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 – I sound like the bastard child 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 . . . start 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, finally driving with great gusto to dampen our ardour and sting 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.
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 deeply 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 freshly-stolen 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.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Hail the Mad Mud Men of Sussex! We salute the first marathon of the season for the site. Fanatastic effort, and great report, as ever.
I looked out of the window at the grey drizzle this morning, and thought, "Nah, two runs in two days is enough for the moment". You'd have been two hours into your race by then and would, I suspect, have given my attitude pretty short shrift.
Anyway, it's hard to know what to say in response to yet another barnstorming performance. I need to keep a few superlatives in store for the Two Oceans report.
"Well done, mate". That will have to do.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Thanks chaps.
Just as I wasn't too despondent about last weeks' tough outing I'm not going overboard about today's run. Something about treating those two impostors just the same . . . I still have doubts about the TOM, but yes MLCMan, getting through this morning's session as well as I did has boosted my confidence.
Antonio, last Sunday was very bad for me. I ran out of energy which I rarely do on a scheduled run, and it worried me. Now I know two things; one, it was a very tough run on a difficult course in bad conditions, and two, I was probably not one hundred percent in myself (I've had a pretty bad cold all week). Don't forget I had a mini-taper this week (only one midweek run). I psyched myself up for Steyning because I knew whatever the weather today it was going to be a bit tricky underfoot. I learned some lessons about controlling my starting pace, too, and this worked much better today.
Actually MLCMan I did wonder (out loud, to Moyleman) during those last couple of miles today if the TOM will be that much harder than Steyning. Sure it's nine miles longer, but the amount of hill work is similar, it's all on tarmac and the weather is likely to be a good deal better. However it's a new distance and if today taught me anything it's to show respect for the mileage and the conditions.
Andy, 'well done mate' (along with a pint of Guinness) is spot on, thanks.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Fantastic run Sweder, I know that neck of the woods well, I lived in Steyning for a few years, went to the primary and then senior school there, but when I ranged over Chanctonbury to Cissbury and beyond was on the back of a pony.
You are truly a Real Runner
Bet the Guinness tasted sublime
(I will keep very quite about my puny efforts in the Trafford 10k yesterday:o )
I'll stick a couple of pics up here from Sunday.
Being a good sort I'll spring the wonga for the official pics so I'll have to wait for those to arrive.
Next Sunday's run route has been prep'd by Moyleman. Click here to view - this is a pretty nifty tool I reckon.
[SIZE="1"]First up: the Three Amigos before the off, Sunday morning[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It would be interest of all of us studying the [SIZE="4"]after[/SIZE] race, rehydratation included, so after photos are very welcome... Scientific matter...
It would be interest of all of us studying the [SIZE="4"]after[/SIZE] race, rehydratation included, so after photos are very welcome... Scientific matter...
I guess it's difficult to take photos when both hands are holding pints of Guinness, Ana
But blimey Sweder, another near-marathon training run this weekend?! Even your dogs are going to forget who you are, you're out running so much.
And surely SP's been bitten by the bug again by now? Or is he avoiding you?
Time to test the limbs this morning.
What a contrast! Whereas on Sunday the heavens were burdened with lead-lined cloud and the air filled with icy barbs and biting winds, now a rising sun kissed my face out of a clear blue sky. I ran carefully, checking all points south as I plodded through the boggy slopes of Landsport Bottom and Wicker Man Hill. General soreness aside there was a niggling tightness in my right calf, but this seemed to ease, caressed by the flow of warm blood through pasty legs revealed to the world in shorts for this first time this year.
The dawgs came along, minus one; Willow (Spaniel) is still not fully recovered from whatever ailed her last week and was left whimpering at the kitchen door, a pair of the largest, saddest eyes youve ever seen watching us leave. Just over two and a half miles in, hauling onto Blackcaps brow, I noticed Tess, the ten-year-old whippet, make a sharp dash into a gorse bush. There followed a great commotion and a chilling, high-pitched scream cut off by the sound of a dry twig snapping under a heavy boot. A furry creature somersaulted out of the bushes, dead before it hit the cold hard ground.
Im not one to enjoy the hunt, albeit in this case a natural pheonomenon. Tess is a thoroughbred, a working whippet, no Crufts-bound show-dog this one. Shes a killing machine, bred for rapacious speed and ruthless efficiency. Her modus operandi has always been stealth, lightening speed (Ive seen nothing quicker over the first ten yards) and instant, merciless despatch. Taking the prey by the neck she jerks her head, sending the unfortunate animal spinning over her shoulder, snapping the neck in an instant. I stared at the victim, a buck, almost as large as Tess herself. The assassin looked pleased with her work, trotting around her catch, sniffing and prodding with her nose to confirm a clean kill. She took up the rabbit in her mouth as gentle as you like, trotting off in the direction of home.
I set sail myself, Gypsy, thankfully a hapless hunter at the best of times, lolloping close to heel, seemingly embarrassed by the whole episode. Tess cruised ten yards back, the lapine corpse limp in her panting jaws, her eyes fixed on mine as I looked back. There was no doubting the extra spring in her step, the pride with which she displayed her prize. Ive given up admonishing her for these occasional atrocities; it is, after all, like Aesops fable about the Scorpion and the Frog. Despite being helped across the river by the frog the scorpion fatally stings her. Horrified the Frog cries out Why? To which the scorpion replies: You knew what I was when you offered me help. I'm a Scorpion; it's in my nature.
In some ways I have to admire Tess. Rather like that other Ash, the duplicitous android in Alien, admired the xenomorph butchering the crew of the Nostromo: I admire its purity. A survivor... unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality.
In human terms Tess is in the twilight of her active life, her hunting powers supposedly on the wane. But what she may be losing in reaction times she is replacing with experience, guile and excellent hearing.
A mile further on Tess had lagged some thirty metres behind, her burden taking its toll. I could see the task was beyond her, watching in morbid fascination as she fussed over the corpse, looking from it to me and beyond to the long trail home. After a few seconds she made her choice. Reluctantly, like a mother leaving a child, she lay her quarry gently across the worn farm track, trotting on alone, casting forlorn glances back to her abandoned baby.
Home in 50 minutes for a darned good stretch.
Id like to get one more of these in before Sunday.
Without the drama.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Really Sweder, surely a big, burly bloke like you could have a carried a little bunny rabbit home for the poor dog? Would have made a nice bit of stew, that would have.
