February 2009

[Sweder]

I’m slumped on the sofa, pint of draught Guinness in one hand, Sunday broadsheet dangling, unread, from the other. My ankles feel like Paul Sheldon’s after his brutal hobbling at the hands/ sledgehammer of Annie Wilkes. My legs are novocaine jelly in excelsis. It’s doubtful they’d support my weight were I dumb enough to try to make the ‘fridge for another beer. Every fibre of my flesh and bone groans after the merciless beating at the hands of the Terminator.

The day started well. An early rise, my honey/ toast/ coffee ritual completed in a dark, silent house. The journey to Pewsey, a delightful village tucked in amongst the Marlborough downs a few miles east of Devizes, was long, eventful and not without trouble. The M25 was closed between Leatherhead and the A3 to allow the MedEvac chopper to scoop car-crash victims off the tarmac. I should have taken this as an omen, perhaps turned tail; instead I deployed my trusty SatNav and found another route. The TomTom informed me I’d still arrive a full 30 minutes before the official off, so all was calm in the cockpit as I listened to Five Lives’ Grand Inquisitor Gary Richardson grilling the chairman of the ECB over their recent myopic greed. Richardson is incomparable, disarming guests with his easy charm before gouging vital organs with incisive probing and terrier-like resolve. I laughed as the victim squirmed and wriggled. Occasionally Richardson broke off from the pre-taped interview to review the paucity of excuses on offer with his cohort from the Sunday Telegraph. It was rich sporting fare, and in some ways hinted at the severity of the trial ahead.

On arrival in Pewsey I was directed to an overspill car park. Organisation was excellent; marshals a-plenty, guides and gaudy red/ yellow signage all over the shop. I made for the gents changing room and donned my garb; shorts, RC T-shirt, Garmin, socks and off-road Mizunos. The pungent waft of Ralgex filled my nostrils and stung my eyes as I surveyed the assembled athletes. Most were wiry, those with hair sporting a good tranche of silver/ grey. Some had double-topped – T-shirts under club vests – but few wore leggings. I’d done my homework; we were bound to get wet, and soaked legs are more bearable to me than drenched leggings any day.

The school hall was jammed with excited, jabbering runners. Wide eyes, flashing teeth, nervous stretches peppered with dips into water bottles in all directions, the hubbub simmering nicely. I found Cousin Carol outside. She’s heavily into FLM training, picking up some achillies trouble along the way, so we took a pre-start stroll around the grounds to get the blood flowing. Hundreds of club runners hailing from all corners of this quirky sport - Maidstone Harriers (I’d met a couple during the Marathon de Paris in 2005) Team Bath AC, Swindon Harriers, Slinn Allstars, Chichester Runners, Serpentine RC, Dorset Doddlers (brilliant!), Reading Joggers, Wootton Bassett Hounds, Sheep Lovers (!), the Royal Marines, Calne RC, Hogweed Trotters, White Horse Harriers, and, of course, our hosts; Pewsey Vale RC - shuffled and chattered, nervous under a partly cloudy sky. The sun broke through, flooding the scene with warm, bright light. Just before 10:30 a man dressed in a dapper pork pie hat and striped jacket appeared on top of a beer crate, waving a loud-hailer in an attempt to call the milling throng to order. It had the air of an illicit political rally, exacerbated by the unashamed, outrageous spin espoused by the MC.

‘Welcome to the 20th annual running of the Terminator!’ Cheers, applause.
‘As many of you know we offer a nice, smooth, flat course . . .’ howls of derision, chuckles laced with palpable tension. Local race rules & course details were read out, though from my back-of-the-bus vantage they were impossible to follow. Perhaps that was just as well . . . I did hear this vital piece of advice:
‘If you get into difficulties make your way to the nearest marshal and they’ll sort you out.’ Hmm.

Without further ado (or time to digest the warning) we were off. I’d agreed with Carol that as time was not for once of the essence we’d loiter at the back of the field, start slow and get slower. Good practice for her FLM start, I ventured. I was also mindful of a number of debilitating climbs and god-knows-what obstacles ahead. It’s wise to be cautious when in unknown territory, never more so than at the start of a local, cross country race.

