It’s going to be a bit of a tale of two halves this week. Because, just for a change, things didn’t go quite to plan. Last weekends efforts on the Beacons to the Blacks Ultra, left me pretty well broken for much of the week and despite an easy day on the Bank Holiday Monday my legs were in bits. Monday and Tuesday were a struggle to get down the stairs, let alone do anything else, although I was back on my bike for the daily commute on Tuesday, so things weren’t that bad (stairs withstanding).
By Thursday, my legs felt almost normal again and I ventured a gentle run back from work, which obviously meant running back in again on Friday morning. And whilst it wasn’t pretty, and was stupidly slow, it helped with stretching out my battered muscles again, so seemed like a reasonable idea. Leg’s pretty much back to normal, I was still tired though. In fact, I’d been feeling shattered all week, which is pretty unusual, and despite being in bed well before 10 every day in the week, come Friday I was still feeling tired. However, I had plans for the weekend, and tired or not, I wasn’t planning on putting it off, so come Friday afternoon it was all systems go for a big weekend on the bike! So, what were my plans for the weekend I can hear you all thinking? Well, how about one last Hurrah before the weather really turns, and starts making cycling less appealing, in the form of the University Challenge 600Km Audax. 600Km of cycling fun from the outskirts of London, across to Cambridge, before heading all the way over to the other side of the country to brush the edge of Wales and back again. So, what’s all the waffle about being tired go to do with things then? Well, planning on spending the weekend playing bikes I took the van up to the start on Friday night and had a good night’s sleep until the alarm went off at 04:30, for the second time in as many weekends, jolting me awake and reminding me that there was work to be done. It was another chilly but clear morning and as I made my way to the start I was in fairly good spirits. My legs felt good and with plenty of layers keeping me warm it looked like it was going to be another nice day. Getting to the start point I picked up my Brevet card and spent a few minutes sorting out kit and retying my shoelaces for the millionth time and then, as is now customary, spent a few minutes watching the seconds tick down until at 06:00 the nice man said, “Off you go then” and we all stood there looking at each other, waiting for someone else to move first. Eventually though we were off and heading smoothly through the quiet outskirts of London, heading for the first stop of the day at Cambridge. Unusually the group at the front of the pack stayed together for quite some time and we made fast progress for the first hour or so, moving steadily through the rolling countryside as we settled into a steady rhythm. 07:00 came and went and the miles rolled steadily beneath my wheels, but things just didn’t feel right, and the first nagging doubt started to creep into my mind. By the time 07:20 came along, my eye lids were sagging, and I’d started to feel increasingly tired. “Come on me” I said, this isn’t much good, I can’t realistically be this tired, I’ve only just got up! By 07:45 I was feeling really tired and struggling to stay focused, plus I was cold! The first thoughts of dropping out started to come into my mind at this point. If I was this tired and unmotivated now, how was I going to be feeling in another 24 hours? Maybe I’ll just go to Oxford and cut back onto the return route there? By 08:00, Oxford had become Cambridge. Yes, I’ll just go to Cambridge, have a late breakfast there and then head back to the start, It’ll still be a 200Km day, but I just can’t face another 30 hours in the saddle. Not today! 08:30, and I came round a corner, to be faced with a bit of a climb and just stopped at the bottom. “F**k it, I really can’t be arsed with this today, I’m so tired, and my heart and mind just aren’t in it. I’m going home”! So, I did. I turned round and headed back towards the start, giving a cheery wave to my fellow riders who were still heading outbound on my way past. Cold, dispirited, but with a great weight lifted off my shoulders. Beaten, ego bruised, but capable of fighting again another day. I’m not going to say that the ride back to the start was fun, because it wasn’t. By the time I was heading back into the outskirts of London, the traffic had picked up and the roads were getting increasingly busy. But with 70 odd miles under my wheels, I made it safely back to the van for 11:00, where I packed up, had a brew and headed for home with my tail between my legs. As I mentioned above, I was just so tired though. Tired to the point where I had to stop at the services, 10 miles from home, for a quick sleep as I just couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer! Getting home Saturday afternoon, a good 40 hours before I was planning too, felt like a relief. It’s pretty unusual that I ever give up, in fact this is the first cycling event that I’ve ever DNF’d (Did Not Finish) but it was without doubt the right decision. My mind just wasn’t in it. I could have pushed on, but the further I went the harder it would have been to get back, and the more miserable I would have become. If I was struggling mentally at 30 miles, what would the situation have been at 03:00 in the morning, with 300 miles in my legs and the temperature just above freezing? Not pretty would have been my guess!
