London 2 Brighton Challenge - 100km

Sleep is important at the best of times, more so when you've half a day of running ahead of you, even more so when you've a 3 a.m alarm call. Being the fifth race weekend in a row, my poor girlfriend and I had somewhat acclimatized to hideously early weekend awakenings that had ranged anywhere from 2 to 7 a.m, and once again had the "defo in bed by 9, right?" conversation. That never rings true. Despite pre-packing Thursday night and ready to rumble, leaving work late on the Friday delayed the food supplies run, which in turn delayed the consumption of pre-race carbs and the double/triple checking that my kit was indeed packed there before my eyes. With a settled mind and body the sack was hit as the clock approached midnight.

Having not quite reached the full depths of sleep, I had no problems getting out of bed nor any desire to hit snooze. Coffee, toast and porridge consumed (at a time when many were feasting on kebab) I put on my running gear (at a time when many were putting on their pj's) and headed down to the car, laden with bags for the quick jaunt across town to Richmond. 

Last year had been quite hellish, such was the torrential rain from the outset, mud bath trails and the broken thumb I'd received from my first outing/accident on my TT bike, conditions were bound to be better for 2015. They were, and quite gloriously so. As we approached TW9 the East End darkness we'd left behind turned to stunning blue skies. Buoyed by the meteorological goodwill, my spirits were high and I felt decidedly relaxed. Knowing the course (having ran it twice prior) certainly helped as one knows what to expect (ie. that f***-off hill at 88km) and how best to plan for it. With the best part of an hour until the 6:10 start, I took in some coffee, tried to 'go' (nothing) and decided that my girlfriend needed a second attempt at pinning my number on - straight. I think it was down to nerves, poor thing, as she would be setting off on her own little 100km journey that day in order to crew me, in the new car she had only driven once before. Having witnessed her practice-parking to be a little wonky it was a relief to see her at each checkpoint with a 'I haven't scraped the car on the way here' confirming smile!

It still wasn't on straight

And we were off...at a time of day I rarely acquaint with of a Saturday. The 100km route would have a number of checkpoints thus subdividing the race into multiple sections. In so much as the terrain had it's ups and downs, so too would my mood. Broken down the race unfolded as follows:

See you in Brighton

Start: Old Deer Park - 12km: Green Lane Rec.

An ultra-marathon start is a funny thing to witness, elite athletes aside. Here you have a group of people, fit as fiddles, running extraordinary distances and they shuffle off at a snail's pace. It's rather anti-climatic to say the least. My plan was to run at 6 min/km pace for the first 56km, exceptionally slow, but so as not to tire my legs and to acknowledge the presence of hills/styles/steps etc. Heading out of the park and along the Thames I was shuffling quite merrily at 5:30 pace and feeling light on my feet, I felt no reason to reign it in. 

When it comes to racing I'm a hybrid of tortoise and hare (tort-are?), I find myself far from spent (even after the sprint finish) when I cross the line therefore I'm making efforts to speed things up earlier on. This was my thinking this time around, if I was to make notable gains on my 12:02 of last year, I would need to make use of my early steam before the inevitable wheels came off.

The majority of the first section followed the meandering ways of the river upstream to Kingston, past Twickenham and Teddington before turning off into the suburban streets of SW London. Small groups of runners were forming ahead and behind me, everyone quite chatty and energetic, though I found myself alone, head down, taking in nutrition on the half-hour. All terribly focused. Still early, the odd dog-walker bid me good luck, apart from that the streets were silent. It wasn't long until I passed through checkpoint 1, the volunteers welcoming their first arrivals of the day, with little fanfare. What would count for most as a decent run was merely a minor dent in the day's task and stopping solely to refill my bottles and guzzle a cup or two of Gatorade, I was off to run the second section that would take me to the quarter mark where my girlfriend would be waiting patiently.

12km: Green Lane Rec. - 25km: Oaks Park

It was rather much of the same toward checkpoint 2, the first major rest stop. When you're running such a great distance, the early miles feel a little like waiting around, even though you are in fact moving. You need to cross them off, but you know the main event is yet to start. The focus is on limiting the impact on your legs, ensuring that you are taking in regular fluids and consuming enough calories. There are so many hours in front of you that there's no thinking of the finish, one section, one footstep even, at a time.

My pace was still comfortable and I was passing the kilometer markers at an encouraging rate. Much of the first half of the race is tarmac, and this was the case here, crossing roads, up and down pavements, through tunnels, the section had a few climbs to deal with but all in all allowed for unhindered running. Marvelling at the housing stock and daydreaming about living in quieter quarters, I passed through the midst of such delights as Stoneleigh, Cheam and Banstead. My first cock-up of the day came in Nonsuch Park, where the route and it's runners lost themselves a little in the tall grasses and streaming sunshine. I zig-zagged somewhat before following the confidence of a fellow runner who saw me straight, panic over. Let that be the last I thought.

