The Meon Plod - 09/02/2014

The Meon Plod

I have never approached a race with so much anticipation, I felt a real mixture of dread and excitement for days prior to this event especially with the monkey on my shoulder of a DNF from last year. Gale force storms, floods, rain, wind, and even a tornado warning could not stop this event going ahead.

Places all over the country have seen the worst weather since records began, where I live it hasn't been as bad as some places, but in neighbouring towns’ people’s houses have been flooded and there has been severe gale damage to properties because of the horrendous conditions. Winds of up to 100 mph have been battering the country and some coastal towns are literally being washed away, power lines are down, trees are falling, water is rising, it can all only mean one thing, in a few days’ time it will the 19^th running of the Meon Valley Plod.

I try to ignore all of my memories of last year’s debacle, bowing out at around mile 11 means that the race now has even more importance to this year’s calendar. A DNF is simply not acceptable no matter what spectacularly atrocious conditions Mother Nature was planning to throw at us. Reading through the event description the following phrase repeats in my head ‘no wimps please’, it hadn't felt like I wimped out last year, far from it, we battled on further than we should have and it really could have gotten a lot worse if we had carried on, ‘no wimps please’, what happens if I have to stop?, I don’t want to have a race nemesis, another DNF, it now feels like everything has built up into an almighty crescendo, climaxing with the irony of seeking shelter in a stone church, again. 

The founder of this beast of a race is Alan Shons who describes his mountainous Frankensteinian creation as follows;

 ‘A 21 mile cross country trail race around the Meon Valley. Please remember that the weather in February can be inclement. This will be a tough “No wimps please“, event. Marshals will man the road crossings, elsewhere you will have to follow arrows/tape on a way marked course. TIME LIMIT 5hrs. You may be asked to retire if you are going to exceed this time.

I have been keeping in touch with Alan via Twitter in the vague hope that this may be abandoned or at least postponed until sunnier conditions, no such luck, Alan seems to be a masochistic race director with the view of there is no such thing as too much mud, he posts a few pictures of the course in the days leading up, one in particular looking very cheery as he stands waist deep in water on an unavoidable stretch of river which used to be a path. In other updates he reminds us of the best practice of how to climb over the electric fences, and advises that an essential bit of kit to bring on the day may well be a snorkel. Bearing these words in mind I increase my levels of anxious trepidation and palpitations, and start to mentally write my will in my head.

I have no good memories of last year’s event, I enjoy running with my Cousin Neal, but I think we can both agree that there was not one single moment of enjoyability had by either of us from the moment the air horn announced the start of that fateful run from hell, to the embarrassing walk of shame to the round up truck. I remember clearly how our cheery dispositions were melted by the driving rain as we huddled together at the start, feeling the cold sharp drops being lashed against our already reddened cheeks, trying to muster smiles and positive attitudes but failing miserably, not quite giving up before we had started but we probably wouldn't be surprised that we were destined to be adorned with the three little letters of ultimate failure. This year already had similarities, the only thing we haven’t had is snow, although this was more than made up for by the abundance of the other elements.

Mat, Cobby and I are running together for this one, Das Bus is poorly so instead we are treated to Das Caravan, now this is how you turn up for a race in luxury. It has 3 beds, a table, cooker, stove, toilet, comfy seats, and most importantly it is very very warm, after Hellrunner in January my feet were actually blue at the finish and had to be defrosted on the air vents, this race is in similar conditions but 10 miles longer so the warmth of the van is immediately noted and appreciated upon boarding. With an air or anxiety and nervous excitement we commence our short trip up the M27, fueling up on the way with sweet waffles, Jaffa Cakes and flapjacks (and making sure the fridge is working to chill the celebrational cider for the finish). Other than a few splatters of rain it looks like it is going to be a nice day, it is still windy and chilly but the sun is poking its nose out every now and then and its all looking fairly promising, my fears are subsiding somewhat and the main conundrum now is what kit to wear, I have brought everything with me in anticipation of every eventuality, down to packing my run bag with spare socks, pack-a-mac, spare gloves, space blanket, and technical t shirt. I decide that shorts, base layer, gloves, snoods and wind jacket will be sufficient (although I still pack the space blanket just in case) and get down to the serious business of eating my own body weight in sugary snacks.

The HQ is based in a scout hut and is packed with runners and supporters, the familiar smell of deep heat cements itself to every inward breath and lurks in the back of your throat like sticky rootbeer. Hot drinks and food are available which reminds me that there is a variety of en route cakey culinary delights, all packed with fruit and fructose to warden off ‘the wall’ and re-furnace the body’s motor encouraging the limbs to keep pushing and the heart to keep thumping, the array of cakes is plentiful and delicious and the thought of this is enough to get me mentally prepared for the miles ahead. I have said it previously that it can be the smallest thing that pushes you to the biggest achievements, today it was cake.

We make our way outside and stand with the hundred or so other runners trying to acclimatise to the blustery chill, Alan jumps onto a wall and announces the rules and regulations of the race, yes there are flooded paths, yes the going is tough and extremely undulous, yes it is muddy but no-where near as muddy as he would like,  he reminds us that there are electric fences to mount and the going under foot is treacherous, this race IS NOT FOR WIMPS, the descends are sharp and slippery, the ascends are also sharp and slippery, in fact just be careful the whole race through and nobody should die. With these inspirational words of wisdom resounding in our ears he begins the countdown and sets us on our way with a toot or two from the air-horn. The short stretch of tarmac gives way to a muddy boggy bath littered with puddles which meanders its way uphill through woodland, it is indeed very slippery and some people have already taken an early tumble, the three of us plan on running together for a long as possible, I have been nursing an injured knee for a few days so I am aware I will not be breaking any records, to be fair my main should be just to finish the course, however my inbuilt competitiveness always ensures I have one eye out for the clock. We break free from the woods and run along the ridge of a field, at the moment I am rounding the deeper looking puddles shielding my feet from wetness for as long as possible, I know this will add ‘miles’ to the final distance but warmth is of superior importance due to my rubbish circulation, there will be plenty of time to succumb pond paddling in the not so distant future. A bottleneck at a sty gives us a handy breather, starting on a hill running in sticky mud means that you don’t have time to get into a pace or control your breathing, the descent the other side is very steep and has all the grip of Teflon, trail shoes or not I get the feeling this will start off my downhill Tourette’s. A hop over the wooden sty and we are on our way, slick downtrodden mud and grass creates an ice like surface for our trainers to try and purchase some kind of grip upon, coupled with the fact that the hill is very steep indeed means that people are skidding most of the way down waving their arms around for balance, falling over and grabbing on to the grassy banks for support, whilst others zip on by unable to slow down crying out whoooooooaaa as they flash by. My little legs are going much faster than they should be, one wrong move and I could find myself face down in sheep stuff, a few hairy moments and some moves Diversity would be proud of and I reach the bottom, all three of us have managed to keep upright albeit just. We jump over the sheep pen at the bottom and through a track to a farmer’s yard, here we are cheered on by a bleating crowd of alpaca’s until we cross over a road and trudge through a swampy field, and there we are met by our first major hill, we can see people running up what seems to be an impossible gradient, well when I say running, most are ambling at best, the front runners are already out of sight and the rest of the field are now been strung out almost in single file. Mat runs on ahead, with boundless energy he has already been jumping and skipping around the course and he surges onwards and upwards towards the summit, Cobby and I have middle aged knee’s and approach the incline with a bit more caution, having run a few races like this previously we understand the need to reserve some energy and take things slow, well that is our excuse anyway for not being able to keep up. *

I have recently seen some reviews about a couple of running books that I have read, I found the books to be a real inspiration and I could relate to how the authors have described what they are feeling and their approach to the different circumstances that they have come across, however some of the critics have reacted less favorably asking ‘generally’ how a combination of running stories can be so different to one another?  how can they hold a reader’s attention? By and large they have an air of bewilderment that there can be ‘that’ much entertainment in describing a journey that just involves putting one foot in front of another. Although I disagree with the perception, I can understand the point, I have had major writers block whilst writing this particular blog about the Meon Plod, I think after reading the reviews I felt pressure to make the last blog more exciting and appealing, I was asking myself questions whether all of my blogs sound the same?, would anyone outside my social circles actually be interested in hearing about my runs and races? At the end of the day I am just a complete amateur runner, but perhaps that is it, the reason I enjoyed the other books so much was because I could relate to the experiences of the author, In one of the books the races were based around Hampshire and surrounding areas and I had run some of them myself, I loved hearing about how somebody else felt and comparing it to my own experience. So I approached my blog with my same old view, I am just going to tell it as it was and hopefully people would find it interesting, I mean who would pick up a book that has running in the title, about running, about blogs, and expect it to be anything other than what it says on the tin? I wouldn't pick up a book about civil engineering and complain that it was full of too much civil engineering and it bored me! So writers block pushed aside I shall continue where I left off.

