Steyning Stinger Race Report

[Sweder]

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 lest I start to sound like the bastard lovechild 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 . . . set off 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, driving in with great gusto to dampen our ardour and bite 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.