Boy, was it humid. I was aware of just how much I was drinking and with my head down the sweat was a constant trickle to the pavement below. Another awareness I had was of a more 'internal' nature. Failing to come up 'trumps' at the start, the next checkpoint could not come soon enough. Thankfully it was not far off, and when it did arrive I sent my girlfriend off to refill my bottles as I made a dash to have the clearance I had hoped for earlier. Empty and full in the right bladders, I scoffed at various foodstuffs, chin-wagged a little before heading off for the marathon mark, and out of London.

Hot and bothered

Back out and re-hydrated

25km: Oaks Park - 40km: New Henhaw Farm

Only a few minutes out and again I had run wayward, not concentrating as I followed the heels of the runner in front rather than the signage itself. A whistle rang out from back down the street from the runner behind me (how terribly sporting) to inform me of my lapse. I too shouted at the guy in front, probably twice, to no avail. Let that be a lesson to him I thought, I mean who wears headphones on an ultra?

Fifteen kilometres spans quite a time, given the slower pace, to get through on a litre of fluids. I was drinking every five minutes and as a result was running low quite early on. Additionally, I wasn’t taking in enough nutrition as I couldn’t quite stomach another gel, handful of sweets nor protein bar. This was stressing me out, as too was the fact that my pace was now slowing. Still mostly on road, the ascents were getting steeper and more frequent and I was finding it hard to keep to 6 minute kms. Good job I had started out ‘fast’ so I was averaging out rather than falling behind. One of these ascents took me up Ditches Lane, through Farthing Downs for the first of many ‘turn-a-round and take in’ moments. Pushing on, I reached the M25, through the surrounding woods and out into the countryside.

Not ok at 40k

Arriving at the checkpoint, I had a right grump on. Hearing the news that the couscous and pasta was still in the car (as we had agreed) nearly broke me. I wanted to eat, but not more sugar. Just one marathon down, with another one and a half to go, I was feeling really tired and down. Was it the lack of sleep, the humidity, the time pressure I was putting myself under, I don’t know. Given the race had merely started, plus the thought of my upcoming 100 mile, certainly exaggerated things, as I thought ‘and you’re struggling after just this!’.

40km: New Henhaw Farm - 56km: Tulley's Farm

I left New Henhaw Farm with an additional bottle in hand and a sandwich bag of sausages (no lie), for what would be the longest section of the day. I knew that the next checkpoint would represent more than half of the race complete, with just a marathon left to run so this perked me up a tad. The route ran for the majority through farmland parallel to the M23 (for all you motorway junkies). Whilst the section posed no notable ascents, it was mostly trail which meant stiles and gates to slow me down. My pace was off what I had planned for the first half, but I put it in a box and simply concentrated on the next kilometer marker ahead of me. I ate very little once more, half a protein bar, and a sausage that I nibbled at like a cannibal starting with the fingers! The Gatorade was pulling me through and the knowledge of hot food at the 56km mark saved me from panicking.

For kilometers on end I would find myself running alone, with no runners in sight. Now and again the shuffling of feet would encroach, or I'd catch a runner walking an uphill and I'd prepare myself for a 'stop and chat'. The energies at the start and the jubilation toward the finish make people chatty, mid-way through not so much. Personally I was very head-down to symbolise that I wasn't after a running mate or conversation, I just wasn't in a good place.

Familiar with the course I didn't need distance markers to tell me I was close to pulling in to Tulley's Farm midway point. Being near to the front, the checkpoints can be quite bare but the applause is more focused and there's an air of 'these guys are really ploughing ahead' which feels good as you take in the fanfare. Running through the scanner arch I was awarded a medal for completing the 56km race, realising my error and confirming I was doing the 100, I turned the other way where my giggling girlfriend was waiting...with couscous and pasta.

Another marathon left for me

56km: Tulley's Farm - 67km: Ardingly College

It seems rather pathetic in the aftermath, but I was close to giving up at that point, I was over it. It wasn't giving up on being able to complete it, rather on being able to complete it in the way I wished. Sat at a table with a plate of hot pasta in front of me, shoveling it in like a rescued hostage, it was all I wanted but to lay down and sleep. You picture what you'll be up against in the run-up to a race, and how you'll soldier through when it gets tough. But it's very different when you're in it, and struggling, and there's 7 hours left. I was clearly non compos mentis. Thankfully, my girlfriend was though, and her tough love was what I needed. Her words "Get your bloody mind straight. This has cost us a lot of money". There was something else she said about some people not having legs and to think of how fortunate I was. It worked. I headed off for the final 44.