*I like to run up the hills, even if I am going at walking pace, it keeps the legs and arms moving a little bit more and makes it easier to get going again when you reach the top, I am trying out relatively new trail shoes today which aren't as grippy as I thought they were so the climbing is also combined with a lot of slipping. The legs are starting to complain a little as they pump hard, every muscle is straining to keep up momentum and putting in little spurts to jump over or divert from rabbit holes and scrapes. The sting in the thighs and the pull on the calves is all part and parcel of why runners run, it’s little pains like this which remind you of why we get up at stupid o’clock in the morning with a hangover in ridiculous conditions lace up our trainers and run off into the distance for hours on end, the pain is there to tell us that we are part of an elite group of people doing things that the average person does not do, we may not be elite in our field but we are certainly part of a group of people who push the boundaries of personal capability, whether you are running 5k or 50k, whether it takes you 20 minutes or 6 hours, it is the little pains that we feel that fills every step with satisfaction and makes the finish line a beacon that consumes us with a true sense of achievement, the sting is pride, the pulls are passion, and the exhaustion reminds us of the true accomplishment it is to finish each and every race. If it didn't hurt then it was easy, and if it was easy everyone would do it, runners have dodgy knee’s, bad joints, pulled muscles, horrendous feet, a sincere lack of toenails, blisters, tweaky hamstrings, pingy glutes, but whatever the injury is it will be worn like a medal (and generally announced to anyone who will listen) to show off the proud toils of what it means to be part of the running community. Wow it sounds like I am having some kind of epiphany half way up this hill, I guess what I am trying to say in lament terms is that we all appreciate that feeling of achievement whether we are running up a hill, or just having a good day at work. Anyway you will be pleased to know that we all made it to the top of the hill safely, the views are absolutely stunning, sometimes you just have to stop in a race and turn 360 degrees to take on board your surroundings, you can get lost in your own little bubble at times looking at the floor or not really concentrating, I like to take time and really have a good scan about, it makes the pain of getting there all the more worthwhile.

Of course with every uphill comes a downhill and this is how the remainder of the Plod was to go, the rare flat sections were still treacherous, the mud seemed to have its own suction and sounded like a straw getting the last of a milkshake as we waded through shin deep waves of churned up soil, Mat lost a shoe at one point and hopped about not wanting to get his already sodden sock dirty, Cobby had taken a monumental tumble into the gloop (which had me suffering with my breathing for a while, it is difficult to run whilst full belly laughing), I am still rather unscathed, but we still have at least 10 miles to run yet. My mind turn back to last year, I recognise the field we are running over, it was here where the last of my will power got used up, I remember the feeling of being totally gutted, knowing that at the next opportunity we had we were to throw in the towel , back then the field had ankle deep freezing cold water and I couldn't feel my feet at all I was shivering uncontrollably and in a bad way, yet here I was again in the same field a year later, but this time full of optimism and vigor.  Hopping over another sty and slip running down the hill I see the church at the bottom that came to my rescue last year, this time however I can wave as I pass on by, content with the knowledge that coincidences just happen and my humanistic approach on life is still intact, if it had happened that I needed to seek shelter at this exact spot two years in a row I may have had to re think my ideas on divine intervention.

Mat ran on at this point, my knee was slowing us down and Cobby and I were just happy to maintain a steady pace going forward, we stopped to eat like kings at the fueling stations, the cake was still amazing and the variety fabulous, the marshals as always were fantastic and smiley, the paths this year seemed to have been replaced with rivers in some places, and I mean rivers, with currents and waterfalls, we were running thigh deep sometimes in some pretty cold water, but we simply didn't care, we were having a laugh and enjoying every second, until, the chalk hill from hell. Imagine if you will Everest, then make it steeper and made of slippery chalk, a torrent of flowing water had eaten away the core of the path which left steep sided banks in a V formation, the fence at the side was topped with barbwire which otherwise would have been nice to use to help pull ourselves up, there would be no running here, not even a jog nor face paced walk, this was an obstacle that could only be overcome with bent knee walking and a lot of tongue in cheek complaining. It lasted forever, every step not getting any closer to the top, looking up there was just a sea of white framed with green bushes and trees that banked the path, to the left we could see the backside of Butser hill, that seemed like a hummock compared to this one, we stopped regularly to lean back and flex our lower back muscles which had started to ache due to our hunched progression, suddenly it all started to even out a little bit, we managed to jog a little in between stretching and walking, then we spied the photographer about 20 yards away, without consultation the pace was picked up and correct running posture regained, it is amazing how when you see someone with a camera you all of a sudden put a little spurt on, it’s almost as if we wanted to look good for our pictures. We ran fast and hard with a smile on our face right up to about 1 metre past the photographer, then we stopped and walked for a bit, that was one bloody tough hill, I think that is the steepest and toughest incline I have ever run in any of my events ever. We posed for a selfie at the top and carried on our way, approximately 2 miles left to run!

One final field to cross and we were running on tarmac in the final straight back to the finish, feet heavy and legs tired we shuffled up one last little hill before it was downhill all the way to the end, I turn to Cobby and ask if he had a sprint finish, he politely advised that he did not (or words to that extent), a marshal up ahead directs us to a final right turn and we are there, I start to push a little harder before I hear a shout of Daddy, Jessica appears and grabs a hold of my hand and runs the last few yards with me. I don’t clock the time, today wasn't about a PB or a time it was about just simply finishing, Mat however had finished in a great time about 20 minutes earlier. We grabbed our medals and made our way to Das Caravan where the cold ciders were popped open and the flapjacks were demolished, we sat in a comfortable and shattered silence, the Plod had been tamed.  

Hellrunner 04/01/2014

In murky waters dreams are lost, as forces cast a torturous spell

This filthy land adorned with frost, which covers every moor and fell

Abandoned hope is now the cost, as icy bogs yield souls to sell

Spirit’s now aside are tossed, as we run the muddy hills of hell

Hellrunner 04/01/2014

Awoken at 3am by pounding rain I peeked out the curtains to be greeted with the sight of a waterfall of torrential rain, when I say torrential I actually mean it was lashing it down, hammering, bucketing, pouring, drenching, stair-rod sideways, upwards, downwards, diagonal driving torrents of storm filled wetness. The booming crack of lightening followed by the bellowing rumble of thunder meant that the eye of this particular storm was nearby, as was the Hellrunner course I am running in the morning, surely it would be called off, I am confident the organisers will use their common sense and not allow this race to go ahead under these severe circumstances. I get back under the covers with this in mind and drift off to sleep.