So, having got myself back home and had a good nights sleep, what was I going to get up to instead. Well, for a starters, the pile of shoes in the hall has been annoying me for the entire time we've lived here, and considering that we've been here ten years that's quite a lot of annoyance.
So lets finally do something about it!
Move the shoes out of the way, cut up an expensive sheet of 19mm plywood and balance the bits precariously together to get an idea of what I'm doing.
Followed by a bit of this.
And, Ta,da! As if by magic, a few hours later, we've got one of these.
A bit of filler for the screw holes, a lick of paint and a bit of varnish for the top and I think that'll look alright. I'll update you when it's finished, but I wouldn't hold your breath. After all it took 10 years to get this far, so I suspect you'll be waiting a while!
And while were not preoccupied by running and cycling, we might as well have a bit of an allotment catch up!
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Right then, I’m a bit behind on the old blog front, so there’s a bit of catching up to do and I suppose that we had better start with the first one that I missed, the Beacons to the Blacks Ultra Marathon.
The problem is, I don’t really know where to start with this one, which is probably why I’ve got behind in the first place. The weirdest thing is, I’ve got loads to say about it, I just don’t know where to start! I suppose I’m just going to have to bite the bullet, start, and see where we end up, so here goes. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I’d been looking forward to this one for a while as the route looked like it was going to be pretty spectacular, traversing across the high points of both the Brecon Beacons and Black Mountains, which, if the late summer weather played ball, should lead to some pretty amazing running. With a mandatory kit check on the Friday night and an early start on the Saturday, I wangled a days leave from work and had an easy morning on the Friday, before travelling down in the van in the afternoon, missing the worst of the traffic and arriving in plenty of time for a leisurely evening. Kit checked, (having struggled up and down the stupidly steep incline to the bunkhouse at Llanbedr which was being used as the finish line and organisers base for the weekend), race number and tracker issued, pleasantries and formalities taken care of, all that remained was to sit back with a brew and enjoy the amazing site of the sun setting behind the van, bathing the other of the valley in it’s last light, before being replaced with a myriad of stars, twinkling brightly in the rapidly chilling clear night sky.
With the Ultra and Marathon starts being remote from the finish, transport to the start was scheduled to depart at 06:15 and when the alarm woke me from my slumbers at 04:30, leaving loads of time for a hearty breakfast and an extra brew, there was a definite chill in the air. Chilly start or not, when I did finally drag myself from the comforts of the van into the pre dawn chill, the clear, dark sky, showed promise for the day to come, and I joined the small crown stood shivering as we waited patiently to board the bus for the start of the day's adventure.
The short drive to the start, provided just enough time for the sun to push away the final vestiges of night, and as we gathered at the start for the pre race briefing there was a palpable excitement in the air, coupled with a desire to get going, as it was still bloody freezing!
We didn’t have long to wait though, as bang on the stroke of 07:00 we were off. Not only were we off, but as is always the case, off far too fast, considering the miles to go. The pace not being helped by the marathon runners departing at the same time as us Ultra runners, and a fast few miles ensued, as we picked up the Monmouthshire and Brecon Canal tow path, to take us towards the first climbs of the day.
Eventually though, everything settled down and as the early morning sun cast dappled shadows on the towpath as it shone through the canal side trees, and the early morning mist rose steadily from the canal as the warmer water gave up it’s summer heat to the colder air, my legs started to warm to the task in hand and the blood, now flowing freely through my veins, started to push the early morning chill from my bones, just leaving my fingertips complaining about the chill in the air.
The first few miles along the canal passed in a blur, until the Marathon runners diverted from the towpath and we continued straight on. A quick glance around as we went our separate ways, gave the first indication of where I may be position wise, and I was surprised to find that it looked like there was only 2 people in front of me at that point, with another close on my heels, but that appeared to be it.
With only 5 miles down and none of the real work for the day even started, it was far too early to start thinking about positioning, but it’s always a positive to know where you stand. Maybe today was going to have to be about more than just finishing, maybe even at this early stage it was going to be worth trying that little bit harder with the possibility of a reasonable result? Pushing all those thoughts aside, I tapped out the last couple of easy miles at a steady pace, before taking the turning off the towpath which signalled the real start of the day, as the path went uphill for the first time. Slowly at first the gradient increased. Nothing to steep to start with, the lower slopes of the Brecon Beacons still flat enough to be farmed at this point and we traversed the small fields, each boundary accompanied by a style to hop over, or gate to open and close, as we made our way along the sheep tracks and footpaths, slowly closing the distance until the path became less defined and the incline steepened as the ground became to steep for mechanised farming and free roaming sheep replaced the neat little fields.