The second half understandably, was a more picturesque affair taking in the High Weald and the South Downs. Most of the running herein was through forest, along farm tracks and country lanes. The sections were notably shorter and this helped immensely knowing the next checkpoint was never too far away. Between checkpoints I had more or less given up on eating anything. I simply drank copiously and then shoveled as much in to my gob as I could stomach when I reached a stop. 

The run through to Ardingly was very up and down and I would break in and out of a walk when steepness got the better of me. What was surprising was the effect long straights of road were having on me. I would occasionally take a turn and look up to see a long expanse of road and I just couldn't run it, giving myself any excuse to take a walking break. I think it was more monotony over fatigue that was messing with my head. I started off allowing 100m walks every km, then 200m, then I no longer cared. Crossing the beautiful Ardingly Reservoir, through the town to the college, another section complete. I sat down (they say never sit down) eyelids flickering, managing to get some food inside me and trying not to think that I still had a third of the race left.

Meanwhile...Sarah had her own obstacles to overcome

67km: Ardingly College - 80km: Wivelsfield School

I had barely left the college two minutes before losing my way a third (and thankfully final) time. Coming out into farmland from Standgrove Wood I ran straight across over a stile, across another field and through to another wood, before accepting I was lost. Retreating through the wood, across the field and back over the stile, I saw that there was a sign stating 'do not go over this stile'. My bad. Concentrate Norris!

The section was fairly flat, nothing too cumbersome to ascend and it was where I passed the first walkers who had set off on the ‘last 44 leg’ at around midday. It was quite nice for the soul to get a ‘hello, looking strong’ from the brief encounters and took my mind off the task ahead somewhat. When alone I spent most of my time fantasising about living ‘out here’, to have all this running country on my doorstep, to potter about in the garden and to work on DIY projects in an outbuilding, maybe a lane swimming pool to boot. The desire was crushed by the thought of having to take a train to work every day, the expense too, though the run commute home would be epic. One day.

To wrap up a fairly eventful section I had a scare crossing a field of livestock. After yet another stile, this one correctly navigated, I saw up ahead that the route passed under the hoofs of several wandering cows. Building up the impending meeting of day-glo footed man and animal, I flinched in anticipation as I ran by which in turn caused fear in the cows who then flinched too, causing me to get a proper trot on. I’ve not yet reviewed my Garmin data but I’d be surprised if that wasn’t the maximum speed logged in the second half of the race.

Pulling in to the final main rest stop, I told my girlfriend of my narrow miss, but she had her own story of woe. A grumpy (fat c*** apparently) local had told her to "f*** off you yuppie" when she’d parked legitimately opposite his house. With one eye on my watch, I allowed her a few seconds of consolation. Poor cow I thought.

At least she saw a bunny

80km: Wivelsfield School - 88km: Plumpton College

Boy I was tired. Like proper ‘ready to nod off like a granddad in his armchair’ tired. I was loving the pesto pasta I’d started working on at the last checkpoint and the sausages were proving a winner. The key with food here is moisture. Between checkpoints I had been experimenting with small bites of protein bar washed down with water, which was ghastly but worked. Physically I was in quite tip-top shape, no signs of cramping, no real aches, no blisters, nothing. Sat on a curb, scoffing away, I exaggeratedly shook off the wave of fatigue and rose to my feet to run the flat 8km section I’d long been looking forward to, taking me to the final checkpoint. Spirits were lifted.

It wasn’t the hottest day on record, but it was incredibly humid. Over the course of the day I must have drunk ten litres at least, but such was the sweat leaving my body, that popping for a wee wasn’t much of a requirement. Eventually when it was required, I didn’t quite ‘pop’ for one as it were. 

I had first put in to practice the 'technique' at last year's event, again at a similar point late in the race, with no one around, I thought 'f*** it'. To successfully pull it off (so to speak), one should assure themselves a clear stretch of path with clear vision both ahead and behind. Remaining alert, simply dip the shorts, aim to the side and Bob’s your uncle. It saves you precious seconds. Give it a try!

High on the life, and with a sense of devilishness I reached kilometre 88 and the final checkpoint. Just 'that hill' to overcome before the predominantly downhill ride to the finish and Brighton itself.