The alarm goes off and I wake up to the sound of rain still pounding against the window, it’s not as heavy anymore but last night’s monsoon would have turned the course into a gooey slurry of mud and rivers. I look at the website to check if it is still on, there is nothing on there to say it is not, I check the Twitter and Facebook page, but nothing is on there, I text Mat and Colin to see if they have heard anything, but they haven’t ……. Bugger …… it is still going ahead.

As usual all of my gear is laid out for me on the floor, today I will be wearing layers topped with my skeleton morphsuit, it is damn cold outside but the rain is easing off, not that it makes too much difference considering the lakes we are going to have to wade through shortly, it was bad enough last time in chilly November but this year it is on the 4^th January and the weather has been pretty arctic lately.

Mat arrives in Das Bus and we hit the road to pick up Colin, Mat is wearing an evil Dr’s morphsuit, let’s just say that the costume leaves a little less to the imagination than mine does and in this weather he is a brave brave man. We pick up Colin (timekeeping appalling I might add) and make our way to Longmoore Army camp to tackle Hellrunner Down South.

The course is made up of hills hills and hills, it is all off road and trail, moving through woods, streams, rivers, sand, and a huge amount of glorious mud, it is between 10 and 12 miles long and is truly energy sapping for its entirety. Included in its website description are the Hills of hell, and the Bog of Doom, both of which are severe enough to bonk out the most accomplished of athlete.

We park up and move out, on the way we take a look over at the Bog of Doom, is it just me or does this seem a lot deeper than last year? We walk down the soggy puddled trail towards the start line, the rain is still coming down as we huddle in line for the bag drop and it is cold enough for shivering goosebumpled arms and chattering teeth. Numbers pinned on and eager to go we head over to the herd of entrants waiting by the start line, we take shelter in a corrugated arched construction away from the freezing drizzle. Mat is getting a lot of attention in his morphsuit, and is certainly turning a lot of heads, maintaining eye contact is proving to be difficult for a lot of them due to being covered only in a thin layer of blue lycra.

One of the organiser comes rushing in screaming blue murder, at first I think something has gone wrong or someone is hurt, but it turns out he just wants everyone out of the shelter and for us all to line up at the start, in the rain, in the cold, in the wind,  brrrrrrrrrr. I spot my friend Martyn who I ran Tough Mudder with last year and he joins us to start the race together. I assure everyone that the first bit of water we will encounter properly is the Bog of Doom which is about 5/6 miles in or so, we just have to avoid the puddles along the way. This proves to be an exercise in futility from the first mile onwards.

Lumbering towards us comes the devil, walking on stilted Faun legs and brandishing pointed deep red horns he bellows encouragement to all participants, sparking up red flares he looms through the scarlet mist as a menacing Beelzebub, an illuminating Lucifer, this fallen angel and chief of the demons will sound the alarm to start the race and begin our adventure into a modern day filth splattered purgatory.

The first 300 metres or so were a pretty dry affair, the odd puddle threatened to dampen our laces but we managed to skip over the worse of it and pick our way over the dry patches of hard ground, half a mile later sopping wet shoes and sodden socks ensured that my promise of no water for 5 miles was to be somewhat unfounded. The path and terrain made it an impossibility to daintily hop over the watery obstacles and we found ourselves wading through a thigh deep, sub-zero, bitterly cold lake. As the water raised further up my legs towards the mid-rift area I was immediately glad I had a couple of layers to at least protect myself from the icy harshness of the watery elements, although it wouldn’t last forever I was at least grateful for a slight reprieve from the cold and that what warmth I had would be prolonged for a little while to come.

Stop for a while, take a breath in, as you do purse your lips, now breathe in harder and make a pa pa pa pa noise, increase your volume until you sound like steam train, this is the noise that a man makes when the Baltic conditions finally seeps through his clothes when submerged waist deep in water, it is like a Mexican wave of  locomotives as the icy chill hits everyone at the same time, the pack of competitors who drove into the lake with cheery dispositions and laughter now hurriedly rush to scramble up the bank the other side like wilder beasts trying to avoid the crocodiles in the rivers of the Serengeti, the small mercy to be thankful for is that what little lactic acid that had built up was certainly flushed away now, but this was of little comfort as we all nimbly and numbly emerged out of the water and made our way into the woods. The marshal cheerfully informed us that there wasn’t a lake there a few days ago, Mat Colin Martyn, and I laughed this off until the realisation came that we had another 10 miles of this to come.

I may sound like I am moaning a bit already, don’t get me wrong I love a challenge, I love cross countries, I love hills, I don’t even mind the odd puddle, if it was easy then everyone would do it and I like the aspect of trying things that the average Joe wouldn’t even consider, however my circulation in my hands and feet are awful, my feet especially now that they are soaking wet and will be for another hour and half to come, my hands are ok as I am wearing my gloves but I do have a bit of a moan before realising that I should just MTFU.

We are moving at some pace and overtaking a lot of people, we all train pretty hard at the gym on our legs with untold squats and lunges, Colin and Mat are keen cyclists too so we are making light work of even the steepest of hills, Mat is running ahead and Martyn slightly behind, Colin and I use drafting methods to catch him up, not for any wind resistance reasons but just for a bit of friendly motivational encouragement, we  all group up as we ascend the thick sticky clayed hills and put the trust in the work we have done on our thighs to power onwards and upwards to the summit. Head down and arms pumping I pick the appropriate path to make for the easiest route, looking up I am confronted with the thin blue lycra’d sight of Mat’s arse, to be fair it is quite pert but it is definitely not going to help me reach the top of this slope. This scenario is repeated throughout the race, as soon as you hit a down-hill an uphill almost immediately greets you with a big filth incrusted grimy sludge caked grin.

Many a slip and slide adorn our journey as people tumble and fall all around us, as yet we have avoided the temptation to come a cropper and have maintained balance and dignity, even on the treacherous descends we manage to horse trot side-wards with pacey precision in relative safety. We work our way over the course in true camaraderie fashion, providing a push or leg up where needed or an arm pull and a back pat at particularly harsh obstructions, true friendships can be cast when confronted with major hurdles, not just physical ones either, but when you have the mental and moral support of your chums it is truly appreciated.

Laughter is the best medicine, it is true, and laughing at someone’s misfortune (depending on the situation of course) can be one of the most rewarding therapies of all, I don’t mean in a horrible sense, more of a ‘You’ve Been Framed’ kind of way, it is well known that Colin and I have no coordination, in the Body Combat class we take at Waterlooville’s Horizon Gym we are notorious for making up our own moves and generally doing things at completely different times and directions to anyone else, Colin’s balance however fares a bit worse, as it proves today as we reach our first long stretch of water. Turning a corner in the woods we see our fellow participants queuing single file to slowly submerge themselves into a stretch of water about chest deep and about 50 yards long, Colin goes ahead of Mat and I as we precariously wade our way through the murky pond, about halfway in, our magician of a friend shows us his ‘now you see me, now you don’t’ trick and disappears into the drink with all of the grace of a falling stepladder, a Scottish cry of ‘oooerrrrrrr’ fills the air before the final splash of an undignified entry, brilliant this is just what I need to pick me up and I bellow a laughter of approval, heightened further still as Colin’s head breaks the surface of the water still full of smiles but covered in boggy residue.

