Steyning Stinger Race Report

[Sweder]

Opened my monthly account with the Steyning Stinger; report to follow.

Survived the 26.2 in 4:26
Conditions: apocalyptic
Grin: very wide indeed

[Sweder]

There were signs everywhere to inform locals ‘Caution: Race in progress.’
For most of the participants today it was not so much a race as a test.
A test of courage, desire, commitment; a trial of spirit. I’d best stop there lest I start to sound like the bastard lovechild of Alan Hansen and Arsene Wenger

I met up with Moyleman and Rog at Race Control just before 8am.
The Stinger is the kind of club race that you turn up at and, well . . . set off when you’re ready. We wandered off to the start line where some friendly marshals held us up until the race clock, already started for the walkers, read 35 minutes.

It was always going to be tricky. Sussex has endured one of the wettest winters on record. The hillside trails ran slick with tiny waterfalls, diluted mud cascading over flint and chalk to form gloopy pools along the way. Thirty minutes or so into our adventure the heavens opened. It was still only 9am, but I guess the heavens can open whenever they like, even, or perhaps especially, on a Sunday. Light drizzle swept in from the west, gathering force as the wind picked up, driving in with great gusto to dampen our ardour and bite our flesh.

The Steyning Stinger is so named because the good people of Steyning AC (more of them later) set out their course to include four ‘stings’, debilitating, strength-sapping climbs into the steep Sussex hills. In all the course enjoys more than 2,500 feet of ascent, and whilst there are plenty of ups and downs along the way it’s the stings that live long in the memory, both for their severity and their length. The first vertical challenge – not officially a ‘sting’ but steep enough for my money - arrived shortly after the wind and rain. At this point we interlopers from the east were set fair, chugging along, chatting easily. Rog had already delivered a couple of jokes; I’d countered with one of my own (sadly, like the teller, old and well-worn) but this only seemed to encourage him.

Once a-top the first hill the trail levelled out – well, sort of. Underfoot the path wallowed in thick, slippery mud, causing no end of farsical ducking and diving. We looked like a group of trainee tightrope walkers, wobbling along, arms darting out left and right, desparate to keep our balance. To our left and below us lay Chanctonbury Ring, home to an ancient hill fort. Here, in 1588, beacons were set to warn of the approaching Armada from Spain. I grinned to myself, thinking now it was we Brits, in the form of the Running Commentary Crusaders, that send our annual 'Armada' to Almería. Hmm, I feel a T-shirt coming on . . .

We passed an ancient flint mine (why they had to mine at all is a mystery – I half-turned my ankles on that many large chunks of the stuff) before the descent into Washington and a brief, welcome dalliance with tarmac. The first drinks stop hove into view and here I offered the first of many ‘thank you’s’ to the exceptional volunteers from Steyning AC. Not only do they marshal, standing pretty much stock still for hours in the foulest weather, they dish out chunks of Mars bars, chocolate digestives and cups of water with words of encouragement and a smile. Wonderful people.

Moments after this social break we met the first ‘sting.’
Now I could truly appreciate the difference between what had earlier been a hill and a true Steyning Sting. Somewhere up the 500-foot, calf-burning climb Rog dropped back. The madman had completed a twelve-miler the day before, so this was hardly surprising. I felt a little guilty at confessing to my lone fiver on Wednesday. I did cross-train on Friday with a round of golf but frankly that didn’t make me feel much better. Once at the top, greedily gulping down lungful after lungful of rain-filled air, we met the South Downs Way, enjoying a gentle descent through farmland. My legs felt good at this stage and I began to think I might have a reasonable day after all. And then we met the second sting.

From mile 8 to mile 10 the only way is up. Unlike my beloved, familiar Snake there is no deception with the climb. It’s a 500 foot rise in elevation on a dead straight rocky road, the end just about in sight but never seeming to get any closer. I got my head down, shoulder to shoulder with Moylesey, arms pumping, stride shortened, breathing relaxed and rhythmic, trying to introduce something of a metronome to my running. It worked after a fashion but I was still wrecked at the summit. This time there was no immediate gentle descent on which to recover; instead we swung directly into the freezing, howling wind, icy barbs of rain ripping into and around us. I’d shed my windcheater at mile 5 having heated up nicely; now I started to cool rapidly, the skin on my arms livid pink as hot blood fought against the freeze.

The race routes divided at this point, the half marathon turning left and back into Steyning, the full path out into the exposed hills of Cissbury. I’d rather not say how seriously I considered turning left; suffice to say the thought entered my head and was swiftly banished before common sense had any chance to prevail. The 'full' track started to tilt and then drop gently down the back of the hill. I let my legs go heavy, my full weight falling with each stride as I sploshed through the water cascading down the mud-gravel path. I’d given up on trying to dodge the puddles some miles back when an error of judgement had resulted in not one but two perfect ‘booties’; my runners were now home to an inch or so of rapidly warming water, and from what I could see ahead they would take on a fair bit more before we were done.

We rounded a hillock and the next drinks station appeared, somewhere close to Mile 12. Chris had gained a few yards on me and was ready to go on as I arrived at the hatchback, boot open, an assortment of drinks and nibbles quivering on the soaked trestle table.
‘I’ve gotta get going mate’, an apologetic half-smile on his face.
‘No worries – see you later.’ I didn’t blame him; standing still in this maelstrom was far worse than running in it. Cold was the enemy, best to keep going. I hooked out a gel from my belt, struggling with numb fingers to tear off the top and sucked down the apple-cinnamon goo as fast as I could. A gulp of water, a slab of Mars and I was off, the black hoops on Chris’s Brighton and Hove AC vest disappearing into the swirling rain up ahead.