Not quite the fanfare one expects after 88km

88km: Plumpton College - Finish: Brighton Racecourse

Phew, just 12km left to navigate unscathed to the finish. My girlfriend's driving had been impeccable and I was overjoyed to see the car (Peppy) in the car park safe and well. I guess I was in 18th-ish position when I came through and being so far up, the checkpoint was dead. I found a wall and leaned up against it like a drunk. At that point if someone had asked me to describe my ultimate fantasy, it wouldn't have deviated too much from the norm, but just the bed part.

Staring down at Plumpton College is one hell of a hill that greets the runner upon leaving the checkpoint for Brighton. Up on top runs the South Downs Way, around mile 74 on the SDW100 route that I'll be racing on June 13th (in darkness). Its bark is worse that its bite I find. After the ‘see you in Brighton’ celebratory send off, I managed a run to the foot of the hill and carried momentum until it got too steep. Speed walking up a track to the left, then another up further to the right, finally reaching the top where the views over green and pleasant England were breath-taking.

Yeah, but first that hill

A couple of hours back I had questioned whether I would even break twelve hours such was my mood and slowing pace through the trails and up the hills. Now I was looking set to post at the very worst an 11:45. The route was largely downhill from herein and I knew if my legs would grant me, I could register a time nearer 11:30, which would be very pleasing after what had been a ropey day.

It’s amazing what you can get out of a tired body when the end is nigh. That switch in mentality allows you to achieve so much more. Running the flats and gradual inclines, still granting myself small walk breaks, Brighton racecourse soon came into view and the adrenaline kicked in. With new found energies I ran the last 3 kms at sub-5 pace, knowing that sub 11:30 was now a certainty. I passed a couple of runners late on, congratulations now being shared on a good day’s work. All the while keeping a beady eye out for route markers, not wishing to relive the finish of 2013 where I missed the entrance to the racecourse and had to climb a fence to get back on track!

Running down the final furlong (no idea how long a furlong is), I took a walker to get a clear gap to the finish line. Arms aloft, I came through victorious in 11:26. Feeling pretty good, but mightily relieved it was over.

We'll probably video the finish next time

At Tulley's Farm where I had a tantrum, I told my girlfriend that I was definitely not running this race again, and I really meant it. As soon as I crossed that line, I was already plotting sub-11 and top 10 for next year. That my friend is ultra-running. It's painful, but it's bloody addictive.

Over

London 2 Brighton Challenge 2015 / 11:26:03 / 16th place

Redricks Triathlon - Olympic

Before racking my bike on Sunday my tyres had not touched tarmac since Ironman Wales last September. Shocking. Whilst I've been putting some hours in on the turbo, not once have I ridden outside. Whether this is due to living in Central London where the roads are busy and brutal, a lack of cycling buddies or just a lack of enthusiasm, this has to stop and I need to change my cycling ways. Not so much for fitness, but for handling and gear selection there is no substitute for the open road.

Redricks Lakes, is a quaint facility ten or so miles outside London in the Hertfordshire countryside. Not far from where I grew up, further along the River Lea tow path, it was an old schoolfriend in fact who introduced me to this race last year. Then, a week out from Ironman Wales I was getting a feel for transitions and triathlon logistics, this year the focus was on putting down a marker for the season ahead with four months of training still to come. At this event last year I managed a cheeky 4th place, so would I improve on that this time around? The answer would be no. As I pulled into the carpark it was evident that last year had been an end of season affair, and now the boys were testing their toys. 

Daria ready to rumble

Redricks is an ‘earthy’ location for a triathlon. Down a gravelly track, it is fair to say transitions are a tad more demanding than those on the ITU circuit! From swim to bike, one must whip off the wetsuit and slip on a pair of trainers for the rocky run up to T1. Coming in to T2, control your adrenaline levels as a quick hop off the bike may prove fatal on the rubbly road beneath. Knowing this ahead of time kept me a lot calmer than last year’s debut without the mad rush to drop off trainers by the swim exit, two minutes from the start. Casually racking my bike and setting out transition like a little girl at an imaginary teddy bear picnic, I waltzed down to the lakeside to wetsuit-up (always a two minute job *coughs). Popping in for a dip, I was pleasantly surprised by the spring-time temperature, not requiring a motivational talk to get the head under. After a few fast warm-up strokes out and back we were lining up for two laps of the water.

Scaring away the swans

Looking calm from afar

Boy, there’s nothing like a triathlon swim start. Off goes the gun and you've feet in your face and arms on your arse! From the outset it felt as though every swimmer had passed me such was the amount of splashing and yellow caps ahead. In reality this had not happened, rather I had been left for dead by a lead pack, out on my own with the rest of the wave behind me. Really from the start it was a race of solitude. I swam an unhindered couple of loops before exiting onto the (needlessly) sandy shore to find someone had moved my trainers to another spot (cheers). Thankfully with the hues of modern day shoes, it was hardly Year 9 PE, so my distress was not long-lasting. Sat on a hay bale I had one of my finer wetsuit strips, slipped on my elastic laced tri shoes and reacquainted myself with my calf muscles for the staggered sprint to T1.