I am not sure where I injured my knee, I think it was a combination of the descends that took its toll and caused it to start being a problem, it meant that running uphill was now becoming a struggle and I was being left behind, however going down them I was able to catch up and overtake, I was starting to limp a little and could really do with something to numb the pain …. It was like the devil himself had heard me and offered me his best solution for the problem, the ‘Bog of Doom’ .. a stretch of water longer than any of the others awaited us, crowds of supporters were watching from both sides of the bank as loved ones and friends sink themselves into the dark waters of the stagnant pond of filth. Blasts of dry ice are funnelled into the stinking ravine and lingers on the surface like a menacing mist warning you of your impending doom, yet beckoning you in like the Camp Crystal Lake. Entry into the bog was more of a plunge as you was immediately greeted at neck height by glacial water of hyper thermic proportions, my breath wasn’t just taken away it was forcibly removed like an elephant had trampled on me, I couldn’t catch my breath at all and tried to propel myself forwards as fast as I could to get it over and done with, my feet reached for the bottom and it was soon very apparent that the only way to get through this was to swim, I was a bit panicky if I am honest and looking around most people were wide eyed and heavy breathing, that is to say everyone but Mat, Mat in his 1mm thick costume was pulling out the backstroke like it was a dip in the Mediterranean, here I am fighting just to breathe and he is diving under the water and larking about like it’s a summers day on the beach, plumes of dry iced smoke are fired into our faces making it impossible to see anything in front of you, there are people around us grabbing onto trees for safety, some are doing their best to pull themselves out at the sides, one girl was being carried through the water, I am moving forward with the best breast stroke I can muster, Colin is ahead and shouting encouragement as he reaches toe touching ground, and Mat is just enjoying it. There are camera’s the other side and I do my best (for once) to avoid them, I can’t even fake a smile, that is by far the worst thing I have ever had to do in a race and even though there are a few more streams to cross I know now that the worst is over and done with, at least my knee feels better.

More and more hills come but the finish line is almost in sight, my momentum starts to pick up after a few minutes, and even more so as I can hear some cheerleading up ahead, the water and exhaustion must have made me delirious as coming up I think I can see singing angel cheerleaders, I look at the lads and a nod confirms that there are indeed scantily clad cheerleading angels up ahead, we run through the middle of them as they chant rhymes of inspiration and praise as we continue on our run through the woods with renewed vigour.

The final mile or so consists of sand, wet leg sapping, shoe sucking sand, trudging wearily through we manage to reach every peak and persuade our muscles to take us home, there is one final dip through a waist height lake and we are on the final straight, all together, running as one, running ….. well a bit faster, and faster still, there has not been a pre-organised sprint finish, in fact this race has been all about good friends helping each other out, yet still we are getting faster and faster, we turn a corner and see the finish line, we are now flat out, neck and neck, wailing and screaming limbs are begging us to slow it down but our competitive brains will not let it happen, the line is getting closer and closer and we are in synch right down to the stride, the red mats suddenly appear and the head dipping chest lunging push for the line is now over.

We will have to wait for a while for the results to be published on the website, to be fair it was just a bit of fun and no one really cares what the time was, maybe a bit of bragging rights for later that’s all. We grab our medals (awesome by the way) and our goody bags and make our way back to Das Bus, my feet are blue with cold and it takes a good hour or so for them to go back to normal colour, the heaters are on full blast as we all get changed inside Mats VW. I can only apologise to the lady who was getting changed very discretely by the side of her car next to us, as with most races it’s not unusual to get changed in and around your car, however I am sure she wasn’t expecting the sight of three naked bums peering at her from inside the vehicle next to her.

So that was it, for me it was tougher than Tough Mudder due to the conditions, but I enjoyed it immensely, the whole day proved how fellow runners, mates and competitors, can all pull together and work as a team, runners are already the friendliest groups of people I know and events like this show how you can form real alliances and bonds with strangers and friends alike. It is about the journey, not how long it takes to get there, and if you come second in the race but put in 100% then no one could ever ask for more ………… isn’t that right Colin ;o) ……….

Portsmouth Coastal Marathon 22/12/2013

Running, like football, can be a game of two halves.

3 Days before Christmas seems like an excellent time to burn off a few thousand calories in anticipation for the forthcoming gluttony and alcoholic debauchery, so around this time for the last 3 years the Portsmouth coastal marathon has been perfectly placed to assist in combating against the onslaught of festive indulgence and act as a healthy knife cutting through the grease of goose fat soaked roast potatoes.

The plan this year was to simply enjoy the marathon, for the past two years I have tried to put in a performance and smash some goals, and for the past two years I have battled against harsh elements to spectacularly fail in doing so. The first year I ran this race was the very first marathon I have ever ran, I ran it with my friend (and boss) Kate Weston in icy cold conditions, considering it was our first 26.2 we managed to pull out a time of around four hours which I considered to be a bloody good benchmark considering the Siberian conditions and trail nature of the course. The second year I foolhardily decided that a positive split would be a good idea, I had already ran several marathons and I had a P.B of 3 hours 40 minutes, I thought that home turf and knowledge of the course would put me in a superior position to outwit the weather and the terrain, plus with the local news covering the start of the race meant I put my best foot forward and tried to keep up with the faster boys and girls at the off (anything to look good for the camera). Speeding off at 7.30 / 8 minute miles ended in getting the major bonk around mile 20 and recording a 3.55 time, which I am still pretty chuffed with but I didn't enjoy the race at all.

This year would be different, this year the members of the SMCD running club would be attending and completing the course as a team. The members of the Sunday Morning Church Dodgers running club are a group of friends who have been running off and on together for about 2/3 years, we get together most Sunday mornings at 8am and then proceed to put the world to rights whilst our little legs pound the hills, streets, beaches, fields, and pavements of Portsmouth for a couple of hours or so. All of us have competed in races previously but only two have run marathons, in fact for most the longest distance covered is about 16 miles, so this event was to be a true baptism of fire.

Signed up for the big day are; Luc Semmens, Michael Cobb, Mat Price, Craig Marshall and myself Andy Pittman, the founder member of the SMCD club Gary Cook, will be joining us en route to run about 18 miles of the course and offer encouragement (as well as steal a couple of jaffa cakes). Luc, Mat and Craig are all marathon virgins, and have picked a tough course to pop their long distance cherries, all are super fit however and have overcome various obstacles and hurdles to get to peak performance levels, this is the right time to attack this adventure and put it down on their athletic CV’s.

As ever Rob Piggott and his Believe and Achieve team have set out a wonderfully organised race, the baggage drop congestion being my only criticism, however I truly recommend any of Rob’s events which are always tremendously popular and enjoyable to participate in, I would always encourage people to take part in any locally based events, especially charitable ones such as this that give a positive contribution to our local community.

On the morning of the race Mat arrives in Das Bus to pick us up and ferry us off to start line at the Pyramid Centre, numerate recollections of nervous convenience breaks for that morning are exchanged as the air is filled with excited and nervous chatter. The plan is to stick together as long as we can as a team and attempt a 4 way heel click over the finish line, however if people are feeling strong then they must save themselves and push forward for glory. Being the veteran marathoner I have planned to stay with whoever needs me the most, being a veteran at this doesn’t mean I am any good, in fact it is very possible that it will be me at the back telling everyone else to crack on, however I know the course and should be able to offer enough positivity and reassurance to ensure that there will be no DNF’s next to any of the SMCD.

Its bloody cold, not only that but it’s forecasted to rain, and why not, it has rained almost constantly for about 5 days which will mean that the course will mainly consist of mud and puddles, there is a decent amount of tarmac but this is considered a trail marathon really. As we wait for the start Cobby has decided to go get a good time, this leaves Luc, Mat, Craig and myself to get round as best we can, with pockets full of jelly babies, gels, bloks, and sweets we walk towards the start line, perfectly timed to coincide with a biblical drenching from the heavens, an eager air horn gets us rushing to the start and we join our fellow runners to commence our epic escapade.

The storms have washed up the stones from the beach onto the seafront promenade making the surface underfoot difficult from the start, one wrong turn here and it’s a twisted ankle and a short hobble back, we are running at a sensible pace so it is fairly easy to manoeuvre over the seaside rubble and through the competitor congestion where needed. The prom gives way to a short spell of grass before we descend onto a boggy beach of shingle and mud, anyone who has run this route before knows of this beaches ability to suck the shoes off of your feet in an instant, sometimes unwilling to return the footwear and keep them within its murky clutches. Running this section nearer to the water is the best route, there is more solid ground here and less chance of Zola Budd-ing the rest of the race. Never the less this section still saps the energy out of your legs at less than 2 miles in and sets a good president for the unstable terrain to come.