With the change in terrain came the first real inclination of what lay ahead too. The open countryside now providing far off views, with Pen Y Fan, the highest point in the Brecon Beacons and our first destination for the day, towering over the surrounding area.
The path ahead climbed steeply now, no more running for the time being, just a steady and sustained effort, as I tried to keep my breathing and heart rate under control, whilst still moving over the rutted, barely visible pathway, as quickly as possible. The towering hillside to my front my constant companion, as I worked toward the summit at Bwlch y Ddwyalt, which would signal a right turn onto the ridge taking us toward Pen y Fan, still some way off in the distance.
Slowly, through rasping breath and sweating brow the ridge line arrived, and I forced legs that were already complaining about the effort, with only 10 miles of the days 50 completed, back into a run. Having gained the higher ground for the first time, the wind whipping across the ridge still had a chill to it, despite the sun doing it’s best to warm the surrounding air, and I briefly considered stopping to don my jacket. A thought that was quickly cast aside as I rounded the next bend to be confronted by another brutally steep climb, negating any thoughts of being cold and rapidly replacing them with the more familiar dripping of sweat from my brow as I pushed uphill again.
What goes up, must come down again though, and having crested one side of the hill, the other side is an almost vertical descent! Now, I’ll quite happily admit that I can't go downhill! I suspect that going uphill uses similar muscles to cycling and my cycling legs seem to be quite happy going upwards. Downhill though. No chance, and it wasn’t long before my legs were screaming "No more"! as the person behind me came skipping lightly past like a mountain goat!
Not so fast though sunshine. We’re straight back uphill again, and before we are even halfway up, I’ve caught back up and opened up a gap again. A process which was repeated a couple of times as we made our way towards Pen Y Fan and our highest point of the day.
A quick glance at the amazing view from the top and it’s over the edge for the start of the long descent towards the A470 and our first checkpoint of the day at mile 16
By the time I get to the checkpoint, having been whipped on the downhill by my sure footed compatriot, he’s halfway through a brew and making ready to get going again.
Declining a brew, I refill my water bottles, grab a few salty snacks, a couple of chocolate bars from my pack to see me though the next leg, and push on a few seconds behind him, having learned from the marshals that we are currently in 3rd and 4th place, behind two incredibly strong ladies who are a few minutes in front and making amazing time. Heading straight back uphill towards Pen Y Fan again, it’s a case of regaining all the height that we’ve just lost. By now though it’s 10:30 and the path were taking back up is the popular tourist route, which is thronged with people making their way sedately skywards, many of whom look on in disbelief as they stop to catch their breath and we stride purposefully past, working as hard as I dare to try and catch and pass my companion whilst I still can. Half way up I catch him, but I can’t open out much of a lead this time, and as we reach the top again and turn onto the Craig-Gwaun Taf ridge line heading for the descent which will take us to the Pontsticill reservoir, I know he’s right behind me.
We traverse the ridge together, stopping before the steep descent to the Lower Neuadd reservoir to question the route. The GPS track says we should go over the edge, but there’s no path and nothing to suggest that’s correct, yet in the distance we can see a clearly defined path down. We discuss it for a few seconds before both coming to the sensible decision to ignore the GPS and go with what we can see.
As we get to the top of the real descent I step aside and let him pass on the single track, knowing that I can’t match him for pace downhill, and suspecting, correctly as it turns out, that he’ll open out a gap on me on this descent, which I won’t be able to catch back up again. By the time I reach the valley floor, my suspicions are confirmed and he’s far enough ahead that I can’t close the gap. For most of the afternoon I catch the odd glimpse of him on the longer straighter stretches or skylined as he crosses a summit ahead of me, but the gap is too big, and at this stage as we approach the 26 mile point our pace is too evenly matched for me to gain on him.
Another water refill and a Ham sandwich at the halfway checkpoint and I push on. Alone now, apart from the odd walker, it’s a long few hours alone with my thoughts as I work my way slowly across endlessly hilly, but far less brutal terrain, heading towards the next checkpoint at Llangynidr, where we started the day from.