Far from 1-2-3

Quite the pro

As a more experienced triathlete these days I had also slipped in a gel and put on my bike gloves on the run up all in the name of multitasking. My beloved girlfriend was waiting up by transition, receiving a grumpy ‘yeah, I’m fine’ for her efforts, my mood dampened by the latest wetsuit stress. Wetsuit thrown, trainers off, socks on, bike shoes on, tri belt fastened, helmet buckled, glasses on, quick swig and away I went all clipped in and ready to roar. Styling it out a little as I weaved sideways on the exit road, schoolboy error-ing having my bike in a high (or is it low?) gear.

Pedal, pedal, pedal

Knowing the course certainly helped, and the entire route was well marshaled (thank you marshals as always). As I left the Redricks entrance onto the race route proper, there was a cyclist up ahead causing a stream of traffic that forced me to stay on the brakes behind the ebb and flow of vehicles. Caught between the nuisance of the hold-up and the appreciation that drivers were respectful enough not to overtake on blind corners, I thought about riding up the outside to leapfrog but such is the preciousness of life, I saw sense and waited it out. Thankfully that was pretty much it for traffic and it felt safe to aero-around the country lanes unhindered. I counted four passes over the two loops, as I put down a strong bike time (at least for Mr Never Cycles). Living in Central London, the one thing (and it really is the one thing) I do envy of those living outside the capital is the accessibility to country roads. It was a really enjoyable ride and reignited a wavering passion for cycling. With 45 concentrated kilometres in my legs, I came into T2 in good spirits, another bike leg under my belt and two harrowing stretches of the A414 survived.

After the quickest transition of my life (50 seconds) I sprinted out in the hope of chasing down a few more places before the finishing line. My legs were feeling bad, the result of going hard on the bike, so much so that I was contemplating slowing down to a walk. Which I would have done for sure, if it weren't for the knowledge that this phase does pass, and it did. What had been a lonely bike ride, was now a lonely run, and after taking two guys on loop one, there was nobody up ahead catchable on loop two so it was a somewhat pedestrian end to the day. Nutritionally I was quite low on energy having had just one gel at T1 plus a dash of water here and there, on what was a warm day, so to keep the fires burning for the best part of three hours was encouraging, albeit badly planned. Taking the turn after what was more eleven kilometers, I crossed the line in eighth, with 2:43 on the clock.

Child gathering stones and filling his dad's bandana

After the event last year I had become Instagram-friendly with a Gary Schroeder (@CyclingBoyLondon), and it was the first time we’d met up since. Unfortunately he punctured-out early into the bike leg which must have been ‘deflating’ for him, and very ‘tyring’ indeed. Jokes aside, he stayed to keep my girlfriend company and see me across the line, which was all very kind. Mandatory dirt-burger munching and ‘everything in a black bin liner’ followed, before packing up for the drive home. Another splendid day out and I’ll be back to race there as soon as time allows.

The dangers of wearing a tri-suit. Cream up people!

Redricks Olympic Distance Triathlon Spring 2015 / 02:43:59 / 8th place

Three Forts Challenge

I awoke early Sunday morning for what was technically an ultra but let's cut the s***, more an overzealous marathon - though foggy judgement would later make more of an ultra of it than I had at first hoped. As is the norm on race day my mind was equal parts excitement and trepidation, but for once more the mileage to and from, not of the race itself. The 160 mile round trip would be the first drive of my new car, so fittingly the aim of the day was to make it around unscathed.

Fortunately...sorry frustratingly, there had been a mix up with the car insurance in so far as I was the only one covered. Therefore my beloved girlfriend would not be able to drive (the new shiny car) around the course to support me en route. Along country lanes, around blind corners, through narrow sections of road, none of this would be possible. The car would then have to stay where I parked it. In the undisturbed safety of the car park. Such a shame!

Joking aside, she never misses a race and is just the best support a runner could wish for. When she tweets notice of early rises and wet and windy days out supporting her boyfriend's endeavours for self-worth, I can imagine those reading are thinking, "god that poor girl". As though I'm in some way dragging her out by her ponytail. I am not, it is all done willingly. Isn't it woman! 

The automatic wipers taking a break

Driving down, the weather was ghastly. Wet, windy, foggy, grey, very English. No big whoop for me as a runner, you got to love those elements, but I did feel for my girlfriend having to wait around for four hours in a sports ground in Worthing. Oh well, added impetus to crack on and get a sub-four. 