[Sweder]

This next stage took us on a tour around Cissbury ring, another of the natural forts laced with warning beacons, eminantly defendable in times gone by. A violent descent at mile 14 lead to the steepest of the four stings (number three for those keeping count), up ‘Deep Bottom’. How apt, I thought. Bottom deep at Deep Bottom. Ha! To our left a group of men swathed in multiple layers of Gore-Tex struggled to line up puts on a horribly exposed hillside golf course, caps clasped to their heads with one hand as they held their putters out to assess the path to glory. Bizarrely I felt a wave of sympathy for these poor souls; at least we expected mud and filth on our Sunday outing. Besides, the ferocity of the wind and rain was never going to spoil our day, whereas these boys, at least 7 or 8 holes away from the clubhouse, were evidently having a most miserable time.

The climb out of Deep Bottom is over 400 feet in less than a mile. I followed the small stream running back to me along the centre of the path. Water takes the path of least resistance, I figured, and (based on no knowledge or logic whatsoever) would reveal the flattest part of the trail. This seemed to work and I splashed my way up the chalky face, elbows out, arms pulling at an invisible rope until I finally slowed to a walk some 50 feet from the top.

My gel strategy was to pop one every five miles or so. Around mile 16 I enjoyed the gentle descent and equally gentle rise to the next water station but I didn’t stop here, choosing to wait for the Mile 17 marker before attempting to open another gel. It's good to stick to one's gel strategy where possible; too many piled up could increase the queazy feeling in the pit of my stomach, unlikely to add to my performance. I managed to rip open the gel a little easier this time, my fingers having thawed. Although the rain continued to fall steadily I realised it was actually falling (as opposed to being thrashed into me with great force); the wind had dropped, hence the return of feeling to my fingers. I crossed a main road (again admirably marshalled) and followed the trail around Steep Down, a sort of mini-hill to be circumnavigated with what turned out to be great difficulty.

It was here, between miles 18 and 21, I found the real teeth of the course; severely boggy trails, deep ruts filled with brackish water, evil, slick paths with edges just waiting to slide the unwary into the foul pools. Either side barbed wire fences kept me penned in; there was nothing for it but to keep on keeping on as best I could, slip-sliding through a greasy quagmire that wouldn't look out of place on It's a Knockout. Ha ha ha HA - The Belgians! You could almost hear Stuart Hall laughing fit to bust as we performed a poor imitation of Peter Crouch's robotic dance celebration. Fortunately the undulations were minor; I can’t imagine tackling a real hill, up or down, in this soup. After the voyage around Steep Down the course doubles back on itself for half a mile. I skipped and hopped down a steep trail (I'd barely noticed the climb three miles ago), hailing those approaching up the slope. There’s a real camaraderie amongst off-road runners that I’ve not experienced in city marathons. It’s like we’re all in this bloody silly mess together, as mad as each other, and in need of all the help we can get. I was met with cheery, mud-crusted grins and the occasional 'Shearer' bent-arm/ open-palmed salute, and my spirits lifted a notch.

I’ll let the course guide describe the next (post-Mile 21) section;
The final 'sting' starts with a short gentle descent along farm tracks back towards Cissbury, but then turns right down another farm track and climbs steadily to the base of the Chanctonbury headland. Look out for great views to left and right.
Well, lets just say I wasn’t quite ready to take in the views.
For one thing I was focusing all my attention on not rolling an ankle on the minefield of flint and chalk boulders lining the route; for another the mist had upped the ante, rolling in off the hilltops to shroud the fields left and right; and for one more I could see what looked uncannily like the hoops of a B&H AC vest halfway up the 'sting' ahead.

I swallowed hard, dug deep and ran as hard as my leaden legs would allow up the steepening incline. Sure enough it was Moylesey. I reeled him in, slowly, painfully, until, panting like a geriatric bloodhound, I drew alongside.
‘Thought I recognised that bloody racket!’
‘Alright mate?’
‘Yep, hard part's done now.'
And, pretty much, it was.
Oh there was still the leg-pounding two miles across the Chanctonbury Headland and the perilous hurtle through the sunken woodlands, crashing through running mud, skipping tree roots and dodging boulders, the best part of a mile from the top of the Downs into the valley, but yes, we were pretty much home and definitely hosed.

At last the Mile 26 marker wobbled into view. Chris kicked for home and I let him go, unwilling and/ or unable to race him to the finish. 5:02 on the clock, a race time of around 4:26 – not bad all things considered. A modest group of marshals and race officials greeted our arrival with enthusiastic applause.
‘Well done lads! Cooked breakfasts and mementos in the school building.
Well done!’

Cooked breakfast . . .
I stood, hands clasped on my mud-splattered leggings, drinking air like a wino with a fresh bottle, grinning wildly.
‘Not sure I could manage a full English’ I gasped.

After inhaling my breakfast in no time at all I met up with Rog in the car park.
He looked pale, his left hand swathed in a heavy bandage. He'd taken a tumble at Mile 20, along that perilous route around Steep Down, a jagged piece of flint opening a nasty wound at the base of his thumb. Fortunately (once again, big respect to the organisers) an ambulance wasn't far away. They'd patched the old boy up, taking ten minutes to wash and dress the cut.
'I got so bloody cold sitting in that Ambulance. Then the bloke says 'Can I give you a lift to the finish?' It was the hardest 'No thanks' I've ever had to say.' Rog battled home, but by the look of him was in even more need of a warm soak than the rest of us.

A great race organised by a splendid club and their saintly volunteers, to whom I and my fellow survivors send our heart-felt thanks.
Did I say ‘survivors’?
Yes, I most certainly did.