Again, I don’t stop for long at Llangynidr. Just long enough to refill my water, which I’m getting through at an alarming rate now the sun’s fully warmed the day up and sort my kit out for the next leg, before pushing on. As the miles build, so I’m starting to get tired. But, no matter how tired I feel, how hard the hills are, or difficult the terrain, I only need to lift my eyes from the trail ahead to take in the scenery I’m crossing for it all to be forgotten. I don’t have the words to do justice to the beauty of this area, and on a day like today, with the sun shining down, no wind and clear skies all around it’s impossible to not be awe struck. I’ll agree that in the wind and rain it’s another matter altogether, but today, I’m in my element. Just me, my legs, and the few provisions on my back, against some of the best countryside in the UK. What's not to like about that?
By late afternoon, I’ve reached the final checkpoint and my heart sinks as I realise the enormity of what's still to do. In front of me as I make my way from the checkpoint is a shear wall of a climb as the route starts to ascend the Black Mountains range. A climb that will take us up to Waun Fach, before we reach the end. A climb which on it’s own would be a challenge, but today, with 40 miles already in my legs is just brutal.
There’s only one way to the finish though and I put a podcast on to try and distract myself from the negative thoughts running through my head, tighten up my running vest and push on. Bent double, hands on knees for extra leverage, at times gasping for breath, I haul my way slowly up the steepest parts, until eventually the summit arrives, bringing with it a few flatter miles, during which I can just about manage a slow jog still. Moving steadily onward, I’m wishing the miles away, and thinking that It can't be far until the path starts to go downhill to the finish line, when, with legs which are already shot to bits, I’m faced with what looks like a mountain in front of me.
Surely that path can’t go over that! No way, it’s far too steep!
But, as I get closer it’s clear that there is indeed one final sting in the tail!
Picking my way slowly up, I’m almost on my hands and knees, inching slowly skyward, heaving myself up one inch at a time, no finesse, no beauty of movement, just struggle, will power, and mind over body. I will get to the top, I will complete this (not that there’s any other option).
With the summit comes an even worse revelation. It’s as steep going down as it was going up and by now, my legs which were rubbish at going down hill 40 miles ago are in bits! As I make my way slowly down those last couple of miles of steep unrelenting downhill, I’ve never wanted anything to be over more. Each step is torture, I’m absolutely blowing out of my arse. The worst steps make me whimper as my leg muscles scream with lactic acid and fatigue, I just need this to be over, I just need to sit down and stop, I’m a broken man! Just as it’s starting to get dark, I spot the farmhouse lights which mark the finish below me in the distance, and for the first time in a few hours, I know that I’m nearly there. Slowly I make my way down towards the lights, where the welcoming committee are awaiting my arrival, having been watching my tracker dot slowly working its way towards them for some time. There’s no sprint for the line, no run to the finish, just a few more hobbled steps down the still stupidly steep incline to bring me to the finish! I’m at the finish though, and just under 12 hours since I set off I can finally relax, safe in the knowledge that I’ve completed what I set out to do. Surprisingly I’m still in 4th place, which considering the speed I was moving at for the last few miles is amazing. Even more amazing is the fact that the first 2 people home are ladies, who have raced each other from the start to put on a display of amazing running, across what was without doubt a brutally hard route. A performance which should be celebrated and proves yet again that within the realms of endurance sport it’s the fittest and most skilful that rise to the top, no matter what sex they may be.
Postscript.
Having been pampered beyond belief by the amazing crew at the finish line and having had a few weeks to reflect on my run through the Brecon Beacons and Black Mountains I can honestly say that this was one of, if not the, hardest things I’ve ever done. The climbing was brutal, and relentless, but for me the downhill was the real killer. By the end my legs were in bits, and I just couldn't wait for it to be over, and it took the best part of the next week before I could even get down the stairs properly again. But boy, what an achievement, what an amazing day out and what a fantastic event limitless trails put on. My legs may have been in bits, my resolve and desire to carry on may have been sorely tested, but I know for a fact that I’ll be back to have another go at this one. Amazing!
It’s going to be a short one this week blog fans. Mainly because there’s not a great deal to say that’s not been said before. In fact, although I’ve been off Audaxing it’s a ride that I’ve done before, and nothing much exciting happened, so there’s not a great deal to tell you about.