Upon arrival, dashing for cover at the registration tent, it dawned on me (not for the first time) that I don't in fact own a waterproof running jacket. Everyone around me was wearing one and I couldn't help but question myself. Was it because I'm the world's greatest procrastinator and every time I search 'waterproof jackets' on-line, I can't part with £100+ for something I don't have much use for in Central London (please ignore the £100 Salomon S-Lab race vest below - boy needs water when he's running) or was it simply that I feel no need to have one? Looking around again, everyone was wearing trail shoes bar me, I guess because this was clearly a trail marathon. Surprisingly these omissions made me a tad anxious, having not run the course before, I questioned whether I was being lackadaisical about the race conditions. Oh well, into the unknown and calmed by the old pre-race start adage 'Do not compare your insides with the outsides of those around you' (we're not talking intestines vs facial features here) I made way to commence. 

Sans trail shoes and a waterproof jacket ahead of the wet trail race

The field was fairly small with around 300 marathoners. Despite the conditions the mood was relatively upbeat (whenever is it not with runners?) and with a jolly countdown from the race representatives the herd made their way across the grass to begin the 3km climb to the brilliantly named Cissbury Ring. Single file for most of the way, I was happy to sit back and get accustomed to the slippery clay surface, keeping to a pace one would aim for at Beachy Head, a race of similar ascent. 

Head down and concentrated for 27 miles of hills

On the first descent it was the usual story where runners tore passed me at breakneck speed, I myself holding back and conserving the impact on my quads. On the ascent I'd catch them up and take them ahead of the next descent. It seems to work for me to ease up running downhill, keeping the legs fresh and being able to climb strongly where running strides are more controlled going up than coming down. I tend to perform well in the later stages of marathons/ultras, passing those from earlier miles. Whether I can get away with pushing it more at the start is something I'm looking to experiment with though. My humble gains in running over recent years have come about in part from race experience, knowing what pace to run at and how to best approach the ups and downs both physically and mentally. I'm still learning, I doubt I'll ever stop.

Quite a hilly one

The course was primarily an out-and-back (to Devil's Dyke - again brilliant nameage) with a loop in between, which allowed for position counting as those in front passed by from the turn-a-round at eleven miles. Foggy as it was I calculated myself to be in 25th position, knowing that I generally have a strong second half, this was all very exciting. The aid station volunteers I must mention were heroic that day, the conditions up on the downs were unforgiving, much tougher to handle when standing around dishing out jelly babies.

Running back toward the Adur River was refreshingly downhill though rather blustery. Passing those running in the opposite direction, it was difficult to acknowledge their well wishing and support, forced into a grimacing head-down demeanour. Feeling fresh, sixteen miles clocked by nicely as the route took us around the loop for an incredible climb to Chanctonbury. 

The girlfriend passing the time artfully with a well deserved nap in the car

With June's 100 miler vast approaching, it was a good opportunity to familiarise with part of the South Downs Way I'll be covering between mile 55 and 65 of that race. In reality, such was the limited visibility I am none-the-wiser for having ran it at Three Forts. Again, such was the visibility that I really do hope that the following does not happen again on this stretch of the route come June. I wouldn't think I'll have the mental clarity to deal with such a mishap after 100km of running!

Since the turn-a-round I had kept up counting down my position as I passed runners, and come mile nineteen, I had myself in 15th place. Out on my own, and with all the decision making to be made on what paths to take, I made an error and found myself running down a narrow trail that just didn't seem right. As I progressed with thoughts of 'to turn-around or not to turn-around' I thought best to just keep going in search of a runner, but one didn't show itself. Now a good half mile or so down the trail I came across some Sunday strollers who when asked, advised that they'd not been passed by any runners. Aaaargh! Thanking them for confirmation, I turned and sprinted the way I'd come to find myself back out at the crossroads I'd wrongly assessed, with a group of runners passing me by. What a douche...

Mentally this killed my mojo having been on for, who knows, close to top ten-ing and a very comfortable sub-four, I was just furious with myself. The wasted energy from the extra mile or so, and speedy retreat hadn't helped either. After a couple of miles of being a brat, I calmed down with the knowledge that such a setback had been a useful experience and something that I'd have to deal with far better if this were a longer race.

Still on to crack four hours I pushed ahead, made up a couple of places, though finally finished rather fittingly at 4:00:22 - what a plank! The dejection was rather evident as I crossed the line.

F***, s***, what a c***

Self-pity aside, the Three Forts Challenge was incredible. In a world of corporate money-spinning events, at £25 this race could possibly be the best running pennies can buy. I'll certainly be back next year with a laminated OS map and compass!

