There was always a chance I might come to rue that PB effort yesterday and so it came to pass. The Three Forts Half offered an unforgiving, yes,
brutal challenge for tired legs and slightly suspect constitutions. With Wild Boris safely installed in the Capital mayhem could well be making a come-back; there was certainly havoc a-plenty on the steep Sussex hills this morning, and no small amount of hell to pay.
A warm day, heavy high cloud throwing humidity into the mix and a good ecclectic selection of Sussex runners for this colourful festival of hills. The course proved rocky and in many places bone hard, ubiquitous rocklettes of chalk and flint adding to the test. Heading out of Hill Barn the course climbs steadily into the high downs. And it climbs. And it climbs . . . for the best part of seven miles, with the occasional flat section, the trail ascends through well-dressed hillside. The sun poked through the thick grey duvet around mile six, adding a few regulos to the already debilitating heat. Not one to sweat profusely at the drop of a hat
I lost liquid at an alarming rate, my legs tightening with every splash of sweat onto my redundant mud-pluggers.
Jill and Julie joined me on the half, Remy - just two weeks away from Copenhagen - took on the full 26.2 monster. I feared for him as I laboured towards the next summit and the drinks station at mile 7. At this point I was shot, done in; my breathing was high and tight, shirt and shorts drenched in sweat. Doom and gloom formed my own personal non-propductive raincloud as I toiled ever-upward. Thoughts of Bombay and Cape Town crackled and sizzled in the heat, my foolish plans cruelly exposed in the comparitively gentle English climate.
I walked the best part of a mile across halfway and wondered how on Earth I was going to finish. At the drinks station I gulped cool water, flushing down a gel in a last ditch attempt to get things going. A tall fellow who, like me, had unwisely opted for a black outfit, stood, face lobster-pink, to my left.
'Bad day to wear black' I gasped, offering what I hoped was a smile but was most likely an ugly grimace.
A light cheery voice behind me made me turn.
'Bad day for wearing anything!'
The sweetest smile beamed out from under a white cap, the owner herself glistening with perspiration. I grinned back, feeling the dark thoughts of the last twenty minutes lift to float away on the gentle hilltop breeze. She set off and I followed, reminding myself this was supposed to be fun and if I couldn't bloody well enjoy myself out here I should pack it all in.
Having climbed for over half the distance it stood to reason we would hit some descents. Sure enough they came thick and fast, solid footing at a premium as my quads, up till now not overly taxed, took a hammering. I managed to secure my position within a small band of strugglers; a fellow from Sandhurst RC, a tall woman in the red and yellow stripes of the Serpentine RC, a blonde lady in a red vest. She looked tough, compact frame with a determined yet economic downhill style that I couldn't help but envy as my John Cleese legs stretched out to meet the next patch of loose scree.
We reached the mile ten drinks station and I began to rally again; only three miles, even I in this troubled state could manage that. The breeze picked up as we took on a slight incline and I found a reasonable rhythm and pace to get over that particular hump. Barns Green Golf Club appeared off my right shoulder and I wondered at the little inclines set into the mostly perilous plummet; I hadn't noticed these on the climb from the start, but isn't that always the way?
Into the last mile and the realisation that salvation was close at hand filled me with the spirit to finish. I passed Blonde Red Vest and cantered for home, ducking under the yellow and black striped entrance to the car park to set my sights on the blue balloon arch finish. I felt a whoosh of air to my left as Blonde Red Vest, apparently tired of trading places with this shuffling, stumbling old fool, put her foot to the floor and sprinted impressively for the line. Head back, blonde locks flowing, she raced away. In spite of myself I kicked into my own facsimile of a sprint, getting within a yard of her as we crossed the line. She turned, a huge grin plastered across her face, offering her hand. I responded with my own leer and shook, grateful for the tow and at least a grandstand finish to what by any measure had been a stodgy, painful outing.
Julie was already home in 2:06, a minute ahead of me and Jill who it turned out was but a few yards behind at the death. We grabbed drinks and set up camp close to the finish where we'd wait for the Remster.
Just after 1pm (the full race had set off at ten) an impossibly tall, gangly figure turned in off the road. Almost a foot clear above the half marathon stragglers, spindly body reminiscent of the alien at the end of
Close Encounters, the blonde mop bounced easily through the field. His race number differed from ours; he was the first full marathoner home. His name: Tim Short – yes, really: isn't it though? He finished in 3:02, a new course record by eleven minutes having left the rest for dead. I shook his hand just after this rather shy young man (I reckon he's 20 at most) received his winners' trophy and I asked him to tell me that he at least knew the course well.
'Nope, first time I've run here. If I'd known how tough it was I might've slowed down a bit.'
His modesty, whilst no doubt genuine and to be applauded, was risible; the lad had barely broken sweat, spending the ten minutes after crossing the line chatting to the mayoress and chewing laconically on a piece of bread pudding whilst his beaming father looked on. Last years winner came home second, twelve minutes later. He looked shattered, and not a little bewildered.
Remy cruised in at 4 hours 17, a splendid effort for one 'taking it easy'. He looked pretty good but confessed it had been a tough slog. He'd taken a couple of walk breaks on the climbs which made me feel slightly better about my own struggle. If my rapidly-stiffening limbs are anything to go by tomorrows' scheduled Bank Holiday leg-loosener may well be shelved.
[SIZE="1"]Attached image: full marathon elevation[/SIZE]
