What next eh?

[Charliecat5]

I’ve been dreading writing this and I’m not sure why.  I think it’s because I’m unsure how I’m going to capture the essence and emotions of the last week in a few words on paper.   I’m not as a proficient writer as some on here, and am pretty good at keeping my real emotions close to my chest.  So let’s see how this pans out.  [I’ve just come back to the top to say I’m going to post this now, but I know it’s going to require some editing over the next few days – still, it hopefully captures the essence of Moyleman 2018]
 
This was the fourth Moyleman (fifth if we include the test event), and they have all been amazing affairs, full of laughter, stress, highlights and tears.   But this year, the 2018 Moyleman, was something else.  We went up a gear, we dealt will forces beyond our control – not just the weather, but also clients and work commitments – but we pulled something off that will go down in the history of running folklore.  People will be asking for years to come: were you there… did you run the Moyleman in 2018?
 
A few weeks ago, everything was on track.  These days the Moyleman almost organises itself.  We have a great crew who all know their roles and just get on with it.  I had the honour of being Race Director this year, but really it made little difference to the organisation.   Ash carried on with his tasks, I organised the entries and looked after the route, Rob managed communications, Tom rallied and sorted the marshals, Tim refined spreadsheets and timings, and Brian looked after the finances. 
 
Then a couple of weeks before M-day, Ash discovered to his horror that a client was insisting that he attended an exhibition in Shanghai.  Even though alternative arrangements had been made, they waved contracts and asserted that the Big Man attended in person.  He had given me a heads up a few days earlier, but suddenly it was real.  He wasn’t going to with us on the 18th March.  
 
Being the man he is, he spent the next few days running around like a flab…blue arsed fly getting things sorted before he went.  A few late nights and beer fuelled sessions, we had water organised, we had his truck insured and a driver found, we had arrows and tabards on their way.   We also had an amazing army of people, who stepped up even further than normal to offer their help… volunteering to take things off my plate, and just being absolute stars.   A few to mention, but by no means all, were Seafront Plodder (I know! When the chips are down the man is there); Naomi, Shayne, Phoebe (who marshalled and provided me with an endless stream of cuddles), Rory, Joe and Louise.  And Brian, who was an absolute rock.  Plus, plus, plus.  
 
So, the big man wasn’t going to be there.  But we were all sorted. We would miss him, he was devastated, but it was all in hand.   Then the weather happened. 
 
Around the time that we learnt that Ash wasn’t going to be here, I started to take an interest in the weather.  There was talk of snow, but the Met Office website was painting a reasonable picture for the day.  But as the days ticked down, the situation changed.  I started to obsess about checking the forecast every day, every hour, every few minutes.  There was a cold front coming in from the North West with a high probability of snow, ice and wind chill.   The forecast kept changing, sometimes for the  better, other times worse.  And then a yellow weather warning was issued and races up and down the country were being cancelled. 
 
We knew, given the changeable weather on the South Downs, that in reality a final decision couldn’t be made until the day itself.   Well we could have taken the easy decision a few days before and cancelled the race, but that’s not the spirit of the Moyleman.   Our default was that the race would run, unless the weather deteriorated beyond the pale.  
 
On Saturday morning we met as is tradition at Ground Coffee to agree who was going to mark out which bit of the course.  With an absent Ash we all took a few more miles than normal.  The weather was discussed, but we were reasonably comfortable that the race would be on– this was of course, before we headed into the hills to mark-up.
 
It was brutal out there.   The running wasn’t too bad in itself, but stopping several times every mile to pin up arrows was something else.  However, it gave me first-hand experience of conditions and allowed me to formulate the criteria on which we would make the final decisions come the morning.  I also realised quite sharply that broadly speaking the runners would be alright… but it would be a tough ask for the marshals.  
 
The criteria was simple in my mind.  We could cope with wind and cold.  We could cope with precipitation.  But we couldn’t cope with both.   We knew the winds were going to blow, we knew the wind-chill would be, well, chilling.  The snow remained uncertain, albeit the forecast was looking more favourable.   We sent a message out to runners saying unless the weather deteriorated further, that there was a reasonable likelihood that we were on.  
 
What few people know, is that on the Friday I was 70% certain the race would be cancelled. 
 
So we come to race day.
 
5am in the morning and I’d just woken again for the umpteenth time.  True be told, I had only managed about two hours sleep, kept awake by an over active mind, and continuously looking out the window for snow.
 
At 6am Rory, along with Ash’s truck, picked me up loaded with tables and masses of water ready to set up the water stations.   There was snow on the ground but no snow falling… it is looking positive.  As we head up the road, our WhatsApp group jumps into life.  Brian has looked out his window.  Rob is heading out for a look at the tops.  Tim is also out getting ready for the day.  The wind is bitter… pushing minus 8 of wind chill; but the sky isn’t falling in and none is forecast for the day. 
 
A quick check with Tom and the decision is made… we are live.  Social media messages are sent and the day picks up a sense of purpose.
 