Saturday saw me lining up bright and early after a quiet night in the van, for the Morris Major 200Km Audax, a cheeky little jaunt from Kelmscott (near Lechlade) up through the Cotswolds towards Bromsgrove, before looping back around the top of Stratford-upon-Avon and back towards the start, via another hilly few miles through the Cotswolds. Heavy rain Friday evening had left the morning muggy and overcast, but still pleasantly warm despite the onset of Autumn, and with the forecast for the day to remain dry I set off with a spring in my step and the promise of another great day out. A promise that was not immediately rewarded when I picked up a rear wheel puncture within the first 10 minutes. Standing by the roadside as my fellow riders streamed past wasn’t the best start to the day but flipping the bike upside down it didn’t take long to identify the culprit in the form of a sliver of flint, which must have been nearly a cm (1/2”) long, firmly embedded through the tyre. The pliers on my multi tool which I lug around wherever I go but rarely use, came to the rescue, and enabled rapid removal of said flint (I’ve no idea how I’d have got it out without those pliers so they’ve now more than paid for the extra weight penalty) and a quick patch and tyre re-inflation had me back on the road within 10 minutes, but now firmly at the back of the field. Luckily Audax isn’t a race, so front of the pack, or well off the back, makes no difference, it’s all about challenging yourself, and resuming my normal pace I was soon back enjoying myself as the countryside passed serenely by.
Climbing steadily towards the high points of the Cotswolds the morning soon warmed up, and with the high humidity it wasn’t long before I had to stop and remove my light jacket, leaving just my base layer, which if I’m honest was still too warm for the day’s temperatures.
By the first checkpoint I’d made inroads into regaining the time I’d lost due to my puncture, and as I stopped to get the answer for the Info Control there were a number of riders who had passed me earlier taking a break. Pushing on towards Snowshill I made steady progress, arriving at the next control point with the first group of riders, who were just tucking into the selection of cake on display as I pulled up. A slice of Lemon Drizzle cake to stave off the hunger pangs and then on the road again, for the flat and fast run up to the Northerly turn. Fruit orchards, once lush and laden with apples and plums, now often derelict and left to return to their natural state replaced the rolling hills as I headed through the Vale of Evesham and I made good time to the next checkpoint which marked the halfway point. Turning East things got a little lumpier than the previous few miles, although not lumpy enough to present a problem for legs that have already done 7.5K miles this year, and nothing compared to what’s gone before or is still to come in order to get back to the start. Through the early afternoon I slowly ate up the miles, noting the change in scenery yet again and the name changes that often intrigue. Astwood Bank came and went, with a climb to the village at the top of the “Bank”. That would be “Astwood hill” in other parts of the country, but you often see bank used as the preferred term as you move further North. Likewise, as I passed through the checkpoint at Wellesbourne and turned yet again to head for Chipping Campden the stone used for houses and walls slowly changed, the reds and browns gradually replaced by the synonymous pale yellow coloured Cotswold Limestone. I’ve said it before and I’ll no doubt say it again, but that’s the beauty of traveling by bike or foot. You have the time to notice those things that you would miss as you flash effortlessly past in a car, or just never see as you sit in endless motorway traffic. In my opinion the motor car has lured us away from the slower pace of life we all used to enjoy as we race from place to place for another bite of instant gratification. There’s no instant gratification to be had as the road starts climbing sharply again on the way to Chipping Campden though, and any thoughts of an easy few miles to the end are replaced with the effort of long steady climbs to regain the high Cotswold plateau. Reward for the effort eventually comes in the form of fantastic views though. It may be hard work but it’s nearly always worth the effort as you catch a glance of the landscape opening out around you through hedges and gateways as you slog endlessly upwards, trying to match your breathing to the effort of turning the pedals as you inch ever skywards. Chipping Campden is thronged with day trippers and tourists taking in the sights and enjoying the afternoon sun. Any thoughts of stopping for an ice Cream are swiftly banished amid the traffic mayhem, and I push on for the final checkpoint at Bourton-on-the-Water in the face of yet more hills. Bourton-on-the-Water is another tourist hot spot, and as I approach, the quiet countryside roads which I’ve enjoyed for so many miles, are replaced by another endless stream of cars edging their way through the village, each in search of a parking space as close to the centre as possible. Again, I don’t stop, opting to push straight through. I’m on the home stretch now and I know from previous experience that there’s only one more real climb to overcome and then it’s a flat run to the end. I also know from previous experience that this rides slightly over length. My odometer is already showing 126 miles (200km) and there’s still a few miles to go. It’s not a problem though. Any miles are good miles and I’m still feeling pretty good considering that I’ve not really stopped all day apart from the few minutes snaffling cake at Snowshill and a brief stop for a sandwich and resupply at Wellesbourne. The last few miles pass effortlessly as afternoon slowly turns to evening (that’s happening earlier and earlier with each day) and I roll back into the finish at 17:45, with 138 miles completed, and a touch under ten hours since setting off. More surprisingly and despite having been at off the back of the group at the start, I’m first back by 15 minutes, which must mean I’ve made good time throughout the day and just goes to show that despite not being a particularly fast rider, the old adage of keeping the stops to a minimum and not faffing around pays dividends.
