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Marathon number 3 - the one that started it all, significantly harder the first two , and just 4 weeks after Portland. Read the race report that includes vomit, Arnold schwarzenegger, and a boy named Sue (well, Daniella, actually)...

 

Two years ago I challenged a couple of mates to run what I then thought to be the hardest marathon in Britain, along the coastal path of south Devon. Thanks to a hellish weekend in Bulgaria, only one us made it (it wasn't me) and ever since I've regretted missing it. My friend Dan finished the South Devon Coastal Marathon in an heroic 6hrs 39mins after one training run that involved cutting a chunk out of his thigh. You can read his story here

 

To make up for missing it I decided to go one better - well, 5 better as a matter of fact - and create the '6 Marathon : 6 Month' challenge, running the UK's toughest races back to back to raise money for the superb wildlife charity the WWF, and so here we are: 4 months, 2 marathons and a dodgy knee later, and all that matters is beating Dan's time.

 

Snowdonia and Portland had both taken me around 5 and a half excruciatingly painful hours to run, but looking at the South Devon course info it was easy to see that it was going to be much, much harder.

 

A firework exploded in the sky and the race began. I joined the rear of a pack of a hundred or so men and women plucked straight out of the royal marines - sinewy muscles bulging beneath lycra shorts and stretching skin tight t-shirts, bumbags and camelpacks loaded with energy gels and isotonic drinks - and made a conscious effort to pace myself. For the first time in this challenge I knew what to expect, and I was sober and nervous where before I had been naive and excited. Psychologically I was better prepared, but that only meant that I was aware how hard these marathons are, and it made me serious. This was not a race, it was survival, a test of physical and mental stamina, and I'd be happy so long as I got round in under 6 hours. Although I'd finished them both, Snowdonia had broken me physically, and Portland had broken my spirit, and I couldn't let either happen again if I was to beat Dan's time.

 

Within seconds the course began a monster ascent, setting the theme of the day, and by the time I'd reached the top the leaders were already disappearing into the distance, and I found myself running between a Kermit the frog look-a-like who was singing to herself as she ran, and, by a huge stroke of fortune, a guy who looked a lot like Dan. I immediately decided that he would be my nemesis, and I named him Daniella to help motivate myself to beat him.

 

The first ten miles of the course follow the coastal path west from Beesands: a torturous, muddy, rocky track that zig-zags up and down the cliff face, practically vertically at times, offering no rest, no respite. The incredible views of the dramatic coastline stretching out ahead, savagely beautiful, only serving as cruel reminders of what pain is yet to come.

 

Pacing yourself is impossible on terrain like this. There is only one pace on the climbs and that's whatever keeps your legs moving while Satan stabs red hot pokers into your thighs, and going down - which is just as difficult - you have a choice of two equally tiring options: either you jar your legs against the ground to slow your run to a safe and manageable jog, or you let gravity do its job and fly hell for leather by the seat of your pants over the jagged and irregular rocks that make up the path, praying to every god you've heard of that you can keep your legs moving fast enough to stop you falling and that you get each foot placement perfect so as to avoid breaking an ankle and plummeting down to the rocky sea below. One is agonising, the other terrifying with the added bonus of being utterly exhausting, since you're careering downhill at a pace you could never normally maintain, but that you must maintain because if you tried to stop you're momentum would catapult you face first into the rocks.

 

Somewhere along here I lost Kermit, but Daniella and I were well matched, and we traded places along this hellish section. He was stronger and caught me on the climbs, but I was opting for the terrifying option on the descents and it was working. I was nimble enough to navigate the rocks at speed and I could see he was trying to keep pace with me, but it was tiring him, and I opened up a satisfying lead.

 

I had no idea how fast I was running since there are no mile markers along this stretch, but eventually I reached the 10 mile marker, and my watch read 1hr:59. 12 minute miles - fantastic. I was keeping pace with Portland, the course had been much tougher so far, and I felt stronger. I juiced up and began heading inland for the 16 mile loop back to the start/finish line, up the huge hill you can see on the elevation map above. No doubt I was tired, but I passed a few people at this station, Daniella was behind me, and I had the sense that I was running a solid race.

