February 2009

[Sweder]

Back to the hard slog.

Hillside running – literally running along slender mud-trails on the side of a steep hill – is extremely taxing. You must stay focused, balanced, steady, else you might find yourself rolling, a sweaty ball of flesh and fabric, away down the steep grass bank into the lusty thorn bushes below. The thought of having to extricate oneself from natures barbs to climb back up on all fours sent a shudder down my spine. I redoubled my gyroscopic efforts. Dropping down canal-side for half a mile the penalty for false stepping was rather more severe. Here the waters welled up through the mud, creating great pools of swamp-juice waiting to swallow the unwary plodder. The main body of water lurked mere feet to our left, dark eddies swirling as if to draw us in. The sound of a thousand sucking feet slurped out across the tranquil rural scene.

11 kilometres in we reached the second fearsome climb. This time the lead-in was up a steadily rising slope. The pathway shrank to a kind of rock/ mud gully, making footfall increasingly hard to judge. Eventually we were running up a natural drainpipe, through a sort of treacle slurry, in single file, each runners’ feet landing either side of a man-made crest of slick muck. Slipping and sliding was now a way of life. This was the meat of the race, time to grin and bear it.

Our tight trail took us into woodland for a hundred metres or so. I looked up and caught a glimpse of what I knew must come but, like Pavlov’s unfortunate mutt, had come to fear. A colourful trail of sports tops climbed up and away to our left, ascending directly into the heavens. This must be the heartbreaker, the hill I’d seen on the website. I slurped a mouthful of juice, got my head down and struck out for the foot of the climb, mentally clenching my resolve, forewarnin tiring muscles of the hard shift ahead. As before we had to dig deep into our burning legs to find the heart to keep moving. The slog was painfully slow. Hands on thighs I pushed and pulled myself up the sheer face, incredibly passing a sorry few who, on the pretext of looking back for friends, had ground to a halt, peering through squinted slits to the trail behind. For those that know it this is far steeper than the North Face, more akin to running up a long subway escalator, only more so. At least with a little momentum I can run those; here there was no chance. Just getting to the top without stopping felt like a massive achievement. Halfway up I glanced right to see a great multicoloured washing line stretched out to the west, a wave of red-faced humanity bobbling towards the salvation of the finish.

Within minutes my feet were falling in those footsteps, dancing along another perilous precipice. A strong breeze raced up out of the valley, biting cold into warm flesh as we struggled into the west. Over another hummock and there’s that reward for all that effort – another break-neck drop. This time I opted for discretion over dumb valour. Feeling the effects of the last thirteen kilometres, and having stubbed my toe more than once (and tasted fear of falling, bitter in my dry mouth), I leaned back to use my bulk to full advantage, adding gravitas to my descent. Reaching base camp I looked around for the long, straight road that I knew would lead us back to warm showers and a change of clothes. Ah, but beware, the sting in the tail! A sharp left turn, around some trees – and there it was; the final, final hill! Once more, with feeling; another sheer climb, the summit dark against sunlit cloud almost directly overhead. I took a generous lungful of air and set off, legs screaming in protest, heart pumping madly, sweat pouring off my bowed head, nose inches from wet, pungent earth. To my right a red and white safety tape fluttered in the breeze. Beyond it a steady stream of runners hobbled back down, mere feet away, each face etched in pain and slow-dawning relief as they viewed the long road home. Not yet for me, this blissful release; first, more Sherpa duty. I forced my trashed muscles to respond, again passing a few weary souls on this, really, honestly, the last big hill. A sling shot round the top, a few gathered spectators clapping in earnest, cries of ‘well done!’ as we heaved ourselves passed, then off on another wild, helter-skelter earthward lunge on wobbly pins.

Seventy metres of sheer drop later we hit the final, pot-holed trail. A chap behind me quipped about not fancying the second lap (ho ho!) and I couldn’t resist telling him, though restorative gasps, about the Steyning Stinger, a full 26.2 mile offroad ball-buster cut from similarly unforgiving down-land cloth. Glancing at the Garmin I saw I was looking at a two hour run. It would be great to get under that magic mark but with no idea of exactly how far we had left (and no real guide as to what constitutes a good time for me) I couldn’t really hit the gas. By the time I recognised the outskirts of Pewsey it was too late, but I cranked it up anyway. Out of nowhere my right hamstring reminded me that I am, after all, built for comfort not speed. Cursing I eased back to flounder across the line in 2:00:59.

Having collected my goody bag (and my ‘this T-shirt was earned!’ Finishers’ shirt) I shuffled towards the school, peeling off my mud-caked shoes and sodden, filthy socks before trudging barefoot through a film of cold slime towards the changing rooms. There was a queue for the showers, a scene no doubt familiar to anyone incarcerated in the USA towards the end of the last century, which, towel in hand, I readily joined. Grinning, pink-skinned men crowded into the narrow corridor, jostling to squirm under the dribbling spouts of warm water. Jovial shouts of bravado filled the steamy air, carrying more than a hint of relief as the good-natured banter flew. It wasn’t quite the power-shower I’d hoped for, but it was mighty fine and a good deal better than nothing. I dressed quietly, reflecting on how survival is so much more important than victory, dreaming of a small plastic cup filled with hot leaf infusion mixed with sugar and milk.

I met up with Carol, she having successfully nursed her sore achillies around the circuit in 2:30 and now equally in need of tea. We stayed for the awards ceremony, a curious affair in the school hall presided over by a real live Terminator, replete with garish make-up and black leather jacket, sporting a slightly less authentic Wiltshire burr. The winner, an unassuming member of Team Bath AC, completed the course in an inhuman 1:22.
I could only stand and applaud. And to answer the question? Oh yes . . .

. . . I’ll be back!

Stats:
11.5 miles
2:00:59
Position 391 (out of 691 finishers)

[SIZE="1"]Caution: slight hill ahead . . . [/SIZE]