The slower pace proves hard to keep to sometimes, each of us at some point skip ahead before we have to forcibly slow ourselves down to avoid premature burnout, we are expending more energy as we dart about to avoid lake sized puddles, eventually we will be running straight through them, but at this early stage it is best to avoid them so not to get blistered and freezing feet. The atmosphere is great, we have all run together at some point, but not for a gargantuan achievement such as this, all limbs feel fine, cardio is tip top, and our camaraderie is second to none, this is now boosted as we hit Eastern road and are greeted with warm cheers from Justine and Jessica who duly dish out high fives to everyone, Gary also joins us here as the group is reformed like an ageing boy band.

We banter along-side other runners and take on the food stations at every available opportunity, a veritable banquet of jaffa cakes, mince pies, cakes, sweets, and gels as well as a variety of drinks await us, the drinks add to the party atmosphere as we sup up mulled wine and water (not in equal quantities of course) and continue on our plight for distance running stardom.

The ground underfoot now is tarmac, we run alongside a main road for a few hundred metres before we turn off and run beside a nature sanctuary, the coastal paths and surrounding scenery make this one of the most pleasurable events to participate in, you are never more than a 100 yards from the water and the wildlife and views you encounter along the way are breath taking, it has something of everything and for everyone, road, views, beaches, fields, tracks, water, mud, stones, the only thing it doesn't have is hills, and to be fair I am completely ok with that !!

We are still all running as a group and with no niggles, we have stuck to the pace plan and without exception feel pretty damn dandy, a good sign of this is that we are all still chatting and bantering, we pass another feed station taking on board its offers and then proceed towards another stretch of beach, it is here where injuries can be picked up, the change of surface from solid to shingle can overstretch muscles and pull and stretch at them, a tingle of cramp can turn into a pulled muscle if not nurtured correctly, the beach is about 200 metres long and again drains up a lot of well needed energy as we trudge through the pebbled surface and plough on. Wooden steps lead us away from the crunching stone stepping and into the wet muddy trail paths heading towards Hayling Bridge.

We wait up and regain as a group, it’s a single track path but we can squeeze a couple of runners together through , striding along the ridge and avoiding pot holes and burrows still having enough in the tank to prance over particularly deep looking pools or suspiciously deeps slugs of mud. Reaching an innocent looking decline I scamper down gingerly and take a look back to make sure my ensuing pals are following, Luc decides that he is far too clean at this point and the only way to rectify this is to employ one of his famous footballing tactics and dive into the mud (although this time it wasn’t done on purpose), not wanting to see a man suffer on his own Gary also joins Luc in his mud meeting crusade and promptly introduces the floor to his bum. Not sure whether I was allowed to laugh or not I push on through the kissing gate and towards the bridge …. Laughing ……

The next boost is at the next stop, Craig’s wife Hayley and his kids Jack and Ruby are there cheering and waving, these types of boost are amazing, just a wave or a cheer from someone you know or love can give you a massive lift, make you emotional, and push you towards your goal with renewed desire and determination. We stop for a while, it’s time for me to contemplate the dreaded Billy Line, this is my least favourite part of the marathon, I have run this course 3 times and each time this part seems to deplete my energy reserves and sombre my mood, it is basically a very muddy wide track of gravel and unavoidable puddles three miles long, it takes you up to the half way turning point before leading you back again, a total of 6 miles running in wet gloop. We re fuel on everything we can eat and hit the road again, Mat still has an abundance of energy and often surges forward for a while and then waits for us to catch up, Luc and Gary are looking good and I am feeling amazing, I am really enjoying savouring this run with my mates, and being there if they need me to give out any advice or cheesy one liners, Craig however is not fairing as well, cardio wise he is probably one of the strongest of all of us, however when injury strikes there is not much you can do about it. Craig’s knee has started to give him some gip, you have got to make a decision here what is the best, of course everyone wants to finish whatever race they enter, but not to the detriment of sustaining a serious injury, sometimes pushing yourself further can put you on the side-lines for weeks, maybe months, on the other hand pushing through the pain barrier with a minor injury may not do any serious damage, for now all we can do is monitor the situation and hope it doesn’t get too bad to incur a DNF.

About a mile into the Billy Line we spot the leaders running back the other way, these guys are tremendous athletes, I don’t think I could sustain the pace they are running at for even a 10k let alone a marathon, I recognise Ian Berry in the top handful of runners and shout encouragement his way, I am secretly hoping this may earn me a discount in the revered Kent Roadrunner Marathon that he organises, he is a sub 3 hour marathoner so he would have been at home with a cup of tea by the time I have even sniffed the finish line.

The track doesn’t disappoint and is full of deceptively deep pools and puddles, by this time our feet are soaked so we trundle through the water almost in resignation, spirits are still high even but Craig’s knee is becoming more and more painful. We reach the half-way point and gorge ourselves again on every morsel of food on offer, mulled wine is quaffed in shots (more so by Craig who I think may be trying to numb the pain) and the chocolate is welcomed and snaffled, a quick turn and we are on the home straight, we have now completed the half marathon and every step now is a step nearer to the finish line, we can count down the miles and confidently gauge how far is left to travel, sometimes this is an advantage in a ‘there and back’ event, sometimes it’s a hindrance, it depends on how you are feeling, if you feel great and full of energy you can count off the milestones easily and get to the next point with enthusiasm, however if things aren’t going too well then every recognisable point is like a beacon of despair reminding you exactly how far there is left to go, which seems like an eternity, unfortunately in this case for some of us it was the latter.

Hayley and the kids were waiting again just after the Hayling Bridge, we were still all together although the pace was getting remarkably slower, thumbs up photos were taken and some back slaps and high fives handed out, this was to be one of the final moments we were to remain together as a group, the stop was at about mile 16.

Heading off we pass through the kissing gate and over mud slip hill, we are now having to stop every 4/5 minutes or so and walk, Luc and Mat are off up in the distance and we tell them to carry on, I ask Craig what he wants to do, if he wants to get through this then I will make sure he gets to the finish line, however if he feels like it is a serious injury it is best to turn around now and get some assistance, he decides to keep going and does not want to give up, and that is exactly what we do. We run and then walk for the remaining 6/7 miles, talking and chatting trying to ignore the pain, we rest up at each feed station and visualise the finish ahead, a lot of runners are in the same position, limping and shuffling, slow jogging and walking, but none are giving up.

Fast forward to the trail track just before the final beach run, I am trying to think of ways to keep Craig’s mind off of his knee, we are now about 3 miles from the finish, I tell him the last mile doesn’t count because that is the glory mile so technically he only has two miles to run, by now words of encouragement are falling on deaf ears, actions are the only thing left I have to improve the situation, the track is pretty flooded, the water is very cold, cold equals refreshing, splashing in puddles equals funny, I pick out a suitable puddle just up ahead and as we approach I attack it with vigour, jumping up high with both feet I force my legs down into it in a sideways motion, this should get a laugh as I spray water into Craig’s kneecaps, a refreshing splash to keep his mood up, a great scenario to perk us up for the final couple of miles …….. actually that puddle was quite deep ……..what I intended to be a stimulating splash actually ended up to be a tsunami tidal wave of muddy grotty water ……. I have never seen anyone look at me with such hatred before, with pure condemnation and disbelief of what had just occurred, the water poured off of his hair and dripped down off of his nose in brown torrents, quickly realising I had made a huge error of judgement I did what any friend would do, and wet myself laughing, thankfully the runners around us burst out laughing too which defused the situation immensely, what Craig called me is unrepeatable, some of the things he said I still don’t think are humanly possible, but what it did do was take our mind off of things for a while, ok maybe not in the way I meant it to, but it worked.

