Steyning Stinger Race Report

[Sweder]

This next stage took us on a tour around Cissbury ring, another of the natural forts laced with warning beacons, eminantly defendable in times gone by. A violent descent at mile 14 lead to the steepest of the four stings (number three for those keeping count), up ‘Deep Bottom’. How apt, I thought. Bottom deep at Deep Bottom. Ha! To our left a group of men swathed in multiple layers of Gore-Tex struggled to line up puts on a horribly exposed hillside golf course, caps clasped to their heads with one hand as they held their putters out to assess the path to glory. Bizarrely I felt a wave of sympathy for these poor souls; at least we expected mud and filth on our Sunday outing. Besides, the ferocity of the wind and rain was never going to spoil our day, whereas these boys, at least 7 or 8 holes away from the clubhouse, were evidently having a most miserable time.

The climb out of Deep Bottom is over 400 feet in less than a mile. I followed the small stream running back to me along the centre of the path. Water takes the path of least resistance, I figured, and (based on no knowledge or logic whatsoever) would reveal the flattest part of the trail. This seemed to work and I splashed my way up the chalky face, elbows out, arms pulling at an invisible rope until I finally slowed to a walk some 50 feet from the top.

My gel strategy was to pop one every five miles or so. Around mile 16 I enjoyed the gentle descent and equally gentle rise to the next water station but I didn’t stop here, choosing to wait for the Mile 17 marker before attempting to open another gel. It's good to stick to one's gel strategy where possible; too many piled up could increase the queazy feeling in the pit of my stomach, unlikely to add to my performance. I managed to rip open the gel a little easier this time, my fingers having thawed. Although the rain continued to fall steadily I realised it was actually falling (as opposed to being thrashed into me with great force); the wind had dropped, hence the return of feeling to my fingers. I crossed a main road (again admirably marshalled) and followed the trail around Steep Down, a sort of mini-hill to be circumnavigated with what turned out to be great difficulty.

It was here, between miles 18 and 21, I found the real teeth of the course; severely boggy trails, deep ruts filled with brackish water, evil, slick paths with edges just waiting to slide the unwary into the foul pools. Either side barbed wire fences kept me penned in; there was nothing for it but to keep on keeping on as best I could, slip-sliding through a greasy quagmire that wouldn't look out of place on It's a Knockout. Ha ha ha HA - The Belgians! You could almost hear Stuart Hall laughing fit to bust as we performed a poor imitation of Peter Crouch's robotic dance celebration. Fortunately the undulations were minor; I can’t imagine tackling a real hill, up or down, in this soup. After the voyage around Steep Down the course doubles back on itself for half a mile. I skipped and hopped down a steep trail (I'd barely noticed the climb three miles ago), hailing those approaching up the slope. There’s a real camaraderie amongst off-road runners that I’ve not experienced in city marathons. It’s like we’re all in this bloody silly mess together, as mad as each other, and in need of all the help we can get. I was met with cheery, mud-crusted grins and the occasional 'Shearer' bent-arm/ open-palmed salute, and my spirits lifted a notch.

I’ll let the course guide describe the next (post-Mile 21) section;
The final 'sting' starts with a short gentle descent along farm tracks back towards Cissbury, but then turns right down another farm track and climbs steadily to the base of the Chanctonbury headland. Look out for great views to left and right.
Well, lets just say I wasn’t quite ready to take in the views.
For one thing I was focusing all my attention on not rolling an ankle on the minefield of flint and chalk boulders lining the route; for another the mist had upped the ante, rolling in off the hilltops to shroud the fields left and right; and for one more I could see what looked uncannily like the hoops of a B&H AC vest halfway up the 'sting' ahead.

I swallowed hard, dug deep and ran as hard as my leaden legs would allow up the steepening incline. Sure enough it was Moylesey. I reeled him in, slowly, painfully, until, panting like a geriatric bloodhound, I drew alongside.
‘Thought I recognised that bloody racket!’
‘Alright mate?’
‘Yep, hard part's done now.'
And, pretty much, it was.
Oh there was still the leg-pounding two miles across the Chanctonbury Headland and the perilous hurtle through the sunken woodlands, crashing through running mud, skipping tree roots and dodging boulders, the best part of a mile from the top of the Downs into the valley, but yes, we were pretty much home and definitely hosed.

At last the Mile 26 marker wobbled into view. Chris kicked for home and I let him go, unwilling and/ or unable to race him to the finish. 5:02 on the clock, a race time of around 4:26 – not bad all things considered. A modest group of marshals and race officials greeted our arrival with enthusiastic applause.
‘Well done lads! Cooked breakfasts and mementos in the school building.
Well done!’

Cooked breakfast . . .
I stood, hands clasped on my mud-splattered leggings, drinking air like a wino with a fresh bottle, grinning wildly.
‘Not sure I could manage a full English’ I gasped.

After inhaling my breakfast in no time at all I met up with Rog in the car park.
He looked pale, his left hand swathed in a heavy bandage. He'd taken a tumble at Mile 20, along that perilous route around Steep Down, a jagged piece of flint opening a nasty wound at the base of his thumb. Fortunately (once again, big respect to the organisers) an ambulance wasn't far away. They'd patched the old boy up, taking ten minutes to wash and dress the cut.
'I got so bloody cold sitting in that Ambulance. Then the bloke says 'Can I give you a lift to the finish?' It was the hardest 'No thanks' I've ever had to say.' Rog battled home, but by the look of him was in even more need of a warm soak than the rest of us.

A great race organised by a splendid club and their saintly volunteers, to whom I and my fellow survivors send our heart-felt thanks.
Did I say ‘survivors’?
Yes, I most certainly did.