Fail to prepare, prepare to fail Roy Keane (with apologies to Benjamin Franklin)
... what dreams may come
What dreams indeed, tossing and turning in my ale-fuelled flop-sweat. Thoughts swam through my head like creatures from the deep. No longer was this some far-off fantasy. It was right here, outside in the dusty street, tapping its foot in time with the slow ticking of the clock. Time to don my battle-armour and face The Beast.
I felt certain I’d complete the sixty-two kilometres, come rain, shine, or, as it turned out, unseasonal warmth. Just as Feet In The Clouds left me feeling I could run up a mountain, so Born To Run had convinced me that, lack of training and extra weight notwithstanding, I could eat up thirty-nine miles within the seven and a half hour limit and live to tell the tale. This book tells the remarkable story of the Tarahumara Indians, of the power of chia and old tyre shoes, of greed, avarice, man’s inhumanity to his fellow man, of breathtaking, mind-blowing distance running through some of the most inhospitable terrain on the planet. Read it. Beg, borrow, purchase or purloin, ‘get in amongst it’. It takes a hard look at barefoot running and biomechanics, subjects close to my own feet.
Now, in the deathly quiet of my hotel room, advice from those pages flickered across my brain like a rolling news ticker-tape. Pace yourself ... bend your knees ... keep a straight back ... hydrate ... watch your form, calorie in-take ... relax; enjoy the ride ....
Eventually the sun peeped over the horizon, the inky blackness outside my window yielding to daybreak. I busied about, re-canting flat(ish) Coke (a rather messier process than I’d envisaged), checking and re-checking everything, indulging my runner’s OCD. My bottle contained a weak Robinsons blackcurrant mix, the flavour a simple placebo to fool my body into thinking the water had restorative powers. My Garmin sat on the sideboard, fully charged. I strapped it on; one less thing to forget. I loaded two rucksacks; one I’d trained with, a threadbare purple LA Fitness freebie, the other a newer item on loan from SP. I planned to plant these in the mile bins at Race HQ – mile 13 for my grotty old pack, mile 22 for SP's shiny new model. Each contained bottled water, bananas, segmented bagels, powerbars, malt loaf (sliced and buttered), Jelly Babies and ibuprofen. The first also held my clean(ish) Two Oceans technical shirt, a half-used tub of vaseline, a 'little something' from Suzie Q (of which more later) and my iPhone; the second contained the flat coke, a portable re-charging unit for my iPhone, a fresh pair of socks and my old running shoes (just in case). I glanced at my watch: almost seven.
Downstairs Antonio and SP, who’d eschewed a lie-in to see us off, loitered near the breakfast room. There was movement in the kitchen and a swarthy young chap in a horribly stained chef’s outfit asked if we’d like some porridge. He wandered off and I wondered if we might be scuppered by the laid-back nature of our hosts. The Ultra buses were due to sweep through town on route to race HQ (and our not-to-be-missed briefing) at 07:30 sharp. Happily the (excellent) porridge arrived swifly in great steaming bowls, adorned with bananas and honey and wolfed down in double-quick time. SP waved us off and for a moment, despite Antonio standing alongside me, I felt horribly alone.
The buses were prompt. We boarded ours at 07:32 to find it was the third of the four to pass this way. Perched quietly at the back I drank in the heady cocktail of excited chatter and freshly-applied Ralgex as we traversed the narrow, winding lanes to Maam Cross. Race HQ hotel sat at a crossroads next to a deserted Esso garage. In the briefing room the pre-race cacophony swelled as runners busied themselves, checking clothing, re-jigging Camelbacks, adjusting shoes and packing bags for the mile-drop bins. I learned, to my horror, that bags dropped in the bins must be taken on the run or discarded, forcing a hurried change of plan. SP’s rucksack was a good quality vessel. I wasn’t going to trade it for mine as I’d trained with mine and found it most comfortable, vital on such a long journey. I juggled the contents, loading SP’s pack with my change of clothes for the bag drop. There were no other bags for me to use so I had to improvise. My purple pack went into the Mile 13 bin as planned. This would allow me to run the first 13 miles carrying only my waterbelt, a few Jelly Babies and a single pack of Malt Loaf slices. I was left with the flat coke, some energy bars, extra ibuprofen, a banana and my old runners. If I packed that lot into my 'mile 13' bag I'd be carrying a lot of gear for the best part of a marathon. Then, a moment of inspiration. I crammed as much of the excess material as I could into the decrepit shoes, tied the laces together and dumped them into the Mile 22 bin. Job done.
Ray's voice is soft and gentle - earphones suggested for best listening
One story I didn’t record (and which drew the biggest laugh) referred to last years’ race. Standing at the finish line, Ray had been approached by a little old lady who’d just completed the half marathon course. She thanked him profusely for all the ‘lovely gifts laid out for the runners' along the way. She was, of course, referring to the Ultra runners’ provisions, set out on trestle tables next to the water stations. I was glad I’d decided to make 22 miles my last drop, thus avoiding any sharp-eyed magpies in the final third.
After leaving our gear at the bag drop (the 'deserted' Esso shop) we boarded the buses once more. Antonio paired up with the Italian fellow who’d been singled out in the briefing. Alone with my thoughts I observed the pre-run rituals going on around me. A wiry chap next to me kicked off his shoes and socks, wiggling his toes. Another loosened his laces, yet another slurped nervously from a half-empty water bottle. Vaseline was daubed hither and thither, a timely reminder for me to grease my own nipples. The unmistakable stench of Deep Heat stung my nostrils. The raucous banter softened to a gentle murmur as pre-race nerves took hold. I felt calm. My strategy relied on total faith in my recently-adapted running style (based on economy of effort and upright stance) and the daily consumption of a handful of chia seeds, mixed with water and lemon to create a drink bearing a striking resemblance to frogspawn. I could feel the pre-race buzz in my fingers and tried to relax, drawing in slow, deep breaths as the fabulous countryside sped by. Here, nestled in the cleveage of impressively craggy hills, we two hundred and three souls would embark upon an epic journey. We would find out more about ourselves in the next few hours than many might wish to. We'd face our fears; the heat, the road, fatigue, dark moments of self-doubt, ethereal demons gnawing at our bones. And yet, I felt certain I would come through. Blind faith.
The buses pulled over to the side of a narrow road. Runners spilled out into knee-deep, bleached-blond grass, blinking in the sunlight. Several move away to pee along the fence-line. A group of ladies rock-hopped up a slope to find a less public spot. Antonio busied himself, taking photos up and down the road. He too seemed relaxed, unfased by the challenge before us. Ahead, the racers gathered at what appeared to be the starting point, a bend in the road. Expectation hung hot and heavy in the still morning air as the clock ticked around to nine am. Antonio and I loitered at the back, stretching gently whilst gazing across the landscape towards the great grey shoulders hunched over the Hell of the West, the heartbreaking two mile ascent before the final blessed drop to the finish back at Maam Cross. It seemed a lifetime away.
And then, before I could think of a thing to say, it was time.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
![[Image: 4513991530_fb480745e4.jpg]](http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4011/4513991530_fb480745e4.jpg)