The tide had come in so we gratefully welcomed a detour through the park and not over the beach and stones, this was it, this was the final mile, the marathon had taken it out of a lot of people and nearly everyone from now on in were doing their best just to get to the finish line, we were walking at this point but the finish line was in sight, with one final push we summoned up enough effort to get this over and done with. I heard my sister Jackie before I saw her, she had come over from Israel for Christmas and was here to cheer me on, my other Sister Caroline was there, Justine and Jessica, my Mum Marian and my nephews Ben and Sam, Hayley and Ruby cheered on also and Jack ran the final 100 metres with us. We ran across the finish line and timed ourselves at just under 5 hours, hugely respectable considering the circumstances. Cobby had finished in about 4 hours and Luc and Mat had finished in about 4.5 hours, Gary had dropped out at about mile 18.

An amazing achievement from everyone, 3 marathon cherries popped and all in pretty good times, we faced everything from harsh conditions and pain to laughter and banter, but most of all we completed something as friends, a monumental accomplishment from fellow marathoners and chums, and soon to be marathoner Gary as he has just been accepted into the Virgin London Marathon to run alongside Luc and myself in April.

Pretty damn proud of our running group and I am looking forward to running with everyone again soon.

Gosport Half Marathon 17/11/2013

The Curious Incident of the Portaloo in the Airfield

I have managed to fit in a lot of races in a short period of time, this is my 43^rd race since I started in December 2011, and I think this my favourite half marathon I have run. The Gosport Half Marathon is well organised and friendly, the marshals are ace, the route is flat, the scenery is pretty good, and the PB potential is a good 9 out of 10. Everything was pointing towards having a great crack at a sub 1 hour 35 minute finishing time, everything but my absent mindedness and forgetting the first major rule of preparing for any race!

Sunday morning brings with it a cold bite and a very crispy chill in the air, brass monkeys, parky, and a certain part of a witches’ anatomy could also describe what Mother Nature has furnished us with on this fine day. I briefly pick up my running tights and then put them down in favour of my shorts, not wanting to finally succumb to wintery running clothing, everything else was duly laid out the previous night ready for this morning, even my number was pinned to my shirt! Running gear all accounted for, fresh clothes, towel, travelling trackie, gels, bloks, Vaseline, Imodium.. ahh hold up no Imodium, no worries I will grab some on the way.

I bet you can now guess the theme to this blog, I will try not to build the anticipation of toiletry  conducts, however this is the main part of my story, my running chums (no pun intended) I am sure will sympathise and relate to the dilemma, for everyone else lets refer to it as runners belly !!

Grabbing my kit I head over to Gary’s house and wait for Luc, there is only one road in and out of Gosport so we leave in plenty of time to get there. I momentarily forget the need to purchase Imodium and when I do remember we have already gone past all the shops, I decide that I probably will not need it as it should take me just over an hour and a half to complete and there will be toilets en route if needed. I will rue this decision with a passion between miles 8 and 10 with a pain that can surely only be comparable with childbirth.

We arrive, park up and make our way to collect our timing chips. Just before I drop my bag off I decide that it’s probably a good idea to nip to the gents before the start, walking through the school doors I am confronted with huge queue snaking round the corner. Rue decision number 2 (again no pun intended) not to bother queuing up and head towards the start.

With 15 minutes to go we assemble near the start line, we have collected Colin and Hannah along the way and stand shivering waiting for the gun. I have a strategy for the race, the first 5 miles all under 7 minutes each, then the remaining between 7 and 7:30, this should mean I hit 1 hour 35 minutes squarely on the nose. It starts to get more packed as about 1600 runners stand shoulder to shoulder waiting for the off. There are so many club t shirts in this race, because it is flat it attracts a lot of good runners from quite far a-field and it is an excellent opportunity to achieve a personal best. This was certainly my intention and as long as everything went to plan I should shave at least two minutes off of my Portsmouth half Marathon time of 1:36:50, the Portsmouth is a trail race so in comparison this should be much easier to get sub 1:35.

The tannoy crackles into life and we are ushered forward, a surge of vested runners huddle together awaiting the off. The gun goes and the race begins. As always my excited legs bound me off fast, propelling me forward like an excited puppy, we start on an open road where there is a lot of space to find your ground and your pace, it soon files into a narrow pathway where there is not much room for overtaking manoeuvres, this normally would be an issue but as it is at the beginning of the run it probably saved me going too hard and fast in the first couple of miles. We turn off the pathway and into an airfield, now running to the sound of Caribbean steel drums, beating out music of sunnier climates, palm trees, and relaxation ahhhhhhhh, the music vibrated through the ground and up through my body, it was kind of euphoric and at that time I was really really enjoying my race.

I will pass the drums again at mile 9 as we take in two loops of the airfield, already I was well into mile 4 and all of my mile times so far had started with a 6, bang on schedule, my legs felt good, my breathing was great, everything was in tune and I was starting to think that Gos-Vegas was the place to set my fastest run yet.

Exiting the airstrip we move back onto the roads again, up towards Stubbington and through some housing, people were standing at the end of their drives cheering and handing out jelly babies, I was eating up some serious pavement and had settled in a group who were all running at 7 min mile pace, a little part of me thought maybe I could hit nearer to 1:30, I started to calculate the times in my head and whether this was possible, did I have enough miles left to make up a few seconds here and there ?? , could I pick it up a bit now or should I save some in the tank and really push hard for home ??, maybe I should eat a shot blok and .. *gargle* .. my stomach flipped a bit, ok no need to panic just yet, so perhaps if I ate a shot blok now and then picked up the pace a little bit .... *big stomach gargle* .. and there it was, without warning ‘runners belly’ crept up on me slapped me in the face and had my eyes darting around for the closest conveniences. By this point we had entered into the airfield again, I could hear the steel drums being played with enthusiasm and zest, this time however it felt more like impending Indian war drums, the kind that instead of making you want to dance makes you want to hide instead. The vibrations reverberated through my body and lingered in my stomach, shaking and shuddering it to and fro, pushing and squeezing, bubbling into a crescendo of white horses crashing and tearing like a tsunami of pain ….. yep its runners belly alright. The only known cure known to man is the cross legged run. I broke into the cross legged run quite quickly, it’s a kind of weird skip where everything is clenched, it comes in waves and if you miss out on a clench you may end up regrettably ‘doing a Radcliffe’. My eyes are scouring my surroundings, but this is an airfield, there are no tree’s or bushes, everywhere is just a vastness of nothing, you can run 500 yards in any direction and still be out in the open. This is getting serious now and I am briefly thankful I am wearing gloves (now people who have been in similar positions and have experienced runners belly will understand what I meant by this sentence, sometimes when you are in the middle of nowhere, especially in a trail race you have to make do with what you have, it is not uncommon for runners to start a race wearing gloves and socks and sometimes come back having left them buried in the woods, if you still don’t understand what I mean think what you would do in a festival portaloo when there is no paper left).

Now I am not a religious man, in fact far from it, but if ever I was going to believe in any god it may well be the deity of runners, it was like Hermes himself saw my plight and zapped down a sign, a mirage shinning in an asphalt desert adorned from a lamppost with an arrow pointing which simply read ‘toilets’. The clenched run became an awkward hop shuffle as if reading that very word was enough to leave the departure lounge and board the plane, my outstretched hand reached for the handle and with great relief pulled the unlocked door open. The next few minutes were spent waving goodbye to a PB and thinking Freud may have a point with his theories of psychological gratification and concluding that expulsion was definitely more rewarding than retention.