And that was about it for another weekend. I had planned on getting a few running miles in along the Thames path on Sunday as I was up that way, but after a good night’s sleep I woke up with a sharp nipping pain in my left Glute and despite getting as far as putting on my running kit and trying for a few meters to run it off, I felt that I was only going to make matters worse, so elected to slink back home early instead.
A good stretching session and bit of fun with the foam roller soon sorted out the little niggles and I even got as far as thinking about going running again. However, a change is as good as a rest, so I wandered up the allotment in the afternoon sun and had a few very enjoyable hours generally pottering around, tidying up, and picking the never-ending supply of tomatoes, beetroot and carrots. Unfortunately, I left my phone at home, so you’ll just have to take my word for it that things on the plot look very tidy and that now we’ve had a bit of rain they’re back to being green and lush again. And that my friends was about it for another weekend. I’ve got a bit of a bigger adventure planned for next weekend, so if all goes to plan, I’ll be back to tell you all about that, and if it doesn’t go to plan. Well, I’ll probably still be back, it just won’t be as interesting!
After what seems like weeks of moping around feeling sorry for myself and complaining that various parts of my body hurt, it’s about time that I buckled down and got back into the swing of things with a bit of stupidity. And what better way to get back into things with a bit of marathon fun?
"A marathon, that’s nothing out of the ordinary and not particularly stupid, there’s people running marathons all the time", I hear you all saying. And you’d be totally correct! So how about two marathons in two days? Now that’s a bit more like it. But why make it easy, let’s make that 2 off road trail marathons in two days, with plenty of leg sapping climbs, ankle twisting rough and rugged trails and just for good measure throw in the vagaries of the great British weather for good measure, now that’s far more like it! Now, if I’m totally honest, I’ve been quietly worrying about this weekend for the last couple of weeks. I mentioned last week that my Achilles tendons have been sore (the left one was downright painful), and to that end for the last 2 weeks I’ve been not running, whilst massaging, ultra-sounding, stretching and rolling like a mad man, in the hope that I’d be back in the game for this weekend. By Friday I’d got to the point where I was happily wandering around pain free, but still hadn’t dared try running and was still worrying that a marathon (yet alone 2) was going to be a big step too far and I was going to end up really hurting myself. But, having booked and paid my entry fee’s some months ago, it was a bit late to back out now. So, after quite a bit of Umming and Aaaring, I said to “The Emma” that I’d give it a go, take it easy and just see how things felt. I could always pull out after a couple of miles, or just do day one, or even do nothing if I got up on Saturday morning and didn’t feel like it. To that end, I took the van down to a nice little secluded spot just outside of Andover on Friday night and had a quiet but restless night. Mainly, spent worrying that my legs were rubbish, that I hadn’t run for ages and probably couldn’t remember how too, or that I was going to hurt myself even more, and end up even more of a miserable wreck than I have been for the last couple of weeks!
Saturday morning dawned misty and damp, or at least it did when the sun eventually decided to make an appearance (what’s that all about, it doesn’t get light until 06:00 now), and settling into the now familiar pre-race routine helped to calm some of my nervous apprehension.
Brew, breakfast, sort out kit, fill water bottles, get to the start and collect my number for the day, stab myself numerous times trying to pin my number on, adjust shoe laces, pre-race wee, bit of stretching, check the time and realise that there’s still ages to go, a bit more stretching, another wee (no sod that there’s a massive queue), adjust my shoe laces again, check the time again, and so on, until eventually all the worrying’s over and were called to the start. Having run this event before I’d got a pretty good idea what to expect (13 miles of uphill, followed by 13 miles of not much downhill, no I don’t know how that works either) and knowing that I wasn’t feeling particularly strong, was still wracked with doubts over my Achilles problems and knowing that if all went to plan I’d be doing the same again on Sunday, I deliberately hung back at the start, planning on taking things slow and steady. The first few steps passed without my feet falling off, so that was a good start, and a slow jog for the first few hundred meters, showed that things weren’t hurting too much, which was promising. Maybe this wasn’t going to be too bad after all?
