soulchaser

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The beginning of the end starts here - the first of 3 marathons in 4 weeks to complete the 6/6 Challenge on time, just 3 weeks after South Devon. It proved to be the hardest one so far. By the end of it I'd seen hell, and it was muddy, with huge boulders and large men in lycra cyring for their mums...

 

This marathon was a series of very real and very painful de ja vues. From the night on the town a few days before, to the over zealous race-night carbo-loading and subsequent bloated bowels that stayed with me until sunday, everything screamed a Snowdonia re-run. Before Snowdonia I was complacent because I was naive, while lining up for the Cornwall Marathon I was being plain arrogant. I had survived the last two with no real problems and expected this one to be easier. Not even the pre-race warnings about the terrain and the explicit assurances from the man who had set the course markers that whis would be the hardest one yet could provoke fear. What did he know? Had he run them? In truth I was feeling tired of the whole thing. What was the point? Who cares? Why was I bothering to destroy myself in this drawn out and really expensive way?! I wasn't sure.

 

A massive storm had hit Cornwall the previous weekend, and 20mph winds had been forecast for the race day, but in the event we lined up to a slight drizzle and cold wind, but nothing worse. I stood at the back. Music played while we waited for the countdown.... 10, 9, 8, 7... "Good luck everyone!" shouted a runner and the small group of proud sado-masochists that I counted myself a part of began clapping and cheering... 3, 2, 1.... a battle cry rang out, a roar of fellowship and comaraderie, and we were off the to applause of the supporters who would wait God knows how long for us to return.

 

My race plan was to get round. To finsih. I had accepted that it might take me longer than 6 hours because I wasn't feeling up to it, but not because the course was harder. I felt as though my body must be strong enough to get round, so I would let it. I wanted no part in it. I didnt want to enjoy it, to experience it at all, I wanted to tick it off and move on to number 5.

 

Foolishly, I had forgotten that marathons are run in the mind just as much as they are run in the legs, if not more so. This alone would have done for me, without the added burden of a truly hellish course. The first half was the coastal trail, up and down hills bigger and bolder than those of South Devon, but this time, instead of being rocky and jagged, they were littered with boulders the size of tractor tyres surrounded and covered by wet, glutinous mud that simpy caked your specialist trail shoes and turned them into ice skates. When I wasn't sliding uncontrollably (albeit impressively!) down mudslides and trying to stay upright, I was picking my way around these massive rocks, slipping off them whenever I dared to move at anything resembling a run. Too many times did I come too close to breaking my wrists in a fall onto these rocks, let alone my ankles, becoming more and more weary as the minutes turned into hours and the pressure to maintain speed increased.

 

 

 

The terrain made me forget all of my miserablness. I had passed a 6 mile marker on course for a 5 hour race and felt like I'd continued that pace after 2 hours 15 mins, assuming I'd covered around 13 miles by that time. My right knee had begun to hurt, and I recognised through the pain the same injury that had caused so many problems with my left knee. With two more marathons in such short succession I couldn't afford to push it - after all, it was that injury that meant I was doing 3 in 4 weeks as a finale.

 

I kept on going, the pack already too spread out for me to have any kind of companions, and wondered when the course would turn inland to loop back. Surely it would have to soon, I thought, unless the coastal trail was particularly convoluted and the inland section was much shorter than it. That must be it, I reasoned, and carried on, sure I was doing well. Eventually the path turned inland, along a wooded path that was so muddy I would have been quicker wearing snow shoes. I picked up a buddy along here. His first trail marathon. He hadn't trained off road, and couldn't believe how hard it was. I'd done two of these things already and I couldn't believe how hard it was. I was suffering badly, but my spirits were high, and I reassured him we were past half way, despite hs doubts. "We've been running for 3 hours", I told him, "of course we're past half way!".

 

Ten minutes later we hit the half way marker. That was it. I was finished. I'd started the race with no drive, and over 3 painful hours I'd grown some balls on the belief that I was doing better than I'd imagined I could, a false belief that was blown apart along with my new found manhood. My knee was shot. I knew that. But now so was I.

 

Near the start of the race I'd heard someone say that it's impossible to make other people understand what you go through during these events. 3 hours into this one, 3 hours along the hardest terrain I've ever encountered, against a cold wind driving hard rain, with an injury that you recognise as serious and debilitating, facing up to the realisation that you probably have at least another 4 hours to go is truly something quite difficult to convey to others.

 

I thanked the marshalls at the station for a much needed drink, called the race organisers sadistic bastards, and carried on. Now the similarites with Snowdonia were really mounting up: knee injury flaring up half way through, weather turning worse, a bleak, empty course, running alone into the fog, with no idea how long I was going to be out there. I was not happy. But unless both your legs are broken there's no stopping. I don't know what idiot invented that rule (Dan!) but it kept me moving forward while everything yelled at me to stop.

 

By now the course had tuned into a mudbath. A path walled in by hedges that was like something out of a WW1 trench. Similar questions too, I'm sure. Why am I here? What's the point? My God I want to go home! The terrain turned into moorland, more desolate and boggy than ever. A couple who had passed me once already passed me again. They'd got lost and had caught me once more. I congratulated them on lapping me!

 

Hours passed, and I was glad when they did. With each hour I knew I was closer to the end. Then came the hill at the end of the course that I knew from the elevation data. Not long now. A coupe of miles. I slogged up, unsure how far it was but by now I was unemotional. I had achieved the state of emptiness I was looking for at the start if the race. Just let it be over.

 

Then a corner and the flags were in sight, and the realisation that it was over filled mewith energy. Limping, I dragged myself up the hill toward the finish, I looked at my watch, 6hrs 58mins - Come On sub 7hrs! As I entered the final straight a hanfdul of supporters created a stadium atmosphere and I was running again. I checked my watch, 6:59:30. Head down and push. I wanted to cry tears of relief. The stadium roared as I crossed the line - 7hrs 8 secs!

 

The official time was 7hrs 6mins - I think they're wrong. But get this: the winner finished in 4hrs 59mins! I can't see how Exmoor can be harder, but I certainly won't take that for granted this time. I only hope my knee will recover in time for the Jurassic Coast Marathon between now and then...

  

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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