Getting back running again was just as difficult, I now have to set off again at a similar pace and my legs complained a lot, stopping in any run makes it so difficult to start again, your legs seize up and the inclination to proceed wavers, this is why runners will always hop and bound at traffic lights waiting to cross the road, not wanting to cool down, keeping warm to start again. It took a good mile before I got into my stride and I reckon I must have lost about 3 or 4 minutes in total for my unscheduled pit stop with no way of catching up this lost time. We leave the airfield and head down to Lee on Solent beach promenade, the scenery cheers me up and I focus on the last couple of miles home, a couple of half decent miles and I will be close to my PB, which under the circumstances is better than nothing. I don’t know what my exact time is as I had stopped my Garmin in the portaloo but I continue to run about 7 minute miles. Stokes Bay is looming and the cheering crowd is getting more condensed, I can see the finish line as I turn the corner and look at the clock on the right hand side, I put in one final sprint and take in my time as I cross the line.

1:37:10 !!!!

20 Seconds off of a PB !!!!

I don’t know whether to be happy or gutted, 20 seconds out but 4 minutes down, the end result is that it is not a personal best, but I know I can spank my old time.

I

 jog back up the road and cheer on the other guys with encouragement such as ‘the beer is near’ and ‘call that a sprint finish’ Lisa is first in view and dishes out a high five, then its Colin and Hannah who have had a great race, closely followed by Luc and Gary who battle it out for a fast finish.

The good news is that everyone bar me achieved a PB, the course is fab, I could wax lyrical about how much I enjoyed (most of) this event, it was split down into manageable chunks and recognisable splits therefore making it better to not only judge the distance, but to decrease it to an extent where the miles flew by quickly and markers could easily be established. For anyone looking for a fast well organised half, this is it!

So 43 races in and I am still learning, runners belly is like stealthy ninja that can make you run like a crab and cry like a girl, my advice ? Always remember Imodium, always check out where the loo’s are on the map beforehand, never dismiss a queue, oh and if needed always wear gloves. 

I am still wearing both gloves !!

Ghost Race 01/11/2013

Ghost Race 01/11/2013

A late Friday evening we gathered at night,

Among Witches and Ghosties delivering fright,

The air full cackles and warbling boo’s,

As Skeletons and Zombies laced up running shoes.

The spooks gathered round aside undead and vamps,

Furnished with glow-sticks and beaming head lamps,

Our numbers pinned tight as we stood in the park,

Awaiting the gun to set us free in the dark.

Through sodden wet grass and thick gloopy mud,

We ran next to monsters teeth dripping with blood,

The trees masked the moon and darkness provided,

Perfect cover for ghouls and for souls now misguided.

Up and over the bridge and into the woods,

Fled creatures and ogres with dark sack like hoods,

Behemoths and beasts would surely be there,

As we ran through in numbers and entered their lair.

Ghastly sounds filled the night’s cold eerie grasp,

As fiendish night freaks jumped out into our paths,

A witch beckoned us closer shooing us into the copse,

Towards screaming banshees and bony faced corpse.

The lingering terrors of Halloween fills the air,

As we now push for home with hearts full of scare,

And out of the woods with a blistering pace,

The finish line sighted to end our Ghost race,

A jump in the air and a heel click to boot,

Marks the end of this fiendish and foreboding route.

A medal to show we survived the nights grapple,

A bag full of goodies and a sweet toffee apple,

The evil and fearsome have now left the course,

And still are the trees and the bushes of gorse,

Yet a noise to be heard near the dark misty stream,

A gargle at first rising into a scream.

A bedraggled white figure hair over her eyes,

Is the last of the evenings most ghoulish surprise,

The girl of the woods has reclaimed her park,

And with a giggling laugh disappears in the dark.

Beachy Head Marathon - 27/10/2013

Beachy Head Marathon

Two ‘unders’ dominated my Beach Head experience, under prepared and under estimation.

I knew I was entering into the unknown with this race, but I was fairly confident that completion was inevitable providing I took it nice and steady and just sat back and enjoyed the ride. This was officially my 12^th marathon (official race stats) and I was relying on previous form and muscle memory to get me round the hugely undulating course. I hadn’t run a marathon since the London in April but I have been keeping myself busy with lots of shorter distances, and I was training harder at the gym and at home. I knew I was underprepared but hey, I have run 12 organised marathons and about 4/5 of my own ones too, I have competed in undulating hilly events in all types of weather so this wouldn’t be any different to any other marathons.

My second ‘under’, underestimating basically everything on this course, the hills, the weather, the drink/feed stations, my fatigue, the terrain, my fitness, mental preparation, and my strength. I cannot express how much this marathon killed me, 26.2 little miles accumulating into one huge ball of pain and mental torture. I would like to say I have over exaggerated a bit, but the pictures tell the story.

The weekend was due to be a windy one, I went up to the course on the Friday to check out the terrain and it was indeed blustery to say the least. Following the course round to about 20 miles or I pulled into a car park next to a meandering ox bow lake, the scenery is stunning, lakes, hills , countryside, cliffs, views of the see, just amazing. It had been raining for a couple of days so the ground was wet and muddy which coincided badly with the fact that I was going to be completing this run in my road shoes, slippery muddy ballerina Andy is sure to make an appearance.  

Staying overnight at my Mum’s I was full of excitement and dread in equal quantities, which didn’t help my insomnia, it was going to be tough enough competing in the race let alone on only 3 hours sleep ! Eastbourne is only half hour from my Mums apartment in Bexhill and the dry run the day before ensured there was no road works to slow me down, I would get there and register with plenty of time to spare. I hate rushing about and the night before a race I always check and double check my kit bag, everything was laid out for cold, wet and windy weather conditions. Double socks, double gloves, 2 snoods (one for bandana one for face), shorts, calf guards, trainers, knee tape, under armour long sleeve, wind jacket, charity vest, 2 Gels, 1 packet of shot bloks, sports drink for the journey up, cliff bar, and of course cocodemol and Imodium.

Waking up before the alarm at 6.30 I got ready and headed off, the sky was still dark, there was rain in the air, and the trees and bushes were blowing side-wards. If it was like that here what on earth is the wind going to be like on top of the cliffs of the seven sisters! I arrived promptly at registration and collected my number and timing chip, the start/finish arch had just been blown up and I took a wander over to see what hill was first to greet us, and there she was, in all of her grassy sheer glory, literally 20 yards from the start a sharp incline was to welcome us with knee jellifying and breath stealing steepness. There is no chance of getting in to your pace here, you just have to suck it up and let your thighs take a bashing from the get go, pump your arms, dig deep in the calves, and push on up to the top where the sound of the piper rings out in your ears, like a fanfare announcement that your pain starts here.

An hour later and I am standing looking up at the hill with about 1500 other fellow marathoners, it is still pretty cold and windy but I have dressed accordingly so am pretty sure I will be warm enough on the way round. On my left shoulder is Dave, I often see Dave on cross country runs and marathons, I first met him at the Three Forts Marathon which is another hilly affair, Dave must be in his late 60’s and typifies the people I see in these races, he makes it look easy, and not just for his age, he is genuinely a bloody good marathoner. We get talking and he tells me that he has completed the South Downs 100 this year, now 100 kilometres is a long way, but the South Downs 100 is in miles!! That’s almost x4 back to back marathons, it took him 27hours to complete including stops for food and rest, but no sleep, can you imagine running for 27 hours, its mind blowing, but it also proves to anyone out there that no matter what age you are, anything is possible. Dave is hoping for about 5 to 5.5 hours today, I am hoping for anything between 4 and 5, although to be fair the old adage of ‘just getting round’ is really my motto for today. The countdown begins as we are nattering and we quickly exchange ‘best of lucks’ before poising our fingers over the start button on our Garmins ready for the air horn.