With tables and water dispatched I head home for quick bite of breakfast before reversing  back out again to check the yard at Harvey’s before heading up to Wallands School.   Time Team Tim and Hannah’s van are already there,  the latter getting the urn going ready for the onslaught due over the next couple of hours.  Things then become a blur of activity.  Toilets that are out of paper; queries about runners; a marshal who hits a fence post with his car; a marshal briefing followed by the runners briefing itself.   The hall is full.  A real buzz of anticipation and excitement, and endless thanks from people that the race is going ahead… before I know it we are crossing the road to the race start.  And they’re gone.  We are full steam ahead.  220 odd runners heading into the Abyss, who I now had to make sure all got home again.   What had we done?
 
As the runners disappeared out of sight, I turned back towards the school and then down to Harvey’s yard to start setting up the finish line.   Ed Jenner was there waiting to help (unbelievable star that guy), the Pizza oven was firing up, Victoria the physio was setting up her tent.  We strung the banner across the entrance and put up the new-fangled time team gazebo and erected the funnel.   With everything in hand, I left to join the team at Southease to watch the first runners cross the halfway point.  With only minutes to spare Lewis Sida and Mike Ellicock appeared, running almost hand in hand as they made the turn out for Itford Hill.  Running gracefully, but at a heady speed, clocking 1:34 for the first half.
 
Now the clock was running… we had to be ready at the finish… so out back again we went to make sure all was well.  On the return journey WhatsApp was lighting up… a runner had bashed their head at the top of the Yellow Brick Road and a couple of runners had been reported lost.   With the indestructible Tim G manning the water station and our superbly capable medic team on standby, the first issue was resolved within minutes with a trip to the local A&E.  The lost runners were more of a concern.
 
With the finish line ready we tentatively waited, and then with the crowds roaring on Cliffe High Street, we knew the winner was on their way.  Who was it going to be… Lewis or Mike?
 
Lewis came flying around the corner and over the line… dressed in shorts and singlet, he honestly looked as though he had finished nothing but a summer five miler.  We lingered in eager anticipation expecting Mike to be hot on his heels, but it was a full ten minutes before he arrived.  Unbelievably for Mike, he fell over the line into my arms, gasping what a brutal race that had been.   Bloody ‘ell I thought… I’ve still got 218 runners out in that.
 
A steady stream of runners soon opened up to a flood as they kept flowing over the line… every runner greeted and hands shook.  Some crossed over without saying anything… others gushing, usually gibberish… some falling into my arms in pain, in anguish, in floods of tears.  All without exception telling me how good it was, and all telling me how amazing the marshals had been.
 
One told the story of being ready to give up at the top of Itford Hill, when a dancing marshal rekindled his slumber and encouraged him to finish the race.   
 
We had, as expected, a number of dropouts; some who simply had had enough, others through injury.  The lost runners turned up at the finish, still full of good spirit and humour, even though they hadn’t be able to complete the race.   The head injury guy rocked up, cross with himself for not being able to finish.    The finishing yard was alive with conversation; tales being told; beer being drunk, and pizzas consumed.   We might have been down on numbers, but the atmosphere was simply incredible.  
 
As the afternoon slipped by, the flow of runners started to slow.  Our tail bike was sending messages tracking the tail end of runners getting closer and closer.  They’re through Firle, Glynde, all are now on Caburn.  Names I know so well, but feeling very surreal now.   I watched obsessively the time system as it clocked down the runners coming in.  17… 15… 14… 8… and as the tail bike turned the corner, we had 4 runners outstanding.  Bugger.
 
Not to be phased the time team cross checked their records, made some phone calls, and all were accounted for.   220 runners out… 220 runners in.   What a result.   As the snow started to fall we packed up the yard.  No messing about – stuff just stuffed into the nearest vehicle, desperate to head home to get warm. 
 
But I had one more job to do.  I had to thank the marshals.  They had stood out there for hours, full of life and encouragement.  Frozen to the bone, many had finished their allocated task only to return asking what they could do next.  How do you find the words to describe how brilliant they are.  I sent out a message on Facebook as best I could… and in return, over the next 12 hours, we had over 120 messages thanking me, thanking us, but in the main, thanking our incredible marshals. 
 
Ash, Tom, Brian, Tim, Rob, and everyone else who gets involved.  We have created something absolutely amazing.  Something so special.  Something that has installed a sense of love across this community of ours.  And I don’t want anything about this to change. 
 
Mary Lou (Radar), a good friend and running partner completed the Moyleman in 4:47.  It was her first marathon.  She sent me the following this morning which sums it all up.
 
The Moyleman is special because it has love running through it like a stick of rock. Love for Lewes and the independent, eccentric spirit of its inhabitants; love for the rolling South Down hills that hold the town in their tender, steady grasp; love of the literal and metaphorical ups and downs of running those hills - of the sheer exhausted joy of cresting Black Cap, Kingston Ridge, Firle, Bo Peep and Caburn before the giddy thrill of the swooping descent into the valley below.
 
Love also for the dear friend and relative of some of the race founders, organisers and participants Chris Moyle - a keen, hardy, accomplished and dedicated runner who loved to run the terrain which his namesake marathon criss-crosses.
 
You will feel that love if you ever have the privilege of running this race. It seems to exude an overwhelming, irresistible energy which keeps everyone running and volunteering across the course smiling (whatever the weather) and floating for several days afterwards.

Forget PBs. This 'race' is not about performance. It's about paying tribute and offering raw, heartfelt, unfiltered thanks. To Chris, to Lewes, to the ancient South Down Hills and the chance to pay our respects as we plod, soar, toil and swoop.