The car proving a trusty crew vehicle - For its seating, shelter and wipeability

Three Forts Challenge 2015 / 04:00:22 / 27th place (maybe 13th without the mishap)

nohtaraM nodnoL ehT

Runners are an eccentric bunch. Over the past few years as I've ventured into Ultra running and become more aware of what folk get up to in their trainers, very little surprises me now. The distances, the routes, the ideas that are conjured and subsequently conquered are of great inspiration to me. I first came across nohtaraM ehT a couple of years back, such was the randomness of the event my brain didn't quite absorb the concept and with exhalation and a smile it passed me by. When it came around last year, it clashed with another race I had already entered - The London Marathon - so I vowed that 2015 would be the year of the reversal.

A ghastly morning

Alarm set for 2 a.m. (2:15 for the girlfriend - I allowed her a lay-in) I sprang sprightly having had only a couple of hours shallow sleep. Questioning the point of breakfast, three hours after dinner, I went for it anyway with a little coffee and porridge. With bags packed the night before (well done Craig) and clothing set out ready to slip into we were out the door faster than you can spell The London Marathon backwards. God love the girlfriend, offering to drop me off at St. James Park in the pissing rain at silly o'clock. With the road closures around The Mall (The London Marathon's finishing stretch) I was dropped off in the shadows of Big Ben. Head down, I scurried towards the park searching for hi vis and lycra where a Marshal directed me across the street to a dozen or so bodies huddled together under a doorway. Exchanging pleasantries and introductions we awaited the final runners for the 4 a.m. group, the last of the night. 

I must buy a running hat

As the clock struck four, we lined up on the road for the ceremonious photo and without further ado we were off...for the start line. No M People, just the four chimes of Big Ben. I was unsure of the correct running etiquette to apply. Would I just run at my own pace, would I remain with the group, would I strike up conversation, would I lead, would I follow? Would it ever stop raining? 

Fifth from left in a sea of enthusiasm

I found myself running alongside a chatty young chap who spoke of his ultra tales, in particular his experience of GUCR (a 145 mile race from Birmingham to London) a race I one day hope to complete. I was in my element, doing running and talking running. We swapped tales (his far bigger than mine) as we ran through the city toward Docklands, a route I run most weekdays, alone.  For such a ghastly hour I was quite talkative (I usually thaw around noon). 

Nobody it would seem knows that awkward Canary Wharf bit off by heart, especially backwards. For easy navigation it had been decided that we would 'simply' keep to the blue lines, those laid down for the elite's benefit. Well, in the dank dark night they were barely visible and collectively we right royally f***ed up. Leaving The Highway, we entered the Docklands on the non-backwards route and ran our own little course, each too English to disagree. Where some had dropped back to christen the portaloos, the group fractured into smaller packs. Running in different directions we passed runners from earlier start times, they themselves unfamiliar with it all. Dejected by our omission, we agreed to make the mileage up with an additional add-on loop before heading for Tower Bridge. 

Men at work at Tower Bridge

The organiser (Rich Cranswick) had incredibly managed to lay on an aid station on Tower Bridge at half-way. This was a godsend as I had somehow decided a handheld bottle would be sufficient for the day, so the top-up was much needed. Later, I heard tales of cheese and pineapple on sticks that I had unknowingly passed up. It may have been too early for party food though regardless.

Now light, though not quite six in the morning (oh all this time I've been wasting asleep) a foursome headed off for the second half south of the river. From that point onward it was rather a head down and concentrated affair, though with a slower recreational pace there was no discomfort at any point. After the loop at Surrey Quays I found myself all but alone which was kind of nice, whilst passing and greeting those from earlier starts. The southerly stretch to Greenwich was particularly familiar having spent many a grim evening during February's RUYD event racking up miles there. Free from the pressures of time and pace the miles clocked up and arrival at the Red Start was soon in my sights.

Mile 6 aka Mile 20

I had imagined running through mile markers to hoards of water station helpers manically setting up for the impending mass of runners, but it simply wasn't the case. Such is the VLM's logistical genius that it all comes together in an instant. Much of the roads were yet to be closed and it wasn't until gone 20 miles in that even the chance of a cheeky bottle steal was possible - not that I ever would. Proof of my utilitarianism was evident in a mile 24 detour to a petrol garage for liquids. Poor girl having to take a sweaty ten pound note as payment. Man, if I dropped those bottles on the forecourt once, I dropped them thrice. The CCTV footage should be destroyed.