And that’s it, off we go, a bottle neck quickly ensues as 1500 try to cram their way up a very steep and narrow hill, there are steps and foot holes on the way so there isn’t much clambering to be done and it soon gets a lot more spread out as we near the summit. Scottish bagpipes can be heard drifting rhythmically on the wind creating a surreal atmosphere, it is kind of like marching into war, almost foreboding but strangely subduing my mood, as if it is there on purpose to humble the nerves or relax any of my excited ‘start of the race’ acceleration and enthusiasm. The piper is in full Scottish regalia standing high on a copse as the wind breezes over his high feathered hat and carries his music to the ears of fellow racers further back.

The first few miles fly by, there are hills already, you are either running down or running up hill, there is very little flat whatsoever, and the ground varies between muddy, hard, wet, and flinty. The surrounding countryside looks out over hills and valleys and the paths wander through woods and fields. The first 10k is a breeze and times in about 50 minutes, I work out a quick calculation and reckon there is actually a slim chance I could make this in about 4 hours, I push on hard down hills with a new vigour that I might actually crack this in a decent time.

15 minutes later.

Bloody hell!! The weather has changed from cold and overcast to sunny and bloody hot, I am overheating badly and have no-where to strip off any layers, I take off my gloves and bandana and carry them round with me for the rest of the race, I haven’t taken any water with me and am relying on the next stop to come along sharpish, this is a schoolboy error which will bite me on my ass in the miles to come also. We run further into the woods and out the other side, up various inclines until suddenly the wind meets us like a smack in the face, its around mile 8 that I first get scared, although I have done loads of training, I have not put the miles in, I am treading water as the wind takes the pace out of me and my thighs are screaming as I try to push them forward, I start to realise that I am not even a third into this race and already my body is beginning to tell me to pack it in. A brief downhill with high sided banks takes the edge off of the incoming hurricane Jude and there is enough rest-bite to recharge and recover, there is also a feed station coming up where I soon devour a mars bar and refuel on water. Feeling replenished and a little bit less sulky and sorry for myself, I plough onwards and literally upwards to tackle the oncoming onslaught of inclines.

This course is beautiful, everything about it has a view, from start to finish we are running through, around, over and on the most amazing landscapes. At the halfway stage I still have enough consciousness to appreciate everything around me, I am even pointing it out to my fellow runners, I guess it’s about now in their own blogs they are talking about the guy who was annoyingly telling them to look how lovely the stream looks, or isn’t that farmhouse quaint. Checking my watch at this point and I have obviously lost some time, I am still on course for a comfortable 4.5 hours and am pretty chuffed with this, it has been hard work so far and much much tougher than I could have ever expected, but as long as the terrain stays the same I reckon I could carry on plodding and push for home nearer the finish. That is until …… until I get passed by a couple of guys, blue shirt says to white shirt ‘so the steps are coming up soon aren’t they?’ .. steps ?? steps ?? what bloody steps, hold up steps aren’t part of the plan…. White shirt to blue shirt’ nope they are a way off yet, but this is where the race actually starts now’ ….. what does he mean by that? Surely the race started when my legs turned to trifle taking in the first 6/7 hills, or when I was fighting through an invisible wall of marshmallow at the top of the cliffs, or when I was avoiding going for a burton skipping over flints and holes, or when I was sloshing my way through ankle deep mud and water, what does he mean it just gets started here?

We run over a small wooden bridge and turn into a village, a crowd of people cheer us on smiling and waving and giving out jelly babies, round another bend, past some shops and houses, and piff puff poof, this is what he means, the start of a hill bigger than that we have come across as yet, the worst thing is I can see it pulling away from me for miles and I still can’t see the top. I tiptoe jog slowly up the first half mile or so before I give in to my pleading legs and eventually walk, this is only about 15 miles in and I am spent, I am gasping for air and pushing down on my knees with my hands as I waddle my way upwards, this seems to go on for miles and miles. A worm like tingle starts to spread down my calves and pulse in spasms as cramp begins to settle in, I am definitely in a bad way and start to hope there is a van at the top waiting to take me home.

All I can remember between mile 15 and about mile 20 is the sheer pain, it got slightly worse after this for a while but for those particular miles it just all blurs into an amalgamation of utter shitness. The hills turned into steps that seemed to go on forever, I think there were two sets of them too, maybe 3?? I remember trying to pull myself up them with the hand rail wishing for it to all be over. You may be thinking why I do this, what could possess someone to put themselves through this, I am thinking the same thing too don’t worry. Around mile 20 I had to stop and lie down on the grass, I couldn’t run as cramp had taken over both my legs so I just laid in the sheep crap trying to pull my toes down, unusually not one person stopped to help, it was clear I had cramp but not one bugger came to assist. I picked myself up and hobbled on downhill, I didn’t even see the photographer who snapped a great pic which summed up exactly how I felt, eyes close, face full of despair, you can tell this is not enjoyable any more.

But what’s the point of giving up, I have run three quarters of this race know and I have a measly 10k left to run, I like to call this just a lunchtime run as it is what I used to run in my lunch break at work, it also makes it seem a lot shorter than it is and over a lot quicker. Ten kilometres and seven sisters between me and the finish line, surely the worst was over.

The next mile took 22 minutes, I felt faint and dehydrated, I had no water and I could see for miles ahead, the sight of cliff top hills and no feed stations, I get chatting to a couple of fellow runners who are struggling too, and we gain comfort in each other’s discomfort, safety in numbers and all that. I ask to have a sip of someone’s drink and this turn out to be just what I needed to get a bit of PMA about me. The floor seems to dip and rise as I stare down at it, trying not to look too far into the distance and realise the length still left to go. We are right on the cliff edge and the wind howling off the top is crazy fierce, thankfully it is behind us this time and is a welcome push in the back to help me put one foot in front of the other, at times when I am walking the wind actually pushes me to run. Looking up I can see the water stop on the next hill, shining like a beacon, like a mirage, offering a bounty of orange drinks and mars bars, I drink about 5 cups straight off and sit down to eat the food, I am not alone and a few of us are sitting in a stunned silence, when there is talk it is just of how bloody hard this race is and how no one is ever doing it again.

The final straight is upon us, from out of no- where I have a bit of pace about me, I have been taken on supplies and put some fuel in the furnace, plus I only have two more miles left to run, I start overtaking all the people who have run past me in the last 3 or 4 miles and I think at some point I actually cracked a smile, I even spot the photographer and manage a trademark heel click getting some good air to it too. The guy in front of me has run the whole race with his little dog, suddenly a huge gust of wind pushes the dog in front of him and the man duly stacks it to the ground, he is up and running before I get to him so I guess it was ok to laugh a little considering he wasn’t hurt.

I pass a marshal who announces the final mile and it is all downhill, for some reason a wobbly emotional chin appears, let’s just put it down to fatigue, the winding path turns a corner and suddenly I can see the finish, it’s down the big hill that we ran up at the start and 20 yards on for glory. I spot my Mum and Justine at the bottom and can hear Jessica shouting for me, I actually pick up speed and end up with a sprint finish, finishing in a time of 5 hours and 3 minutes.

Never before have I felt so drained and tired after a race, I totally bonked out between miles 18 and 22 and made too many errors, errors in judgement, errors of the conditions and terrain, and errors in my consumption of food and water, but most of all in the pure lack of putting the miles in.

So that’s it, not many smiles or laughs in this one, to be fair I think the only time I felt like laughing was when the guy fell over his dog, this was tougher than any marathon or ultra I have run, this is probably the only race I have completed and whole heartedly said I would never do it again, ever!

I update Facebook saying I have completed the Beachy Head Marathon and a couple of days later my friend Craig asks if I would do it with him next year if we trained properly for it, my reply, ‘yeah why not mate’.