A mile of tarmac helped spread the field out before we moved onto the trails proper, signalling a change of surface which was accompanied by a change of gradient, as we started the long climb which would eventually take us to Combe Gibbet and one of the highest points in Hampshire.
Steadily climbing through the early morning mist, the humidity of the day gave no opportunity for the sweat which was by now dripping steadily from my brow and rapidly turning my shirt into a soggy mess to evaporate, reminding me that if I didn’t start replenishing those fluids I’d quickly be in trouble, and I made a mental note to keep on drinking as the miles built. The path wound ever upward as the miles ticked by, traversing along wide gravel tracks and narrow single track through woods, with the odd short road excursion thrown in to link the off-road sections. Passing farm buildings, running through pretty little villages and alongside fields, freshly shorn of their summer crops, waiting patiently for the plough, but ever upwards. Approaching the 13-mile mark, I stopped briefly to grab some water from the checkpoint before resuming the climb for the last few meters for a quick lap of the Gibbet, before heading back down to start the homeward leg. At this point things were feeling pretty good, My ankles and Achilles seem to be holding up well and I was making good time. In fact, I was considerably ahead of where I’d planned to be at this point and was comfortably holding 5th place.
If the first half was all up hill, then surely it was time to start going back down again? Unfortunately, not! And whilst the first half seems to be nearly all uphill, the second half is more rolling, with a general descent but with plenty of climbing thrown in to keep tired legs busy.
Pushing steadily on I was still feeling pretty good at mile 15, when the first twinges of cramp started nipping at my calves. Get some more fluids in, grab a few calories, and drop the pace slightly, which seemed to help. Until, at mile 16, Bang, my left calf went into a full-on cramp, bringing me to an abrupt halt! Stop, wait for the cramp to pass, stretch it off, get as much water on board as I could and slowly start walking it off, then slowly build it back into a run. A few minutes later and my left big toe decided to join in the fun, bringing me back to a screeching halt. As I was stood by the side of the road trying to stretch my toes (easier said than done) the runner behind stopped and offered me his miracle cramp cure. Despite my protestations that I’d be Ok once I got some more fluids down my neck, he insisted I try it, stating that he’d been lugging it around in his pack for years and never used it. “It’s absolutely vile but works a treat” he said. To which I reluctantly took the small sachet which was thrust into my hand and swallowed it down. What is it they say about taking sweets from strangers? He was right, it was disgusting, pure vinegar! But it did do the trick, instantly releasing the searing grip of cramp that was throbbing though my toes and calf. More water, some salty snacks and resume the slow jog, climbing uphill along a road section before diverting back off down a narrow, lumpy, track. Maybe the disgusting vinegar mix was magic, maybe my saviour was correct, and it truly was a magical mixture. Mile 17 came and went, and then here we go again, as my right toes decide to get into the cramp action, followed immediately by my right calf! Well, that answers that question, the magic potion is only a temporary fix at best! I thought it was too good to be true, and I know from past experience, that fluids, replacing the missing salts, and stretching are really the only thing that really works, so it’s back to the proven methods again and I take the time to stretch my legs and continue getting more water down my neck.
Eventually the water I’m finally drinking does its trick and I’m able to resume a reasonable impression of someone running and slowly start ticking off the miles again. It’s not pretty though and it’s plainly obvious that I’ve ballsed this one up today by not keeping on top of my fluid intake during the early hot and humid uphill sections.
Plodding slowly on I’m passed by a couple of people during the last few miles and at some point, come across my previous saviour who’s now having his own problems. I stop and check in with him, offering to accompany him to the finish and once he’s back on his feet we fall in together, chatting for a while to pass the time as we hobble on. Eventually though he tells me to go ahead, and reluctantly I push slowly forward, leaving him to continue his own run as I do the same, slowly covering the last few miles to eventually finish in a not un-respectable 4:22, for 8th from the 47 starters.
One down, one to go, and after cooling down, having a really good stretch and some lunch, I decamped for Farnham ready to do it all again at the Farnham Pilgrim Marathon on Sunday. But not before a potter around Farnham (lots of expensive shops and poncy wine bars) and lots of time spent sat in the van supping brews and Icing my Achilles, Calves and Knees, all of which had taken a battering during Saturday’s fun.
