked. However this really applies to the 50k course rather than the 45 mile course: the extra leg for that is just mind numbingly tedious. Both Pini and I were questioning ourselves as we ran that last leg exactly why we had done so and what was the point, as all it equated to were ‘junk miles’: miles for miles’ sake, lacking in quality, substance or challenge. Moose had run the same organiser’s Meon Valley Marathon which included that southerly section and he had the same opinion of that leg in that race, which put him off from doing the 45 miler in favour of the 50k… So if I do ever return it will be for the ‘fun run’ rather than the ‘full monty. Very nice medal and shirt though!

Eat pies
Drink beer
Run far.