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!
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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
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