The first mile was straight forward enough. A short sharp dash along the A 345 Marlborough road, heading east, north east out of the village. We crossed the main road turning towards Milkhouse Water – and that’s when the fun started. Loping easily down a lumpy, grass-tufted field I could see runners splitting into two strands up ahead. Between these strands lay a dark mass, a sort of floor-mounted black hole of churned mud. Runners tried to stay on the dry sections by hogging the edge of the aperture resulting in an almighty log-jam. Seeing an opportunity to make up ground I strode for the middle. As they are wont to say on the Underground: Mind the gap!

Schloop! After two giant steps I was knee deep in thick, black mud, inky water welling up around my legs, filling my shoes. Grinning wildly I pulled each leg in turn from the soup and thrust forward, managing somehow to maintain momentum in an ugly paradoy of John Cleese in the Ministry of Silly Walks, until finally my feet struck something resembling solid ground. I was now black from the knees down. I glanced at the stream of runners coming away from the edges, happy to note that they, too, wore dark streaks of filth over their lower legs, shoes simply shapeless blotches. Ha! So much for the cautious path.

No sooner had I congratulated myself on making ground than I hit the first climb of the day. No more than thirty metres ascent over a hundred metres of ground I still had to work hard, puffing and blowing as my not-yet-fully-inflated lungs got over the shock of such rude demand. The route zig-zagged through a series of pathways and fields, across the B2087 west of Easton Royal and across more unoccupied grassland. Now fully up and running I relaxed, comfortable with the easy pace and reassured by the steady stream of runners easing back towards me. Of course it didn’t register that these guys might know this race well and be throttling back in readiness for the next challenge . . . and of course they were. This was another funnel of viscous filth leading to a broad, fast-flowing stream. Again many people stuck to the edges trying to avoid the worst of the muck. Not I. Resolve strengthened by my earlier gains I ploughed on (as did a few other hardy souls), boots filling rapidly with cold slime. I kept on, straight into the ice-cold, muddied stream (which happily washed most of the grime from my legs and shoes) before scrambling up the far bank . . . and into more knee-deep mud. I confess to whooping with joy – this really is my sort of running – as I strode manfully through nature’s treacle, happy to reflect on the absence of livestock and the corresponding lack of bovine ejectum.

Up through a series of gently ascending farmers’ fields, my back and legs drying in the unbridled sunlight, I assessed the state of play. Muck aside I felt good. I had my trusty water bottle (loaded with diluted Robinsons R) and, given the rising warmth, my decision to go with just the one top was proving inspired. My fellow runners concurred, some desperately trying to shed layers as the sun continued to beam from an increasingly clear blue sky. ‘Seen it all before’ grinned a fluorescent-wrapped marshal as a young lady took both layers off as she ran, revealing a well-filled spotless white sports bra. Well, I thought, perhaps this old Terminator’s not so tough after all. Ho ho . . .

Just as that smug thought nestled into a nicely padded corner of my head I caught a glimpse of what this race is really all about. Just approaching the 8k mark, heading due south, the first of three monstrous hills loomed above the tree line. Never mind that the climb was something like a hundred metres, it was all but vertical. Ahead runners slowed to walking pace and began scrabbling up the grassy hill face, all four limbs gainfully employed in seeking purchase and progress. Gasps and groans escaped around me as folks struggled, slipping and sliding on the soft turf. It was all I could do to keep moving, searching for the next foothold, mostly around knee height, and pulling myself up towards the next one. At one point I found myself moving in the style of Ray Wilkins – the crab! – as I scanned the surface for the next step up. This seemed to go on for several hours – in fact it was only a few minutes but by the time we started to level out I was all but done for. Desperately gulping air I followed the well-trodden horse-shoe pathway over another mini-hill and straight into . . . a suicidal drop. Far steeper than the Snake-route farmers’ field this was as accute as the climb we’d just conquered. Ahead runners eased down the mud-face, seeking ridges to keep them steady. I felt this was not really in the spirit of the race and launched myself off the top, following a handful of people who’d chosen the hurtle over the waddle. Within seconds my arms were flailing, thrashing wildly seeking balance. I must’ve looked like Andre Marr in the depths of a drug-fuelled rave as I careered past any number of wide-eyed descenders. My lower jaw flapped involuntarily, a strange sound bouncing out of me as I thudded into the soft hillside, tears streaming from my eyes as the world around me gibbered and twitched.

Finally the slope eased off and I ran out onto a gentle track, slowing steadily until the pounding in my ears subsided and the horizontal hold on my eyeballs finally got a grip. Wow! What a rush . . .