The first mile marker, as lonely as it gets

The twist in the tail was had those final couple of miles as what was a downhill start for the main, was an uphill finish for little old me. Passing marshals and marathoners with their drop-bags, I received a few strange looks from those clearly perplexed by this drowned young man looking like he'd ran a marathon! Surely not. Crossing the 'finish' line and stopping the Garmin at 26.2 miles (textbook) there was no applause nor recognition of any kind. What a brilliant thing to have done.

Oh the fanfare

For me, running this eccentric little event, is everything I cherish about being a runner. Whilst I continue to push myself to run further and faster, the real delight of it all is the ability to 'just' go run a marathon. Fortunate as I am to have an able body that stands up to the rigour of long distance running, I take great pride in the training I've put in over the years to reach such a level of fitness. 

There were still a good two hours before the mass start and it dawned on me that this was without doubt the earliest I'd 'arrived' for a race - A few years back, running the Snowdonia Marathon I crossed the start line ten minutes after the gun. God love chip timing! - Aware of my sogginess, I headed for a thankfully queue-less set of portaloos where I set up stall for a wet-wipe-whores bath and change of clothes. Refreshed, dry and warm I headed to a greasy spoon by the Cutty Sark to meet up with the crew for a fry-up and cuppa. Catching up on the day's experience had by others and plans for future races, I later headed to mile 20 to help out at a water station. 

The elite ladies zooming past

In the end it seemed over-staffed and reeling from the realisation that I had in fact been overcharged £9.45 for what was a £5.45 breakfast (still reeling if truth be told) I chose to spectate and natter with the marshals for an hour or two as the elites and faster runners (including Paula) passed through. The low temperatures, brilliant for runners, but standing around I began to get the shivers so took this as excuse to wrap up the day and I ran the three miles home in show-off glee.

If I get a place in the London Marathon proper next year, I may just do the double. Though there have been rumours of a nohtaraM ehT double itself, so that would then offer a triple. Hmmm...

My thanks goes out to all who contributed to the organisation and running of this year's event. You are all two sandwiches short of a picnic.

Kører i København

"Pretty boring to be honest" was my response to the "So, how was Copenhagen?" greetings upon my return to work. The weather was glorious, the city is beautiful, but there really isn't anything major to see or do. You probably won't hear such a response from any other, I am a little odd. I just can't spend more than a day achieving 'nothing'. One must strike off entries on that to-do list. This is no doubt why I run as there's always a sense of achievement post run. 

Nyhavn

And on that subject, Copenhagen is a delight for the runner. Even more so for the cyclist. Where there are cycle lanes there are running lanes. Where there are more cyclists there are less vehicles. All factors aiding enjoyable running. Though you're more likely to be run-over by a bike in Copenhagen than a vehicle in London, I assure you!

Copenhagen is full of parks and waterways and therefore you are off tarmac much of the time in very non-urban environs. It is also very very light at this time of the year so a very early or a very late run out is possible and indeed glorious.

Across the three day (of achieving nothing) break, I managed three runs. They were as follows:

1. Around and around Kongens Have

Expert trimming in Kongens Have

Suensonsgade - Former Naval Barracks

Our hotel was located a 'pastries-throw' from this park, home to Rosenborg Castle. It made sense on the first morning to arise early for some nearby laps in case I found myself viewing too much of the city, thus ruining our discovery. A beautiful park, well tendered (the accountant in me might suggest 'over-staffed') with few fellow runners but swarms of cyclists circling the periphery. Everyone looked super happy and content, which isn't surprising given its 'Most Liveable City' accreditation.

2. Along The Lakes

Being a city of waterways, 'water' way to spend an hour running along The Lakes that enclose the North-West of the city. At around 6km, to loop the entirety offers a decent run out, far from repetitive. It was great for people watching, and it was here that I came across the propensity of the female Copenhagener to sunbathe in their bra. A cultural phenomena I hope one day to see in the recreational spots of England. 

Peblinge Sø

Again it doesn't feel like much of a running city, maybe that's due to the hoards of cyclists. That said, of those that were running, there was some scandalous white lower-limb lycra on show. Maybe that's due to the hoards of cyclists.

3. Ruddy hell, running around the Citadel

By far my favourite running spot in Copenhagen was that of the Citadel. One of the most serene places I've ever found myself, a place that warrants laying in the grass twiddling daisies and brushing cake crumbs off a picnic blanket. Of course, I just ran around it, though may have broken into a skip on occasion! The cobbled streets, the moat, the little windmill, the views, it was just delightful and in the evening haze as the sun set I really had to force myself off the gravel tracks back to the hotel.

You know what, Copenhagen was brilliant, thank-you for asking.

...ooh, and there's an Ironman there too.



Credits: http://monocle.com/