 

The hill was sapping though, and by the top of it Daniella had caught me again, and now he had his dad with him, cycling next to him and giving him a huge emotional boost. He picked up his pace and I couldn't match it. My legs felt as though they were beginning to tear apart, but they were still moving and my amazement at that fact kept me willing them to keep on moving. We were road running now, which made me nervous about my knee. There was pain in it where the injury had been, but it wasn't bad, just enough to make me aware, and to make me fear the steep, joint-jarring tarmac descents that had caused the problem round Snowdon.

 

A loose pack of about 5 or 6 runners built up here, including a guy I called Arnie, who came out of nowhere from behind me, surging past like a steam train, a 6ft5 machine with thighs thicker than my head, powering up hills that left my legs weak at the sight of them. This kind of thing is very bad for your morale, it makes you question your race plan, your strength, your very right to be competing with these people.

 

Daniella turned to encourage me. I took this as mockery and swore I'd beat him. But he was flagging. He was looking for support. He was weak! He asked me if I thought we were half way yet and I knew we were beyond it. I told him and passed him. He was broken. I saw in him what I had felt around Portland - it was defeat. I gained strength from this and passed Arnie going up a hill, at the top of which was a water station and the 15 mile marker: 2:52 - 10 minute miles! 

 

11 miles to go - if I could manage to run the sort of pace I'd maintained for the first 10 miles I could beat 5 hours! I was on top of a hill, I'd passed a whole pack of people, and now I was really in a race. But the worst was yet to come. Other runners help you run at a good pace, keep you positive, provide huge support when you feel like you can't face another hill, let alone keep going along the flats, but now I was running solo, and the terrain was sucking the life out of me. The coastal section was treacherous and tiring, but it was also exhilarating and distracting, there was no time to catch your breath, let alone think. Out here running up these long, steep, grassy hills and then down tarmac country lanes into the depth of the valley, only to be sent back up to the top of another field, it was lonely and soul-destroying.

 

At the top of one of these hills there was another feeding station where a hero marshal fetched a brunch bar out of his car and gave it to me. It was mile 19 and somehow I was still on track. On I went, and at mile 20 Daniella's dad -who was waiting for his son - lied to me and told me I was at mile 22. Daniella had obviously sent him here to trick me, and foolishly I believed him. False hope is the worst thing you can give a man who is sure to discover the truth, but it did spur me on and as I passed some soldiers I gleefully encouraged them to go for sub-5hrs!

 

And then I was on the final stretch: flat for the rest of the way, I could see the finish and it was no more than 2 miles, round a wetland and then the home straight along the coast. Arnie caught me here and I knew he wouldn't be back. He powered along with huge strides that I just couldn't match, but no matter, the end was in sight and if I just kept running I'd beat 5 hours. A feeding station appeared at what I thought must be the last mile: "23.7 miles - 2 and a half to go!"

 

What?! No! How could this be?! My 5 hour dream was shattered and so was I. My whole motivation had been obliterated. With no chance of beating 5 hours, no competitors to race, and no challenge to beat my previous time, I had no drive, was in serious need of a crap, and was fighting a constant urge to vomit. I limped along the home straight toward the little town where the finish line was, only to find that this wasn't the little town where the finish line was at all! I had been duped, and now I had an enormous hill to climb! How did this happen?! I slogged up the hill and stumbled down the steps on the other side and onto the real home straight.

 

I was pretty pissed off by now. I'd been tricked into running up another huge hill and I wasn't going to beat my previous time. Not even the encouragement from runners who were packing up as I ran through the car park could energise me. But as I turned a corner and the finish came into sight, the crowd roared. There was one man - the organiser - at the finish when I came in at Portland, so I was overwhelmed by the unexpected cheering and clapping crowd that helped me over the finishing line, and that was so loud it truly surprised me and made me feel a little unworthy of it. An incredible feeling of ecstasy that is a mixture of accomplishment of something big ,and massive relief that that something is over, washes through you as you cross the finish line. It's a feeling everyone should experience as often as possible.

 

I actually collapsed this time. I had run the hardest, and fastest I could, for 5hrs 31mins 14secs. 2.5 mins slower than the much easier Portland Marathon. Time I would have made up had I studied the course more closely!

 

I came 69th out of 102 starters - 7 did not finish. I wonder if Daniella was one of them!

 

The next marathon is only 3 weeks after this one, and is along the north Cornwall coast.  

 

All this madness is in aid of our beautiful planet earth. By sponsoring me you'll be supporting the world's most important wildlife conservation charity - the WWF. If you respect our planet, and you're impressed by this challenge, please make a donation in recognition of them both. 

 

 

 

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