Unsurprisingly, I felt a bit stiff and delicate when I woke up on Sunday morning, but a couple of brews, a good stretch and a good breakfast helped to restore some sort of normality to my weary body, and I was feeling in reasonable shape as I collected my number and got ready for the day’s proceedings.
An 08:30 start left me with time to spare before the off, and I wisely filled that time with a bit more stretching, as my fellow competitors gathered and the early morning mist slowly burned off the morning dew. By 08:25 we were all gathered at the start, nervously waiting for the off, watching the clock slowly ticking down. Some stood quietly lost in their own thought, others hopping impatiently from foot to foot, bursting with nervous energy, others quietly chatting or catching up with their fellow runners, all wondering how their day would unfold, and despite never admitting it sharing the same apprehension for the task ahead. Eventually though the clock wound down and on the stoke of 08:30 we were off. Well, I say off, in my case it was more of a slow stagger, as my stiff, unwilling, legs protested at the thought of having to run again and my mind said, “come on were going to do this, so you best shut up legs”.
The first couple of miles didn’t seem too bad, my aches and pains slowly relented, and I settled into a reasonable pace, which felt sustainable. Mile 3 though was a different matter and I seriously considered turning around and going home. My legs still felt Ok, but by God did that mile drag and that took my mind off in directions it wasn’t supposed to be going!
When I first looked at my watch it said 3.2 miles, ten minutes later 3.5 miles. I ignored it for as long as I could before I looked again, by which time it said 3.6 miles. “Oh my God, how can time go so slowly”. Resisting the temptation to look again, I held out for what felt like a week, and when I looked again, 3.7 miles. This can’t be right, I’ve got to be stuck in some sort of time warp, I can’t do another 23 miles like this, I’ll just die of boredom. 3.8 miles. AAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH! Eventually though I seemed to come out of the time shift and got to 4 miles, at which point everything went back to normal and I managed to distract myself for the constant looking and settle back down to the task in hand. With time finally put back in its place, the sandy trails made for some lovely running and the well-marked route made navigation easy, just leaving the simple task of ticking the miles off one by one. Learning from the mistakes of yesterday I made a concerted effort to keep getting the fluids in and despite sweating profusely for the entire run I managed to keep the cramps at bay, whilst maintaining a fairly steady pace all day.
The steep climb up to St Marthas Church provided an opportunity to stretch my stiff leg muscles against the steep incline, and marked the half way point, after which surely it must be all downhill? Unfortunately, not, but with my water topped up, a chocolate bar in my hand for sustenance and the hardest bit done, the second half should be a walk in the park!
Not quite a walk in the park, but not that bad either. Maintaining my steady plod, the miles slowly crept down, and I slowly caught and passed a few people who had started too fast and were now paying the price (normally my favourite trick). More pretty villages, open farmland, steep sided wooded sunken tracks, ponds, streams and hilltops passed under my feet as I steadily made my way towards the finish along what was a beautiful route. Regular, well stocked, and supported water stops ensured I kept the fluid levels up and it wasn’t long before I found myself approaching the finish. Just one more seemingly endless gradual climb and then it really is all downhill to the finish. 4:27 for 51st place from the 147 finishers wasn’t too bad in my opinion, considering the efforts of the day before and if nothing else is a pretty consistent finish time across the two days.
However, the big point from Sunday’s run was that it went far better than Saturday’s dismal error riddled effort. I paced far better throughout, stayed better hydrated and enjoyed the day far more, despite the protestations of my legs.
I’ll admit though that I was pretty tired by the end and managed a grand total of nothing else for the day. In fact by the time I got home, I retreated to the sofa and that’s pretty much where I stayed apart from a brief bit of stretching in the evening. Stiff legged as I may have been, I was back on my bike for the daily work commute the next day though and although my legs were a bit tender for a few days afterwards and my left Achilles still isn’t right, I don’t think I’ve done any lasting damage and I’m intending on getting straight back out for some cycling fun this coming weekend. Post London - Edinburgh - London blues banished, I’m back in the game! |
Paul PerrattOld enough to know better, young enough to still feel invincible, stupid enough to keep on trying the same thing again and again. Cyclist, Gardener, Runner, Hiker, Cook, Woodworker, Engineer, Jack of all trades and master of none, Anti social old git and all round miserable bugger. Archives
March 2024
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