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 19th 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.
